wearing a lot of fucking things, but he’d settled on this. He was disappointed in having become so rattled. He’d visited his mother six months ago and he was fine then – in fact he’d looked forward to it. And he’d seen Imtiaz within the last year, and Aadam not long before, when he got married. But Salman he’d not seen in, well – it had been a long time. He’d never met his wife or children. He’d bought them presents especially.
Despite a poor start he could get there on time. Negotiating the M6 and M1 down to the tip of London would be easy; driving into the capital would be another matter though. We’ll see , he thought, happy to enjoy the clear road ahead.
Pasha was cruising through the breezy roads of Cheshire. Trees and farm-fields flanked him on either side. A few minutes earlier, taking a short cut, he’d found himself approaching a group on horseback. He’d slowed right down and overtaken at a snail’s pace, giving the horses as wide a berth as possible. As he passed, the lady in front gestured thank you , which he’d returned with the same good grace. He looked again at the fields. He’d be back in just twelve hours, and yet he felt a sadness more akin to a longer sojourn.
He’d never gone back to London; not to live, anyway. He’d left to go to university in Durham and fell instantly in love with its waterfront and quayside nightlife. How special was that? Sure, London had the best club scene, but Durham’s was good enough and it had other stuff too. There he was just twenty minutes from the Yorkshire Moors. In summer, parts of it got covered in lavender and from certain peaks you could look out onto a sea of purple. He had it all: nightlife, fresh air and fresh people. Even back then, so soon after leaving home, London seemed a distant, fast imploding ghetto. He’d have made his own way, somehow, had he stayed on, but it would have been more difficult. He’d have had to consciously avoid the cliques, the petty small-minded mentalities. A friend once told him how the Asians in big city universities always initially stuck together. But then, after their first year, they broke up into huddles of Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs. What prats. He just didn’t want to be surrounded by that. In Durham he was on his own but no one, virtually no one had an issue with his colour. He had prepared himself for prejudice, thinking not unreasonably that he’d experience problems, but the exact opposite transpired. People loved him. Sure, some of it was down to his relative exoticism, but what the hell – he had so many friends. Weekends were spent in the quayside bars or the Georgian theatre, where they always had live acts. They used to go on cruises on the Tees at term-end and do white-water rafting during the summer. London simply dissolved away.
Pasha accelerated smoothly through the 80s until he hit 90 mph. This part of the M6 was generally clear and he didn’t expect any build up until reaching Birmingham. Cities, towns, places and people just swept by. Motorways were like portals; gateways connecting different worlds.
He thought about his girlfriend, Jenny, and felt bad about having chucked her out of his flat yesterday. Their flat. Oh what the fuck, he didn’t have to pretend right now – it was his flat. Jenny was an easy girl. He enjoyed having her on his arm when out, and having her in his bed when in. And he liked tickling her when half-cut. The End. Their story deserved no sonnets.
He slipped from third lane to second, letting the flashing Porsche behind him go. The driver looked across fleetingly, his face defined by arrogance. Young Buck, Big Wheels. That used to be me , thought Pasha, and his mind wandered back to the night he and Jenny gottogether. It was nearly four years ago, when the two of them were working for the same company. It was a small concern, a start-up, one where all the staff chipped in wherever they could: as software architect Pasha often participated in sales, and
Despite a poor start he could get there on time. Negotiating the M6 and M1 down to the tip of London would be easy; driving into the capital would be another matter though. We’ll see , he thought, happy to enjoy the clear road ahead.
Pasha was cruising through the breezy roads of Cheshire. Trees and farm-fields flanked him on either side. A few minutes earlier, taking a short cut, he’d found himself approaching a group on horseback. He’d slowed right down and overtaken at a snail’s pace, giving the horses as wide a berth as possible. As he passed, the lady in front gestured thank you , which he’d returned with the same good grace. He looked again at the fields. He’d be back in just twelve hours, and yet he felt a sadness more akin to a longer sojourn.
He’d never gone back to London; not to live, anyway. He’d left to go to university in Durham and fell instantly in love with its waterfront and quayside nightlife. How special was that? Sure, London had the best club scene, but Durham’s was good enough and it had other stuff too. There he was just twenty minutes from the Yorkshire Moors. In summer, parts of it got covered in lavender and from certain peaks you could look out onto a sea of purple. He had it all: nightlife, fresh air and fresh people. Even back then, so soon after leaving home, London seemed a distant, fast imploding ghetto. He’d have made his own way, somehow, had he stayed on, but it would have been more difficult. He’d have had to consciously avoid the cliques, the petty small-minded mentalities. A friend once told him how the Asians in big city universities always initially stuck together. But then, after their first year, they broke up into huddles of Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs. What prats. He just didn’t want to be surrounded by that. In Durham he was on his own but no one, virtually no one had an issue with his colour. He had prepared himself for prejudice, thinking not unreasonably that he’d experience problems, but the exact opposite transpired. People loved him. Sure, some of it was down to his relative exoticism, but what the hell – he had so many friends. Weekends were spent in the quayside bars or the Georgian theatre, where they always had live acts. They used to go on cruises on the Tees at term-end and do white-water rafting during the summer. London simply dissolved away.
Pasha accelerated smoothly through the 80s until he hit 90 mph. This part of the M6 was generally clear and he didn’t expect any build up until reaching Birmingham. Cities, towns, places and people just swept by. Motorways were like portals; gateways connecting different worlds.
He thought about his girlfriend, Jenny, and felt bad about having chucked her out of his flat yesterday. Their flat. Oh what the fuck, he didn’t have to pretend right now – it was his flat. Jenny was an easy girl. He enjoyed having her on his arm when out, and having her in his bed when in. And he liked tickling her when half-cut. The End. Their story deserved no sonnets.
He slipped from third lane to second, letting the flashing Porsche behind him go. The driver looked across fleetingly, his face defined by arrogance. Young Buck, Big Wheels. That used to be me , thought Pasha, and his mind wandered back to the night he and Jenny gottogether. It was nearly four years ago, when the two of them were working for the same company. It was a small concern, a start-up, one where all the staff chipped in wherever they could: as software architect Pasha often participated in sales, and
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