Blog

Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens is basked in good weather. It turns out that this weekend, there is a St George's Festival. No British person actually knows when St George's Day is, so it's always a surprise when cliché interpretations of another time are out in force. Not that I mind. It reminds me of childhood, of growing up. The sounds of Punch & Judy echo across the park.

These last few weeks have been a struggle. From the high of seeing familiar faces on familiar soil and all the joy that brought, somehow I have sunk back into relative obscurity. It isn't a new sensation, but it is daunting when such comes over me. I know what to expect and I can't work out whether I'm better for the insight or not.

I remember when I was growing up in Somerset. The weekends were free, and though there wasn’t a huge amount on offer for kids to do, we’d find something. Often, my brother and I would walk into town, stopping at McDonalds or we’d be lazy and waiting for the hourly bus to take us five minutes down the road.

It's Mothering Sunday – historically when Christians would return to their mother parish where they were baptised, but more often a celebration of mums throughout society. But sometimes, I question if I want to celebrate.

I remember being at primary school and about six or seven. I was in a trio with two other boys, slightly outcast from the rest of our year. We'd spend our breaks not like the others who'd play football at any opportunity, but instead made up games up for ourselves.

Last weekend, I went to Dublin with perhaps my closest friend who I adore greatly, but there is an underlying story which hasn't always been so optimistic.