As a young child before I went to King's we holidayed 2 years in a row in the Yorkshire fishing town on Whitby. Famed for its links with Bram Stoker's Dracula and Captain Cook it is idyllic in the summer. A couple of years later we moved to the seaside as well. When I went back to Cambridge in 1988 I discovered that Mike Sewell who taught me American history and more recently Head of Admissions at Cambridge and now Senior Tutor at Selwyn had grown up in Whitby. When I commented on what a lovely town it was Mike repsonded by saying not on a wet winter's day it isn't.
All these years later I am down by the seaside again in Kent on a wet winter's day. And Mike was right, it is utterly miserable. I've spoken before of the social deprivation of seaside towns here in Kent, or in Norfolk, or Lincolnshire or indeed Yorkshire. In winter they are all pretty gloomy. But give it a couple of months and they will come alive again.
Much as I love visiting dad this visit has a more sombre feel. Once again I'm burying my dead. Jackie's funeral is Monday. We will convene after with our ever decreasing group of friends from the crazy 1990s. Back then the ayslum was still open, we were pumped fill of drugs and the concept of recovery was so far removed none of us ever believed we would get there. I did in a manner of speaking. Yes recent months have been troubling but I'm still going, working, advising and failing. That is a good thing.
Between now and then rain or no rain dad and I will have a relaxing Sunday, he will go to church, I will read the paper then we will indulge ourselves in roast haunch of venison. Sounds marvelous. I return home on Tuesday. Right now that seems a long way off.
I Heard a Voice.
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