I come from inner-city, stand-up strong tea, delivered early with grumpy care, and a ‘don't think about sleeping in’ fading down the stair. I come from cornflakes with full cream benefits and fuller if you get down at full tilt, before Dad manages to shake the delivered milk.
I come from warming up the telly in time for Crackerjack and Crossroads and the nearest of us having to get up for the lack of a remote control. I come from snooker in black and white and the thrill of home-grown wrestlers' faux fights. I come from aerial adjustments, the unity of the family three-piece, paying homage to the three-channel Buddha TV.
I come from tempers and broken locks, with after-work threats to knock your block off. I come from seeped in feelings of coming up short at each and every blue and white sport. I come from hereditary parenting, watery eyes, and the upholstered cushion of mum’s white lies. I come from long family road trips with back seats sun-baked, and car sickness triggered by wafts of St Bruno Flake.
I come from first gen suburbanites, budget tensions and dad's got three jobs cos things got tight. I come from the garden turned vegetable patch with biting rhubarb, rubber runner beans and the Sunday stench of stewed-to-death cabbage. I come from a street in open plan, holding homes and gardens in common, one big for-good-or-ill clan.
And if I could, I’d plan a street-long celebration: Party Sevens and Tizer and shades of beige food for every occasion. I’d put on the gramophone with the Joe Loss Band’s All Time Party Hits, and no room to spare, with the kettle on repeat and biscuits bits in mum's faded Tupperware.
And over mis-matched tea mugs, I’d tell them I’m okay, I’ve moved across this city to find my own way. I’d assure them that blood is still the thicker, but please do me a favour and get over me and mine living north of the river.
From an exercise suggested by The Poetry lounge, London.
