A family visit took me back to Somerset yesterday – I tried to see the place where I was born as if for the first time. The Taunton station sign is remembered with a deep sense of foreboding – it meant catching the train to school for a new term.
Looking afterwards at what I had taken, I thought they probably looked nothing like the place – even the roundabout in the town centre looks like a village square – there could have been shots of dereliction and graffiti and empty shops and garish plastic signboards, but there was enough bad news on the television and the sun shone and my mum, who was in hospital, was doing well.
P.S. Les, I had forgotten you were born here:
