Our Turn, Turn, Turn.

Today, I found myself thinking about the changing seasons, now that Autumn draws near (not that you'd know it from the weather) and how this relates in a sense to my new house.

(That's the first time I've called it that, without any caveats, which is progress.)

Seasons are an obvious way to chart passing time that's illustrative of rebirth and development. They roll on endlessly, outside of our control, leaving us to adapt to them; when it gets warmer, short sleeves are prevalent, and when it's brass monkeys, out come the Winter coats. 

Personally, I'm standing on the edge of real change. After twenty-one years in Hitchin (or essentially my adult life), I'm moving to a village outside it, into the closest thing to my family's spiritual home*. My grandparents bought the house in the late-1940s / early-1950s and raised my dad and his brother here, with my dad moving back when my parents separated when I was a kid. And now here I am, making it my home with my wife so many years later. And I can honestly say it couldn't feel more right.

Sorting through my dad's things since he passed away last year is inevitably bittersweet. Ironically, he was always trying to get me to go through my teenage belongings that he'd been storing since my mum moved to Norfolk in 1999 and I moved into my first flat. It became a running joke that I hadn't got around to it. Now, it seems he had the last laugh, as I have to sort his things too. And in turn, I'm finding my grandparents' stuff that he'd held onto when in the same situation.

When I think of the many seasons this house has seen across seventy years, it's a comfort to know my dad's family lived here throughout. My grandfather settled back to normality here post-war after his time in the navy, to raise his children (though I bet my nan did most of the work), and my dad kicked off his education (rather lazily, if the reports I've found are anything to go by) at the school down the road, presumably making his way there each day on little-foot, in short trousers. 

Every event - from my parents' wedding in 1968 to me doing puppet shows for my nan in the mid-1980s - crossed paths with this address, and so shall it continue. Because while this house has seen so many eras, the next one belongs to me. I hope my wife and I can add a few good chapters to its story.

*wanker.

Popular posts from this blog

Shakerpuppetmaker.

Image
Have Parker from Thunderbirds and Noel Gallagher ever been seen in the same room? The resemblance is uncanny. So much so, I think something’s afoot. If my suspicions are correct, I've stumbled across a secret that will blow the music and puppet industry wide apart. In the mid-60s / mid-90s at least. It doesn’t take long to see the signposts. There’s the similarity between the name of Oasis’ first single, Supersonic, and Supermarianation, Gerry Anderson’s puppetry technique. The Gallagher brothers would often wear Parkas . Live Forever was clearly a reference to Captain Scarlet and Standing on the Shoulder of Giants to the size difference between Noel and his bandmates. The more you think about it, the more brazen it gets. It’s fishier than Area 51, Paul is Dead and JFK's assassination put together. The only glitch to the theory is scale . According to Wikipedia, Anderson’s marionettes were 1’10” and Gallagher is 5’8”. How does he maintain an illusion of avera...
Read more

Stevenage: A (Tiny) River Runs Through it.

If ever a river was mis-sold, it’s the Roaring Meg in Stevenage. I just walked past it on my way to the retail park that has taken its name. They’re similarly uninspiring. The river is less of a roar and more of a dribble; cystitis sufferers produce greater flow. The retail park is soulless. What was once a thriving enterprise is nearly devoid of atmosphere, save an underlying essence of emptiness and despair. With a Toys R Us. When it was first built I was excited. Back then, the thought of a bowling alley, an ice rink, a Harvester and a Blockbuster Video within a small surface area was enticing. I celebrated many birthdays on site. There was an indoor cricket pitch there for a while where I once had a joint party with a friend. Why someone with an almost pathological fear of sport would agree to such a venture is beyond me, but I did it. Now, there’s very little at the Roaring Meg of note. The river would be a metaphor for the shopping ce...
Read more

Hoo-ray and up She Rises.

So much has happened since my last post in March that this blog risks sounding like an itinerary. The main news is that Hitchin Mostly Comedy will return in the summer at a new venue, the Queen Mother Theatre . The road to this decision was convoluted, though enough fell into place en route to leave me optimistic about this new start. The catalyst was a survey I ran via our mailing list a few months back, in which I asked, "If the club returned in the current climate, with tickets still around £15 (and with similar line-ups), would you still attend?"; the response to which, in simple terms, was a resounding yes. Nearly 250 mailing list subscribers responded in a single week, with around a hundred also taking the option to leave some feedback. And only two people were abusive, which counts as a win when you consider they posted their comments online anonymously. Imagine how many more insults we would have received if the comedy club was a woman. Particularly if she was Diane ...
Read more