One's physical, emotional and life shaping connection since a Didcot birth in 1954 - has finally been severed. My wonderful dad died last year in his/our family brand new (as was back then) end house 'council' home. Where I learned to ride a bicycle, grow free and escape town by the age of 17.
East Hagbourne’s church bells always falling over themselves’ rhythm, accompanied by eternal summer lark song, high above what are now ridiculously short arsed ‘modified’ corn fields.
The constant stench of the 'Samor' canning factory (on nearby Park Road wafting our way)
Myriads of impossible to name all, butterflies. Cricket on the patch of 'Council' green at the end of our street – purpously not hearing my mam calling me in for tea as I scored 10 disputed runs and was on a roll for a century in my imagination?
Didcot railway station's tunnel thrusting the smell of Jeyes fluid and piss up one's nose and wading through constantly dripping wet ceramic wall tiles and puddles, if not floods. Not to mention a particular sound of running up its chunky wooden steps in 70’s ‘platform’ shoes.
Well before that, trainspotting at the ends of platform 2 and 3 wearing “Startrite” leather sandals and hand knitted ‘Fair Isle” sleeveless jumpers. Red Nestle chocolate clunky vending machines and packets of 5 fag machines with stiff chrome drawers. Sloping in to a steamy windowed cold winter 'buffet' waiting for the morning train to Maidenhead Art School staffed by bubbly joking rubenesque women, attractive only cos it was warm and frothy, but unable/unwilling to buy anything cos we were tight arsed students.
The alternative being less fun Waiting Rooms with barely flickering gas fires and hard wooden thick painted benches.
Tripping on Sinodun Hill at dawn wondering WTF as the power station was growing from the distant marsh . . .
So many more memories/experiences
Je sui so Didcot
