I grew up in a corner bungalow at the end of Kirkland Avenue, but most of the action took place on the other road that made it a corner residence, and one that wasn't overlooked by any houses apart from ours (and when I say 'houses' I do still mean 'bungalow', although we did have an illegal loft conversion in 1988).
It was the street that I learned to roller-skate in. The street that I had to cross in order to get to school. The street that had 'hip-hop' sprayed on its pavement in 1986, just a few paving slabs away from the school's entrance, which inspired me to enforce a choreographed ritual upon Corina and myself that saw us pointing to our hips, and hopping, until we got into our seats in Mr. Burns' class.
It was the street that I learned to roller-skate in. The street that I had to cross in order to get to school. The street that had 'hip-hop' sprayed on its pavement in 1986, just a few paving slabs away from the school's entrance, which inspired me to enforce a choreographed ritual upon Corina and myself that saw us pointing to our hips, and hopping, until we got into our seats in Mr. Burns' class.
Me and Corina a couple of weeks ago with one of her spawn. Picture courtesy of Joan Munro.
By the way, one of Mr Burns' favourite songs then was Peter Gabriel's Sledgehammer. He (Mr Burns, not Peter Gabriel) said that I was probably the best poet for my age in The London Borough of Redbridge, which was probably the biggest compliment I had had at the time and made me think that if he was thirty years younger and not married, I may've been in with a chance. In fact Mr Burns was probably the only man I would've been alright about my Mum having an affair with, and I did once fantasise about this scenario when I picked up the phone and it was him. He was only calling to see if she would be one of the responsible adults - known as 'helpers' in 1986 - on our Isle of Wight trip (...oh well, still got it, Dad) but still, it was exciting to have the man who insisted on being your personal crisp sampler every day call up your HOME. Corina and I listened to La Isla Bonita I don't know how many times on her Dad's Walkman on that coach trip.
It was also the street that was renowned for learner drivers and those having extra marital affairs in the area.
If you think about it, your criteria in order to execute either are exactly the same, apart from the fact that the affairs people had two cars between them and don't necessarily have to have great eyesight. The first of the couple would arrive and park up, and the one to arrive second was usually the one who got in the first one's car. I used to be so intrigued by all this affairs business as it was so new to me. I thought that people got married because they wanted to and stayed married because they wanted to. I mean. How silly. I think of Dacre Avenue now whenever I see L Plates on a hen night.
(We pronounced it as in 'acre' with a D on the front, not like the rum-based cocktail with more 'i's.)
Mr Burns was a non-practising Jew and my Mum quite fancied Freddie Mercury, so you can see why my mind was racing. It would've been a bit weird, though, if Mr Burns had driven over from the school opposite, and my Mum had started the car, driven two car-lengths, stopped, and got out and in with him.
It was also the street that was renowned for learner drivers and those having extra marital affairs in the area.
If you think about it, your criteria in order to execute either are exactly the same, apart from the fact that the affairs people had two cars between them and don't necessarily have to have great eyesight. The first of the couple would arrive and park up, and the one to arrive second was usually the one who got in the first one's car. I used to be so intrigued by all this affairs business as it was so new to me. I thought that people got married because they wanted to and stayed married because they wanted to. I mean. How silly. I think of Dacre Avenue now whenever I see L Plates on a hen night.
(We pronounced it as in 'acre' with a D on the front, not like the rum-based cocktail with more 'i's.)
Mr Burns was a non-practising Jew and my Mum quite fancied Freddie Mercury, so you can see why my mind was racing. It would've been a bit weird, though, if Mr Burns had driven over from the school opposite, and my Mum had started the car, driven two car-lengths, stopped, and got out and in with him.
The smell of creosote always makes me think of Eric Spear - the bloke who composed the Coronation Street theme tune. I was only ten and was probably returning from just having had my first snog with Alex in his shed in Strafford Avenue (opposite Corina's house), which always seemed to whiff of the tar-based preservative. Even though he was only eleven, he knew he wanted to be a pro-trumpet player and everyone who walked down the street heard him practising his cornet (before he graduated to the trumpet) and Coronation Street was a particularly good one to catch him at. I have always been attracted to hard-working boys who have stuck to their guns and I'm very proud to say that he is now a pro-trumpet player. Of course, I like to think that it has something to do with my saliva.
