So I am assuming that you have all read the post of my frustration when my bike got stolen? Oui? If not, I will give you a quick update. It got stolen in Sheffield, locked up – I returned 2 find it actually not there at 12:30am – in the rain with no waterproof clothing. Oh yeah on my belated birthday celebration-izzle!
So yeah. I went home, am still home, this weekend after alot of 2 hours persuation last weekend from my mom on the phone. So that’s all groovey. And I thought because my Grandad whom is abit of a tramp – and could be pretty much a contemporary artist as he collects anything he see’s worth anything. So he has alotof junky bikes. (bikes classed as junk not bikes on drugs or bikes that belong to drug addicts – just 2 clarify that right there)
Now here’s were it gets ultra personal – aka interesting for gossip queens.
My Grandad belongs to my fathers side of the family and although I bare no beef with my grandad or my granny – once I hit puberty (having spent virtually every Sunday with my Granny or sleeping over at her place in the holidays /weekends) my attendence at her place slowly, or rather rapidly declined. Not mentioning that she also was rapidily loosing her mind/memory (same thing really) Then when Kev left it was the icing on the cake really (Kev’s my father in formal terms) and I never saw my Granny again till I was walking to work( at that time it was at the Wacky Warehouse) and she was waving at me; but couldn’t remember who exactly I was.
So anyways – A huge part of my childhood is based in that exact house – and I means a HUGE PART. a part I have completely forgotten or ignored till now.
I went to see if I could get a bike- So unsure of whether I should have gone staight in like I used to or knock was the first task. I decided to knock – after all it had been years – – – This was literally like a scene of a coming of age movie -scrap that – its exactly like A guide to recognising your saints movie. which is a coming of age movie, really.
I went in – after my Uncle who took sometime to remember who I was let me in. And damn. Not a thing. And I mean not a thing had changed. The same carpets; furnitures; wallpaper and pictures plastering the room. The same dirty kettle- Even a drawing I did what could have only been at least 8 years ago. All the same.
I ventured into the front room where i would spend hours watching the rap my granny liked to watch. On the wall was that cliche picture of men sat eating lunch on scafolding in NY. MAYbe thats were I’ve got my obsession of NY from?
Everything was in place – exactly – like she had set it up exactly like 5 years earlier. There were even cans of cheap hairspray that you would get from the “Gills” store at the “Topshops”.
To put it bluntly – It was like an installtion. No shizzle. Mane.
If I’ve experienced that from like 6 years departing – and only living in Sheffield… what’s it going to be like in the future when I am really trying to make it all around here and there?
bUT It has opened a whole box of memories which I was so quick to forget but now they certainly seem sentimentalised. watch this blog space right here.
Oh yea I got a personal invitation to Damien Hirsts exhibition opening on Tuesday. Biaaaaaaaaaatch!