Homesick

Last Friday night, don't know what caused it, but I started to feel the first signs of homesickness.

I was thinking of the places that I will probably never see again, of the River Thames in particular, especially Twickenham riverside. A part of me, and ghosts of memories haunt areas of my soul and come creeping up during dark nights and tears spring to my eyes with thoughts of what was, and what could have been. I shared a lot of my fears and hopes with that river and my echo is there still. Discussing this with the better half, he told me that if we ever went back, it would be different, even if nothing has changed.

He's so right.

My memories, happy, happy-sad and bitter-sweet memories of the places that I knew in my childhood and early adult years will remain just memories. I cannot relive them and I cannot bring them back. Usually, I had no-one to share those thoughts and feelings with after walking away from the places that I frequented then. I do now - and we have both torn ourselves away from places that we grew up in and have started life afresh in a place that has such outstanding natural beauty, that we can build new memories to share.

We have just had the best weekend since first moving up. We didn't visit anywhere beautiful, but we have started to get our lives together as the house that we chose to live in, in small ways is becoming a home.

Here's to the next 30 years of building homes and memories.

Ghosts

Read this thought provoking post from a favourite blog of mine. It certainly made me wonder...are memories, ghosts?

Some are painful, some are heartwarming, some you would rather forget, some you never want to fade. And yet, face them we must and often they taint our perception of situations past - we either improve or play down the ultimate result, depending upon how we want to be remembered when retelling our memories to others.

I have my own theory regarding actual ghosts - and they don't have white sheets and chains (well, not always). But that's for another time.

Memories are ghosts that inhabit our mind and make us what we are.

Englishwoman in North Wales

I've been here nearly 3 weeks now and everything is still peachy. Perhaps I'm still in holiday mode and my brain hasn't quite clicked that I will have to suffer the good and the bad that North Wales chucks at me. So far, I've been able to handle it.

One thing that I am starting to understand is the rather tenuous relationship between those resident in North Wales and the tourists.

When I lived in Twickenham there were a few tourists, mainly because of the excellent pubs and the historical nature of nearby towns Kingston and Richmond. They tended to blend in though, dressed for the towns rather than the beach and tended to speak very good English (and sometimes better than the locals). There was no tourism to speak of in the part of Sunbury I lived in, as all it has going for it is the motorway that took me out of there. You did get a lot of European students who would take the same bus to college as the one that took me to work, and, to misquote Adrian Mole, if you closed your eyes you could imagine you were abroad with the way they went on.

It is of course, very very different in a coastal town. Tourists bring in Euros and Dollars and is, so we're told, very good for the economy and Wales needs all the money it can get (along with most of the rest of the UK). But after waiting an hour in our favourite cafe to get fed, along with a few of the aging locals, you can understand why a lot of locals, before the 3rd week in June, are actually praying for October so that they can have a teacake and coffee in peace.

I've heard many stories of English persons visiting Wales, where most of the population can speak perfect English, and walking into a pub have found that the locals abruptly change from speaking in English to Welsh. I have had no such problem and have (for the most part) found the Welsh the friendliest people in the UK. I am undergoing a transition from percieved 'visitor' (shopkeepers a bit abrupt, thinking, 'another tourist to litter the hills and valleys); incomer (shopkeepers a lot more friendly and start smiling - some even ask after your health, cos they realise after 3 weeks you're no longer a tourist, you're working for the good of Wales); perceived permanent resident - this one will take longer and it doesn't help that I sound like Sarah Ferguson. I could either adopt a scouse or Welsh accent but nothing will take away the fact that I was born at the heart of BBC english.

I don't want a dialect, but I'm stuck with one. So I will do the best that I can for where I live, try not to piss anyone off (too much) and respect local knowledge. In other words, act like a resident and not a tourist.

In the mean time, what and ho for jolly ol' blighty.

Road to Rhyl

Sung to the tune of Chris Rea's "Road to Hell" (sorta)

Well I'm driving through the country
And my friends all say I'm mad
But I've chosen a diff'rent path to walk on
Even the seagulls take cover
From the wind of the Irish sea
Instead they divebomb the tourists who take to the funfairs
And the average age of the populus
Is about a hundred and three
Have I lost common sense and all reason?
And the chavs all talk in a scouse accent
Oh yeah, this is the road to Rhyl

And all the roads are potholed and narrow
And the car has sprung a leak
It's all payroll and phones to come soon
Look out North Wales, take a look
What comes up here
Hope I learn the lesson fast and learn it well
It's just off the A55 expressway
Oh yeah, this is the road
Said this is the road
This is the road to Rhyl

(No hate mail from Rhylians please. I know a few parts of Rhyl that are very nice and at least the chavs here are friendly, more than can be said for SW London)

Doctor Boo Hoo (Part 2)

Now then, tomorrow night Chrisopher Eccleston will become David Tennant, courtesy of the miracles of modern technology, Gallafreyan quirkiness and the fact that Chris handed in his notice some time ago.

I haven't watched many of the DWs, despite my previous post. I was moving to Wales when the second part of the really scary chapter was on (the gas mask one) and I just didn't fancy the two part 'reality TV' chapter, (I've heard enough about the real thing frankly - DW meets Chavalocity) although the second part is obviously where the transformation is to take place (they call it regeneration don't they? Can't remember) Anyway, I may or may not watch it. But I may burst into tears cos I think I've developed a crush on Eccleston.

Or at least, thought I had until I saw the bum fluff he'd grown when I saw him on Top Gear.

So how will it all go? Billie seems to be very good at the confused/bemused look and I can imagine her telling him (after the event) "Why didn't you tell me you can re-generate?" and him replying "Its not exactly a conversation starter, is it? Hello, my name's The Doctor and when I die I regenerate"

Bectchya it'll be words to that effect.

So farewell Chris and welcome David. May you twang many heartstrings and may your elctronic screwdriver always rise to meet you. Or something.