Isn't it funny how you can give the facts without giving any of the story?

In my country (which I hesitate to call "mine". My grandparents immigrated here during the 1930s. Had they emigrated from Jamaica, or Pakistan, or India, I cannot doubt that I would have been subjected to racists comments and abuse. I would have been the butt of "jokes" all my life. I would have been told that this was not my country, and that I don't belong here. I would have had to stand and watch while those with small minds and no hearts became powerful, became MPs, took over the hearts and minds of others. But my grandparents moved from Ireland, and so my skin is white, and so my right to England has never been questioned)

In my town (which is large and in the north-west of England, near to Manchester. I dream of new places, exotic, exciting - New York at Christmas, Paris in the spring, the Seychelles and San Tropez, Thailand and India, but I adore Bolton and cannot imagine myself bringing up children anywhere else. I am fiercely proud of my town, of its sites, of its football team, of its people)

In my neighbourhood (which is leafy and green and ever so middle class, a source of slight discomfort to me. What comes from the middle classes? Doctors and lawyers and accountants. Middle class children are brought up in relaxed comfort, we have little to fight, little to rebel against. We have consciences that stretch as far as is comfortable for us, so we give to charity and rant a little about multinational corporations. But we will never change the world because the world for us is fine. It takes a very strong person to destroy their own comfort to help others, and middle class children are not brought up with that strength)

In my house (which is large and pebble dashed and recently extended, our new rooms financed by the fees that those less fortunate than us pay my father. As I said, the middle classes have a conscience that stretches as far as is comfortable)

In my room (which is also large and is messily painted purple, an ongoing decorating project that I begun around four years ago I fear I may never finish)

In my vase (which is small and white and was given to me by the first boy I ever though I could love. It turned out I couldn't)

Is a rose (which the previously mentioned boy bought for me last week. To say he loves me, and is still willing to wait for the day I will say that back, and still expects that day to come. And I had to say that it wasn't coming. I don't know if it broke his heart but his expression as he listened broke mine. Why is it that we hurt those who mean the most?)

< - >

* the marks of memories forgotten
* wasting emotions, over again
* intentions, and such
* nothing unusual, nothing's changed - just a little older, that's all (damien rice : amie)
* now I understand! It doesn't make sense because it isn't supposed to