Wednesday, March 14, 2007

A latch key (possibly gypsy) kid

Last night was quite traumatic for me. Jan has this knack of getting my mum to talk about her past life. She finds mum's history interesting. As a 23 years old southern Italian woman in England in 1947, the year of the big freeze, it must have been quite a culture shock and Jan always wants to know more. Anyway, mum is recounting her holiday experiences of two day railway journeys back to Italy with her sister (who also married an Englishman) and me. Jan asked if I was a cute baby (I could have told her the answer to that one) and of course my mother said that I was very beautiful and that all kinds of people came up to her on the beach and offered to take me for a walk. It turns out that she was handing me over to all kinds of strangers who took me off and returned me at mealtimes. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I was being given away! How do I know that I'm the same child that was taken away? How do I know that I wasn't substituted for some gypsy child and that I'm not who I think I am? (Go and lie down and take some more of your medication - Ed) It's all very confusing and I had to remind my mother that if this had happened today she would have Social Services knocking at the door. As it happened my mother and father split up when I was four and for the next few years, until mum remarried again, I was brought up in Harrogate as a latch key kid. Life were tough in them days! (It explains a lot - Ed)


It poured with rain today and, being unable to hire a car because we thought about it too late, we took the short walk down to the village. We chose a restaurant (poor choice) for lunch that overlooked the black sand beach. It was a dark and gloomy day with large white waves crashing onto the black rocks (oooh, aren't we the poetic one? - Ed) Believe it or not the picture above was taken in colour.
This guy needs to come and kick some ass in France. I forget the actual figures but something like 25% of the French working population work in the civil service. Kids graduating from university all aim to get into it. Jobs for life, good pensions and little responsibilty. Try to get anything done in France during August. It's a joke. (oooh, and now political comment, who rattled your cage this morning? - Ed)

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