LEAVING ENGLAND II: PORTSLADE, SUSSEX

I realise that my departure from London lacks the dramatic scurry of the White Russians or the Nazi-defyers. The way it should be done is to sail into New York Harbour, lose a vowel on Ellis Island, re-fashion thought in Manhattan bustle. Instead, this week I am in Portslade, Sussex, attempting a cumulative time-travel in walks around the hills and estates. I have been looking for a summary of my English childhood in the buildings and driveways. What is here?



Impenetrable pavement graffiti, BT code for drills; the font of MILL CLOSE and MILL LANE, dishevelled studies forever glanced at but never seen. Is there a national address in drippy beer garden furniture and fauna? Morse in crisp packets between slats, borrowed ballards. FORGE CLOSE, FOREDOWN CLOSE, everything close, almost fingertip. But a hazy facebook burr and whirr invades charred memories of school crushes. Is there narrative in deitrus? Coherence in chance? God in numbers? Is there more than just a string of memories prompted by letterboxes and parks? Write for long enough, and you'll charm a metaphor out of shyness. Give Shakespeare a typewriter, and eventually he'll write Twelve Monkeys; a story of time-travel and childhood reminiscence.
On my walks, I've been collating samples of England to take with me as evidence of something or other; names of shops, poster verbiage, signs seen, messages offered:


RED-FACED ROBBERS COVERED IN DYE


CUCUMBERS! TOMATOS! SALAD!


IN LOVING MEMORY OF LYNDA TIMMS 1949-2004: SHE LOVED THE WAVES.


I went to school with a Linda Timms. I don't know if she liked the waves.


BRIT SICK DI FANTASY


PARCELFORCE: PLEASE KNOCK LOUDLY AS THE BELL IS RUBBISH


FOR LOITERERS: EACH AND EVERY THURSDAY, HILLSIDE EXIT LANE ACCESS NECESSARY AND DEMANDED.


Take the first letter of each word of this last one: F L E A E T H E L A N A D


It's clear to me. It's time to Flee the Land.