The Bristol diaries
I’m sitting on a bench in my usual spot, by the Harbourside, gazing at the boats that are bobbing on the waves, with the head in my hands for no particular reason. Suddenly, a caring voice drowns out Bristol’s ever-present seagull’s moan:
“Are you ok my lover?”
That was the exact moment when I began feeling nostalgic, knowing that soon no stranger in the street would have cared if I looked down, or wished me a nice day, or called me “my lover”.
A cider hangover is something you wouldn’t wish on your worse enemy. A cider hangover on the day you are supposed to move out from your flat and relocate somewhere else is an experience closer to the end, rather than to a new beginning. Still, the second chapter of my Bristolian summer (the one that will go down in history as the ‘Stokes Croft‘ chapter) began with an acid smell of peach, which, around Stokes Croft’s rough alleys, is a totally ordinary smell, although it usually doesn’t come from me.