It is, as you well know from the detail attached, early afternoon in Dartmouth Park, early in 2009. The sun’s giving it all brisk and chirpy all over the place for the first Saturday of the year, and no doubt no more than a couple of hundred yardsaway from this very spot, the reasoned tones of upper-middle class parents are becoming increasingly strained as they attempt to negotiate thier way through what they thought would be an idyllic brunch in a cafe on Swaines lane with the spawn of their loins. That’ll larn’em.
The air has a smart, ben hecht-style snap to it as it comes through the bay window to my back, and before me is afreshly-cleaned front room that no longer smells of bleach. A nearly-finished Graceland mug of yorkshire tea sits to my left hand, cold pizza to my right. The entirely optimistic sound of the too-lovely-by-half “Hey Love” by Rotary Connection is pricking the air, and a flat lies before me that bespeaks a tale of rigorous day-after-new-years-day- life-sorting: admin bested, obstreporous stains overcome, unwanted clothing neatly shoved into bin bags for charitable use, unrecognisable receipts shuffled and re-shuffled.
I am wearing christmas socks, flared jeans and retro knitwear. I’m amusingly unshaven, sober and self-absorbed, and I dont care who knows it. I’m everything the well-dressed young (ish) blogger ought to be, and I have just written my first post.