A change of clothes

After a protracted day spent reading indoors, I found I was in need of some fresh night air. The weather was decidedly nice for Bristol, the sun was slowly making its way down towards a receptive sea, and it would seem nothing could spoil my ambulatory pursuits. It took itself from a splendid day to a wonderful evening, provided one had the proper attire: a pair of broken-in heavy wool trousers, my grandfather's shooting jacket (which I have mended myself on more than one occasion), overcoat, muffler, and a thick fedora. I believe I had walked nearly 45 minutes before the sky darkened and the stars came visible, as well as could be seen in the city.

I sat on a bench near Old Vic Theatre, and thought of the times I had had there when I ran away from home to work as a roustabout. It was terrible work, demeaning and degrading, and if I had known better I would have stayed away, but times were hard in those days and I regret nothing now. I remember we would walk down to the docks and watch the ships come in. We would do it to "impress the birds" we brought there, I would always say. Back then, the docks were still being used, although the trade had subsided significantly in the final years before they moved it up to Avonmouth. It matters not how old I am, the spectacle of such things will always inspire me.

As I made my way back to the flat downtown, it came to pass that I realized none of that had ever actually happened. My upbringing was by two very loving and doting parents that I would never have run from, even in my most irrascable years. Also I lived in Castle Point in Essex during that period of my life. No, it must have been some film strip I watched at some point in the last few decades. Memory is a tricky thing.