There are only so many ways you can try and romanticise losing a job before realising you’re not in New York in the late 60s. There are no longer musical nomads or roaming poets perched on park benches, waiting to offer you free accommodation and a cheese and pickle sandwich. I say this after revisiting the writings of Patti Smith; It was only a short encounter and in the form of an introduction to Albertine Sarrazin’s Astragal. Whilst consuming Patti’s adorations of Sarrazin’s words and rebellious lifestyle, I felt myself slipping back into former mentalities. Ideas of hustling round London with no commitments and no destination. Strutting amongst the nine-to-fivers feeling suitably smug that the only thing I’d have to answer to is my rumbling stomach and daily caffeine fix.
The job hunt so far has not been successful, with most people offering me the grand advice of selling images of my feet on the internet. Though my trotters are dainty, and my toes are small and cute, it would take a long time to gather enough traction to support myself and the upkeep of said feet. In fear of sounding overly glib, I must voice that things aren’t so bad. I’m still trotting along. Keeping myself busy by waltzing around London, visiting the odd gallery and meeting the occasional friend. As I’m often alone, I’ve started tuning into the conversations of passersby. Take the other day for example, I was at the National Portrait Gallery in the Tudor section – feeling self-satisfied that I knew the names and order of Henry’s six wives. I was jotting down my interesting fact of the day – that Katherine Parr was the first Englishwoman to publish books in her own name – when I found myself standing next to a couple also admiring the painting of Henry’s sixth wife. The man turned to his to-be-presumed partner and said, “Oh, she’s relatively attractive.” I found this humorous as it’s possibly the poorest compliment you could pay about a person’s looks. “Relatively attractive.” Who did he think he was? Walking around wearing shorts and flip flops in one of Britain’s most respected establishments; reducing a woman who’d demonstrated pre-feminist behaviours to an only “relatively attractive” oil painting.
With all this upcoming available time, I feel a need to use it wisely and to be creative. People long for extended periods of time where they can finally try their hand at crochet, learn to play the guitar, or in my parents’ case, attempt to write a sit-com or open a shack selling who knows what. Sadly, it’s difficult to conjure up anything that engages me or any potential reader, when you’re sat around waiting for the inevitable job rejections. I felt a surge of creativity and an animalistic desire to write the other day when I was sat on the tube. Of late, the only times I feel able to put pen to paper is when underground or the moment before I fall asleep. Both are unidealistic. At this moment, I was without physical writing equipment or my phone’s notes page. I felt compelled to run home before my thoughts escaped my slightly booze-infused brain. I was inspired by a blonde couple who boarded my carriage halfway through the journey. Both their golden locks were the peroxide sorts, like mine. To say they were romantically involved would possibly be false, but there was an ease and comfortability about them. The female looked like an early season Skins character; naturally handsome, child-like, and a bit grubby. She sat opposite me, sucking on a green fizzy sweet, which she seemed quite proud to show off. Her bottle-blonde companion sported a slightly cropped t-shirt with a faded sunset on the front. He was telling his friend that he had designed the top himself and when he wasn’t designing, he did “fuck all”. He seemed proud of this too.
I think it’s accurate to say that I'm doing “fuck all” currently, though I’m not delighted by the prospect. But at least I have one thing to show off about. My annual camping trip is coming up and I won’t shy away from talking about it. You’d think it sounded silly; a field filled with tents and the odd sheep summoning many a green-eyed monster. But this specific field that overlooks the English Channel and is a small uphill walk away from the best pub in the world, is a haven. It’s a small village in Devon - I’d giveaway its name, but that’d be too easy.
I’ve been going to the field my whole life. My parents and their friends discovered the magic of the South potentially thirty years ago – the facts as to who discovered it seemed to have blurred throughout the years. Ever since I can remember, my family and twenty to thirty others, have reconvened in this same little spot, for a week of relaxation and tomfoolery. I’d like to say I grew up in Devon. It was my first taste of freedom: walking up that hill in my dungarees and wellies, mine and my friends’ salty hair getting increasingly matted by the sea wind, and finally reaching the village pub for that well deserved pint of ice-cold Coca-cola. The early years were filled with endless disastrous games of pool, pesto pasta, and preparing for the weekend talent show. We’d walk around wearing our dads and brothers' hats, letting them fling off into the abyss when we felt the need to do a sporadic cartwheel. Winding up the moody teenagers for kissing their boyfriends or girlfriends, getting away with being a pain in the arse by throwing a cheeky grin their ways. In preparation for said talent show, some would walk around singing Coldplay’s “Yellow” in their silky and youthful voices, whilst others – aka me – trudged through the grass perfecting our imitations of the iconic X Factor contestants Jedward.
