All nostalgia is deceit

I lived in Stoke for a brief time . A time, when I  was curious, yet was long way away from being discerning. It was a time when I was fed up of London ; I was sick and tired of the tubes and giving directions to Japanese and American tourists. Stoke was a welcome break. But I was in no position to form an opinion beyond that; I could hardly distinguish a class, culture or life in a small unremarkable non-cosmopolitan city. In a sense, Stoke was wonderful, it gave me the much needed solitude; but I also remember how depressing the city and the people were, though I must say I did not realise it at that time. I recall these wonderfully, brave middle-aged people who used to come to the clinics. They were absolutely lovely, polite, prompt men and women who were so visibly depressed and yet made every effort to carry on with their lives. The Potteries had been closed and had made many of them redundant.  They were too old to learn any new modern skills, and too set in their patterns to innovate.  It was heart-breaking  just to see them, there was nothing substantial one could do for them.

I think of all this because I was called to visit Stoke for a day for work. It was 10 minute court proceeding which was fairly straightforward. It gave me a chance to revisit some of my old mental states.  Driving through Stoke , I could now clearly see how decadent it was. The streets were narrow lined by rows of decrepit terraced houses, the roads were dug open unattended, people hovered around sad and unremarkable. It was like an faded Dickens town. The shops were unimpressive, the attendants were fumbly and forlorn,  even the city centre of which I had many memories appeared very ordinary. It was all so charmless, so painfully ordinary.

To me it was a contradiction of emotions. On one hand I wanted to get away from the insignificance before me and on the other I desparately wanted to see the places I  had known - early morning running route, the old restaurant, the old cornershop,  the regular chippy,  crest of the nearby hill  etc.  As I got to think, I realised how much I had changed and yet continued to change. I had become more discerning to have a clear judgment, yet was nostalgic of a place to which I had no belonging in any sense.  It was an emotion, I had never  known as an immigrant.

I drove back musing  upon these things, breaking for lunch in a Costa somewhere in Cheshire and suddenly while ordering a Panini I felt at home. I ordered all I wanted in one go and the chap skilfully arranged it in no time. Memory is a weird thing, it made me sense the familiarity, but then I know some day I would look back at it differently, but dont quite know how exactly. All nostalgia is perhaps, deceit wrapped in time.