The past is a foreign country

Only seven days to go until I fly to Australia and I am buried under a mountain of completely worthless junk. It has value to me, mind, just not to most.

Packing has forced me to go through baskets, bags, piles and boxes of bits and pieces and like dusty time capsules, they’ve thrown a few leftfield reminders of the past six years into the August sunlight.

Event tickets – a lot of them. Bob Dylan at the O2, the Roots at Brixton, Bestival 2006, the opening night of Rufus Wainwright’s Prima Donna. The Aliens at Dingwall’s, The Pogues, Glastonbury ’09 and ’10. Tattered train stubs showing Delhi to Jaipur and Gokarna Junction to Karwar in Mumbai. A museum entrance from Marrakesh and boarding passes from Doha to Dubai. Euros, Dollars, Rupees and Dirhams. Carrot cake and peanut butter cookies recipes handwritten by a white witch I stayed with in Banff, Alberta, a security pass from work saying that Caroline Armstrong was being hosted by Dengie Doomer. I’ve had Daysi, Daysey and Dazie before but not a Dengie until 15th May 2008.

I should be cutting strips of old newsprint into strings of paper men for my leaving do. Instead, I’m sitting crossed-legged, surrounded by stacks of cuttings, magazines, bin-bags of clothes and ‘keep’, ‘chuck’ and ‘maybe’ piles, nostalgically daydreaming in sunny slants of dusty motes.


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