This seems like a good point to insert a diary extract from that year. I only kept it until 13 March as after that, I didn't see the point in preserving the memory of life for a while because on 13 March, my cat, Holly, was run over in front of me by a light blue Beetle. I remember thinking that it was a cooler way to go than by an Escort or something. The driver kindly asked if he could take her to the vets, but we were just about to take Daniel Gamblin home after the swimming gala so we went straight to Goddard & Allen's after we dropped him off. I saw him over Upton Park a few years ago, but I didn't mention this incident. Holly coughed up blood all over my Dash tracksuit, all the way to Leytonstone. That night, me, Mum, Dad and Holly's four kittens all slept in the same bed. It was quite sad and my first real incidence of death since goldfish Jill ate goldfish John (I named them after my parents) and then died, and no doubt good preparation for when Auntie Wendy would die later that year.
Note how I made a note of a Cabbage Patch Kid's first birthday in the top right hand corner of the entry. I must also point out the name of the diary. I called it 'Dear Dora' as a nod to Alex's favourite sports brand at the time, Diadora. But then, after the diary had been going for a week or so, I felt I must also attribute Alex's name in the title of it too, and so it was added. THEN I thought I had better cover my tracks and disguise the fact that I fancied Alex, just in case anyone read my diary, so I added a 'd' on the end. Good skills, Susan. They'll never know. Then, in twenty-seven years time, you can write a blog post about it and tell everyone because it really won't matter then.
This seems like a good point to insert a diary extract from that year. I only kept it until 13 March as after that, I didn't see the point in preserving the memory of life for a while because on 13 March, my cat, Holly, was run over in front of me by a light blue Beetle. I remember thinking that it was a cooler way to go than by an Escort or something. The driver kindly asked if he could take her to the vets, but we were just about to take Daniel Gamblin home after the swimming gala so we went straight to Goddard & Allen's after we dropped him off. I saw him over Upton Park a few years ago, but I didn't mention this incident. Holly coughed up blood all over my Dash tracksuit, all the way to Leytonstone. That night, me, Mum, Dad and Holly's four kittens all slept in the same bed. It was quite sad and my first real incidence of death since goldfish Jill ate goldfish John (I named them after my parents) and then died, and no doubt good preparation for when Auntie Wendy would die later that year.
Note how I made a note of a Cabbage Patch Kid's first birthday in the top right hand corner of the entry. I must also point out the name of the diary. I called it 'Dear Dora' as a nod to Alex's favourite sports brand at the time, Diadora. But then, after the diary had been going for a week or so, I felt I must also attribute Alex's name in the title of it too, and so it was added. THEN I thought I had better cover my tracks and disguise the fact that I fancied Alex, just in case anyone read my diary, so I added a 'd' on the end. Good skills, Susan. They'll never know. Then, in twenty-seven years time, you can write a blog post about it and tell everyone because it really won't matter then.
At the risk of digression, I have no recollection of the lyrics as stated in the above diary entry, but I've just googled them and found this...In retrospect, perhaps they had something to do with the interest that surfaced in my undergraduate thesis, titled 'Not Quite White', which was an investigation into cultural identity and focused quite heavily on Jamaican patois.
'If art is a crime, may God forgive me'
Someone once grafittied the above on Dacre Avenue. It took me a few weeks to realise that it was more poetic than it sounded because the 'If' and the 'art' were fartoo close together, so for about a month I thought it was a crime to pass wind, and wondered why someone with such a bad grasp of the English language would have the confidence to spray their musings for what seemed like indefinitely on a public surface. It seemed to wash off a few months later, though...just like the jar of past-its-best peanut butter that I poured over the wall - albeit when I was nineteen - to see if anyone thought it was vomit (my Mum did and cleared it up. I never told her it was only peanuts).
Everything is just peanuts, isn't it.
Someone once grafittied the above on Dacre Avenue. It took me a few weeks to realise that it was more poetic than it sounded because the 'If' and the 'art' were fartoo close together, so for about a month I thought it was a crime to pass wind, and wondered why someone with such a bad grasp of the English language would have the confidence to spray their musings for what seemed like indefinitely on a public surface. It seemed to wash off a few months later, though...just like the jar of past-its-best peanut butter that I poured over the wall - albeit when I was nineteen - to see if anyone thought it was vomit (my Mum did and cleared it up. I never told her it was only peanuts).
Everything is just peanuts, isn't it.
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