A kind of homecoming
Destination. As a kid I would visit London once a year. Leaving in the dark of a Friday evening and returning in the similar gloom of Sunday afternoon. Always in the winter, always in a coach packed to the brim with bags and boy scouts. We would sleep in loose friendship groups on the floor of a large hall and eat at long shared tables. On Saturday afternoon, most of the other kids when to watch a game – Arsenal, Spurs, maybe even Chelsea. In those days Division One was the highest league, and most games were still played on a Saturday. Later we would play five-a-side deep into the evening in a building, which for want of money had a roof, but no walls, and as a result was called The Lid. I joined in under a kind of resigned sufferance. Given the chance I played solitaire. Card after card. Hand after hand. Today, such behaviour would be labelled odd, and intervention or diagnosis would follow. ...