Gods in the Chrysalis
When I moved down from Durham to university in London, I found a bedsit in Kennington. Just to show how green I was, I thought there was a typo in the ad in the Evening Standard, and had found a bargain no one else had noticed in fashionable Kensington that I knew and loved. One letter makes an awful difference. Kennington is one of those areas that is perpetually 'on the up'. It's within walking distance of the Houses of Parliament and had lots of gay bars, so estate agents used to optimistically refer to it as 'popular with MPs and people in the arts'. It is on the wrong side of the river, and the elegant Georgian streets and squares have been punctuated by harsh council estates. Even when we lived there the off-licence had a plexiglass cage separating customers from the liquor, and you regularly had to step over drunks outside the bookies when you walked to work in the morning - now it is regularly in the news for knife and gun crime. However - I saw beautiful architecture, being able to walk to college along the Embankment, and a buzzy cosmopolitan atmosphere. I fell in love with it. Georgian architecture is my 'thing', and I saw romantic, decayed beauty. My poor mother saw a basement flat with bars on the windows and a creaky fold out bed - she left in tears when my parents dropped me off.
We soon found a studio big enough for me and the pilot, and moved in together with a couple of hold-alls and a stack of books. Within days we had acquired two cats, fig trees from Brixton market and a kitchen full of supplies from Chinatown. The studio was above an old ironmongers and a Spanish restaurant. We had interesting neighbours - a flamenco guitarist on the top floor, and the Fiennes family next door (the acclaimed director Martha first, then her brother Joe before he found fame in Shakespeare in Love). I loved that place - there was real energy, and a sense that people were just starting out on the road ahead. Someone once described it as 'gods in the chrysalis' - a memorable time.
While I wrote my thesis on an old manual typewriter, and held down a job selling designer clothes I could only dream of in Harrods, my more glamorous friends at college starred in a movie with Gerard Depardieu and dated pop stars. It was fun hearing their stories, but I didn't envy them - I was young, and in love, and everything seemed possible. Walking along the Embankment from the Courtauld Institute at dusk with the strings of clear lights illuminated, it felt like I belonged to London, and London belonged to me.
TODAY'S PROMPT: What are your memories of the places you have lived? If you have moved a lot, where do you consider home? If you have grown up and stayed in one place all your life, what keeps you there? Do you ever dream of houses you grew up in - what are the details you recall - are they seen from a child's perspective, or are you seeing your old home as an adult? What is the first house you can remember - what are the very first things you can recall? (Mine: the bright ring of a Trim Phone (is that the name - the 70s very slim phones with a peculiar ring?) - shag pile carpet and running my hand along silky purple and blue wallpaper as my father took the call to say my brother had been born. I was two and a half. He was at home with me at least - he was out shooting when I popped into the world). What is your first memory? What is your best memory of home? Why not take some time with your notebook and take a walk down memory lane.
We soon found a studio big enough for me and the pilot, and moved in together with a couple of hold-alls and a stack of books. Within days we had acquired two cats, fig trees from Brixton market and a kitchen full of supplies from Chinatown. The studio was above an old ironmongers and a Spanish restaurant. We had interesting neighbours - a flamenco guitarist on the top floor, and the Fiennes family next door (the acclaimed director Martha first, then her brother Joe before he found fame in Shakespeare in Love). I loved that place - there was real energy, and a sense that people were just starting out on the road ahead. Someone once described it as 'gods in the chrysalis' - a memorable time.
While I wrote my thesis on an old manual typewriter, and held down a job selling designer clothes I could only dream of in Harrods, my more glamorous friends at college starred in a movie with Gerard Depardieu and dated pop stars. It was fun hearing their stories, but I didn't envy them - I was young, and in love, and everything seemed possible. Walking along the Embankment from the Courtauld Institute at dusk with the strings of clear lights illuminated, it felt like I belonged to London, and London belonged to me.
TODAY'S PROMPT: What are your memories of the places you have lived? If you have moved a lot, where do you consider home? If you have grown up and stayed in one place all your life, what keeps you there? Do you ever dream of houses you grew up in - what are the details you recall - are they seen from a child's perspective, or are you seeing your old home as an adult? What is the first house you can remember - what are the very first things you can recall? (Mine: the bright ring of a Trim Phone (is that the name - the 70s very slim phones with a peculiar ring?) - shag pile carpet and running my hand along silky purple and blue wallpaper as my father took the call to say my brother had been born. I was two and a half. He was at home with me at least - he was out shooting when I popped into the world). What is your first memory? What is your best memory of home? Why not take some time with your notebook and take a walk down memory lane.
