A 50 year old memory rears like a serpent, emerging from our steam-cased carriage, we stepped out into London with my Mother’s guffaws ringing in my ears….I must have been looking out of the carriage window as we sped into the City (a predilection I still indulge to excess, given the opportunity) and my face was covered in soot from the steam engine’s backdraught…my Mother curled around the platform, speechless with laughter…my Dad joined in ~~~~ my ignorance of the problem and my indignation at their mirth merely served to feed their appetite. I really can’t remember how we travelled from Marylebone to Bexleyheath …it would have been the late 1950’s and who had a car then? …but, arrive we would, at a gorgeous little Art Deco bungalow nestled into the top of a hill. Quaintly Edwardian, it sported stucco rendering and toothed red-brick surrounds with brick arches to the doors and windows. Baby peg clay tiles on the bonnet-hipped roof, with tiny dormers squatted halfway up its slope.. Please don’t blame yourself for this. It’s my fault.’ He answered, hanging his head down low. I ran up to you, grabbed your face and kissed you hard. You wrapped your arms around me, kissing me back. You pulled away, stared deep into my eyes. ‘So, that meant nothing?’ I asked. ‘You never want to be able to kiss me again, or have a night like last night again?’ ‘Of course I want to be able to kiss you again, and obviously I want to be able to have nights like last night again, and I don’t want them with anyone but you, but this wouldn’t work.’ ‘Why wouldn’t it work?’ I asked. ‘Why wouldn’t we be able to fall in love and be happy? Do we not deserve that? Am I not good enough for you?’ I barely got the last question out when you grabbed me again. You kissed me hard as you picked me up and I wrapped my legs around you. You carried me into the house and sat me down on the couch. ‘It would work, and we would fall in love and be very happy. I just don’t know if I am ready for that. I’m.
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