Today you find me in the vibrant commuter town of Tonbridge in Kent. Home to a magnificent Norman castle, no decent pubs, my alma mater, quite a lot of fat people and my youth. You see, I have travelled to see dear old Ma Brittain who still lives in the house I grew up in.
She has two projects on the go at the moment. And taking into account that she is 75 years old and , though spritely, unarguably a "little old lady," much of the physical labour falls to me and my brother. My mother is in charge of making me breakfast, having a shaky hand in my peripheral vision and worrying.
The first project is to bring order to the garden. Over the last 10 years the garden has been allowed to grow "as nature intended." ie uncontrollably, very quickly, fucking untidily and without a thought as to what colours go with what...errmmm....other colours. Or as my mother puts it, "It's a got a bit out of hand."
An understatement of the highest order. A whole new ecosystem has developed and several new species have evolved, the most interesting of which is a tree whose branches have dug their way into next door's garage. It has seemingly evolved a way to photosynthesise using car fumes, old paint tins, blunt saws, mouse droppings and jars of screws.
I killed it.
That'll teach it which way's up. The project has, through repition, gained the name Project Look At That Garden, It's Gone Fucking Batshit. Not pithy, I grant you, but accurate.
The second project is emptying the attic of 44 years of accumulated stuff. This project is entitled Project Loft-be-Clear. It just is.
This project is proving easier than the garden one because 75% of the shit up there belongs to my brother and his wife's. So it's a simple matter of moving a load of stuff he's forgotten he even had, from my mother's attic to his attic, where he can forget he even has it from the comfort of his own house. Easy.
This time Mum was in charge of making me breakfast, having a shaky hand in my peripheral vision, worrying and gazing silently at pictures of herself when she was a little girl.
I found these old model aeroplanes up there. They fell into two groups.
Group 1 was old broken ones that I had fully assembled in my childhood.
Group 2 were those sad ones who's assembly exactly coincided with my transition from innocent child to awkward, hormonal, angst ridden, priapic, wanker, who was too cool (too solipsistic more like) to build model aeroplanes. They remain partially assembled.
I also found loads of old stuff of my father's which was very interesting and realised that by travelling to Tonbridge I had actually travelled in time as well.
She has two projects on the go at the moment. And taking into account that she is 75 years old and , though spritely, unarguably a "little old lady," much of the physical labour falls to me and my brother. My mother is in charge of making me breakfast, having a shaky hand in my peripheral vision and worrying.
The first project is to bring order to the garden. Over the last 10 years the garden has been allowed to grow "as nature intended." ie uncontrollably, very quickly, fucking untidily and without a thought as to what colours go with what...errmmm....other colours. Or as my mother puts it, "It's a got a bit out of hand."
An understatement of the highest order. A whole new ecosystem has developed and several new species have evolved, the most interesting of which is a tree whose branches have dug their way into next door's garage. It has seemingly evolved a way to photosynthesise using car fumes, old paint tins, blunt saws, mouse droppings and jars of screws.
I killed it.
That'll teach it which way's up. The project has, through repition, gained the name Project Look At That Garden, It's Gone Fucking Batshit. Not pithy, I grant you, but accurate.
The second project is emptying the attic of 44 years of accumulated stuff. This project is entitled Project Loft-be-Clear. It just is.
This project is proving easier than the garden one because 75% of the shit up there belongs to my brother and his wife's. So it's a simple matter of moving a load of stuff he's forgotten he even had, from my mother's attic to his attic, where he can forget he even has it from the comfort of his own house. Easy.
This time Mum was in charge of making me breakfast, having a shaky hand in my peripheral vision, worrying and gazing silently at pictures of herself when she was a little girl.
I found these old model aeroplanes up there. They fell into two groups.
Group 1 was old broken ones that I had fully assembled in my childhood.
Group 2 were those sad ones who's assembly exactly coincided with my transition from innocent child to awkward, hormonal, angst ridden, priapic, wanker, who was too cool (too solipsistic more like) to build model aeroplanes. They remain partially assembled.
I also found loads of old stuff of my father's which was very interesting and realised that by travelling to Tonbridge I had actually travelled in time as well.
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