Sitting in a café with Karen Carpenter on the radio and the rain falling my mind drifts and it’s yesterday once more. For a moment it is hard to believe I’m not back in Swindon town.
How did I get here. That boy with the bad highlights, a French horn and Clarks shoes is a long way from that tatty terrace on the hill. I never dreamed of going to Cambodia though I have a dim and distant memory of raising money for Kampuchea with a school fete.
I am not quite sure why but just for a day I became Madame Pasta Macaroni with horoscopes cut out of my gran’s copy of The Woman’s Realm. I read palms and told tall tales of dark strangers at ten pence a pop. A plump thirteen year old in drag raising money for a country I had barely heard of and certainly couldn’t place on a map.
Now I’m here. Swindon is definitely yesterday . I no longer need look to the stars for my fortune because tall tales of dark strangers are no longer just a fantasy.