It’s our first Bank Holiday Weekend in England. The sun is shining and it’s a beautiful day!
We go for a walk around my little town. First to a playground around the back of the Youth Centre. A place I used to go to with me mates when we were kids. Once a week on a Tuesday or a Friday. We played football or tennis, listened to James on the stereo and attempted to flirt with each other. It’s boarded up now and covered with graffiti. My boys enjoyed playing in the playground, climbing the half broken frame. I worry, what with their improved reading skills, they might notice the “Mae is a cunt” scrawled on the metal frame.
We go to the park. More swings and more slides. A group of bored teenagers sit on and around a park bench. My son asks me why would anyone want to smoke? I tell him maybe it’s because it makes them feel cool or important. He laughs. The teenagers slump off into the woods. After a while, some smoke rises through the trees. They’ve tried to set a tree on fire but they scarper before the police arrive.
I don’t live in a bad area – it’s alright. The number of Range Rovers and personalised number plates tell me that the people are doing alright too. What bugs me is that people seem to just ignore or accept or not care about this crap. I worry my kids will too.
I’m not preparing them properly for Britain. I keep asking them to do things like “share” and “play nice”, argue that, “just because he did that to you, doesn’t give you the right to do that to him!”, and chastise them for being “bloody awkward!”. I fear I might be turning them into loony-lefties.
I need a big garden with a big trampoline and an even bigger fence around it. I should stop caring about this stuff. Pot holes don’t feel so bad sped over in an SUV.