davethegrinch.net

Dave says:

One can turn either right or left from my parent’s driveway; it makes no difference they both will take you in a circle - so, I turn right. This is the longest time I’ve spent living with my parents since I was 20 and it’s also the longest time I’ve spent in the UK in ten years. Having nothing particular to do this afternoon, I’ve decided to take a wander around the old neighbo(u)rhood for the opportunity to consider the nature of circles. In actuality, it’s ellipses that interest me more, it’s what happens to a circle when gravity gets involved. Around and around celestial bodies go, sucking up a little gravity to act as a slingshot from the thing they are trying to escape but, just as they look to break free that very same gravity sucks them back ad-infinitum and so the ellipse is formed. We all try hard to break out of the orbit of our upbringing but inextricably find ourselves sucked back in again. I consider this on my amble as I pass shops, schools, pubs, roads & roundabouts that once were so familiar to me I’d forgotten they were there. And, surprisingly, they’re there still, patiently waiting for me to pass by again on my wide orbit. So here, accompanied by a photo or two, are my thoughts on September 12th 2007 of the blink-and-you-miss-it village/town/sprawl called New Haw, the place I was born, formed, was not afraid to leave but to which I am always a little reticent to return.

My house, 55 Lindsay Road has stood since the 1930’s. It was bought new by my maternal grandmother. My mother was born in the front bedroom where she now sleeps and it happily housed our family of four in a lack of space that baffles any American that steps through the door. The house is unremarkable and that’s in keeping with the events that happened within it. There were no spectacular family arguments nor were there glorious Christmas parties where all the extended family sang around the piano. Some of my friends lived in houses that appeared to me to have drama, melodrama and festivities dripping from the walls. Not so at 55 and that’s just fine.

Lindsay Road is a ‘nice’ place too. Everyone keeps their garden manicured and car project free. We once had a huge street party for the Queen’s silver jubilee in 1977, that was just about as much excitement as the street had seen since the previous street party to celebrate the Queen’s coronation 25 years earlier. There was no street party to celebrate her golden jubilee and I suspect that there never will be another one. My friends and I used to play football in the road but now the street is conspicuous for it’s lack of kids. I’m sure they’re there but too many parked cars and the kids’s desire to exercise their gaming digits rather than their sporting legs have left the street devoid of the laughter and tears of childish fun.

‘Up the road’ is what we call the little parade of shops in the village. I think only Lindsay Road residents have this phrase but it’s universal to the whole street. ‘Up the road’ consists of everything you might need: pub, post office, newsagent, butcher, baker, general store, library, pharmacy etc. It’s unfortunate nobody wants to go there. It’s relegated to an emergency supply situation. As with most areas, the large Tesco superstore two miles away takes the trade and New Haw remains a sparsely frequented ideal of 1930’s urban planning. It’s pretty but the CCTV cameras don’t help the aesthetic. I try to smile and wave in each of the cameras I pass, perhaps I can bring a smile to big brother’s face as he watches me walk up to my old primary school.

The Grange looks the same. It once was an old school house and then grew bunions of 1970’s architecture as the student population increased courtesy of the baby-boomers. The large wooden fort from which I made my friend walk the plank to his doom in a shark infested ocean has gone and so has the steam train cast from concrete. Both wise moves I think. My friend almost broke his leg on impact with the hard packed grassy ocean and the train once took off the top layer of my skull requiring a panicked call to my mother, a trip to the ER and a stitch or two. This may explain a few things to my dear readers.

Moving on, via a wide detour past the houses of my old friends is the Victoria public house. I started drinking in the Vic when I was about 16. There was an unwritten rule in my school between the pupils, teachers and bar staff that if you were caught in the pub before you attended 6th form (11th and 12th grade for my dear Americans) you would be in big trouble. But, in the UK you can legally leave school at the end of the 5th form so if you chose to stay on past the legal leaving age you could, so this unwritten logic went, also choose to drink sensibly in the pub during lunchtime or after school even though you were two years below the legal drinking age. Many happy hours were spent in the same pub as the teacher whose class I had just been dismissed from ten minutes earlier. Pursuant to my earlier posts about the death of the British pub (of which, I feel several of my British pals took exception), The Vic is now a mess. It calls itself a ‘dining pub’ and is decorated like a prison cell. The walls are bare white, the lights are searchlight bright and there are no soft furnishings - no curtains, no comfy booths only a couple of armchairs that look like they were nicked from Starbucks. It’s very disappointing. There also are no 6th formers, teachers or, in fact, anybody in there. I stop for a pint anyway - it would be rude not to.

Next stop is my old middle school. West Byfleet Middle School now calls itself something else - probably to receive better government funding or to impress on people it is more than a middle school. However, it looks the same. It looks wonderful - just as I remembered it. I smile as I look at the doorway in which I laid in wait for the kid who had been tormenting me all day. As he ran out the door I stuck out my foot and he skidded ten foot forward on his chin alone. I think I then kicked him in the guts just for, well, kicks. I believe I landed myself in a bunch of trouble for that. I seem to remember writing ‘If I cannot be friendly with someone I should at least be sensible enough to leave them alone’ until my fingers bled the same color as the ink I was told to use.

A quick trip down the canal bank leads to Fullbrook Secondary School. Well, again, it isn’t called a secondary school anymore but an ‘academic college of computing and mathematics’. No idea what that means, they had just bought electronic typewriters when I left. I remember happy days there. They say your school days are the best days and I have to agree, I still agree even though the bastards threw me out of school! Well, secretly I enjoyed being ‘asked not return next term’ and not so secretly I still do. The name may have changed but the graffiti stays the same. I’d like to say to I had something to do with it, but I never had the guts to pick up the can, good job I say - I’m a complete disaster when it comes to painting walls let alone messages of social unrest. The school has grown, the playgrounds have been built on and now I wonder where the kids go to run around but at least there are more backs of building from which to sneak a quick smoke.

A short walk leads me back home - the circle is complete. I no longer feel a sense of relief I no longer live in New Haw. I’m glad I did but rather than feel either nostalgia or revoltion, I now feel more objective. I’m glad to be here and glad to be gone - in equal measures. Things change yet they are always the same and that’s fine by me.

This entry was posted on Sunday, September 16th, 2007 at 1:16 pm and is filed under Europe, Global Travels. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.