Next came the skittles vodka years; a period of boisterousness and fears of being unimpressive. By day, we’d strut around with the low percentage cider our mums gave us “as a treat”; by night, we’d scurry into the tents of the slightly older kids, passing round a bottle of cheap liquor and rejecting our bodies’ urge to flinch as we burned our innocent throats. I’d roll my eyes at the more adventurous members of the group who’d attempt to look effortlessly cool with a cigarette between their barely fourteen-year-old fingers. These years almost tainted the field for us. It became a place of angst and unease. Thankfully, these summers were short lived, as communally, and possibly telepathically, we decided that this was our safe space, a refuge in which to be playful and to tend to your inner child. Our parents seemed to have come to this agreement too.
In recent years it’s become an event that could only be matched by the excitement of Christmas. In the weeks and months prior, we’ll count down the remaining days until we’re all reunited. Each of us itching to drive through the rattly steel gate whilst the early birds sprint towards the vehicle, screaming and flailing their arms with glee. As every camper arrives, it’s squeezes and kisses all round – with us twenty-odd year olds continuing to dive onto each other, as if our body masses hadn’t been victimised by a decade of booze and carbs. Each day, we’ll sit under one another's gazebos, drinking warm gin and tonics and laughing at toilet humour. We’ll then wander down to the beach or the recently discovered lagoon. When it’s overcast or drizzly, it’ll be a ‘field day’, where the extent of our movements will be wandering up the hill for a pint of Devonshire's finest brew. As we head back down to camp, we’ll stand for a couple of moments by the top gate, silently taking in the serenity of the seascape and faint familiar chuckles, often from my mum, in the field below. I find that through senses alone, these handsome sights cannot be digested fully.
In the evenings, if we’re not found playing cards at the pub or twirling under a marquee, the best place to check is the fire. Our parents gather into groups, gossiping and choking on their ‘camping cigarettes’, whilst the kids sit gazing into the flame's hypnosis, remaining silent as this is the latest that they’ve ever been allowed to stay up. On the rare occasion that everybody is around the fire together, Andy will bring out his homemade fireworks. Andy is a character only worthy of the kookiest novels - an individual perpetually seen wearing crocs, blurts out shocking statements for comedic value, and is adored by all. He’ll spend his spare moments in the months before August adding different materials to various substances in hope that a few sparks will appear when lit. Each year we’ll cautiously gather to witness his latest creations; we’ll gasp and cheer as they gradually get bigger and better. Most of us leaping out of the firing line to avoid a burn, others are told to “get back” as they’re sprayed by a sparky shower whilst enjoying a red wine induced nap.
I’ll then take one last glance at the starry sky and take myself off to bed. London doesn’t permit its inhabitants of any star gazing time, it’s just the flashing of sirens or the skyscraper office lights for us fools. Only in the field am I reacquainted with the ‘Great Bear’ – or the more fittingly labelled ‘Saucepan’ constellation. I feel nostalgic when I peer up at it cooking in the sky. Memories of my dad first pointing it out, thus making it the first interesting fact I could use and contribute with in future conversations. As I crawl onto my partially inflated air mattress, I’ll drift off to sleep listening to the giggles, ooos and ahhs from the fireplace – the only noises I’m ever able to sleep through. As my head takes shape into my pillow, a final thought creeps into my mind: actually, isn’t it all so romantic.
This one I’ll cherish even more than all your other beautiful pieces that I love.
Proud mama ❤️❤️❤️
Kid. This is absolutely fucking beautiful. And although I’m very late to the party the field of dreams already holds a double special place in my heart and I know I’ll be seeing you there for many years to come. All my love. Uncle F x