I woke to drafty sunlight on the little futon of the unheated little room I grew up in. The urge to get outside and walk overtook any of the excitement of childhood to look under the tree.

I struck out in to the village like the scene in Withnail and I when Marwood goes in search of food. None of the villagers said happy Christmas to my awkard smiles in the hope they would.

The muddy curling road through the marshes has never changes. Flat fields and deep ditches echo with the sound of crows. I used to cycle that route with my dad and twin brother as a child up to the opening of the north sea. On snakey grasses and war fortes we would feast on crusty rolls, cheese slices and Dr. Pepper.

Moving back in to my parents old cottage has brewed up mixed emotions. Sometimes I feel my London is unatainable, unreachable from such a remote place without a car. Sometimes the familiarity makes the thought of another houseshare of strangers and no money to eat normally outweighs my need to perform. There is nowhere here to perform and the trains from London end too early.

In two weeks I become a literature student in London.with little work to fund it and nowhere to live.

It is such an undecided contradiction to keep juggling country life, remote and dark, to the never-ending glowing city.


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