As I was sitting in the dentist waiting room yesterday, my mind wandered. In the hurry to get here after school I'd forgotten to bring a book. Doh!
So my mind wandered.
To England. Oh England.
Where oh where did my love affair start?
Before stepping into those Rochdale streets in 2003 I'd had a sense of belonging generated many many years before.
Let's go back.
When I was four, I took myself off to the football ground that was close to where we lived in Royal Oak.
So that can't be true. Mum must have taken me, right? As if a four year is going to yell out, "Okay mother and father - I'm off to play football now. See ya!"
Mum must have taken me. Probably after I'd shown an interest, because that's unusual for four year olds isn't it?
My only truly distinct memory was trying on the football boots at Seymour Park. They were far too big for my four year old feet. So I needed multi layers of socks.
I was good to go. And set for life.
Before I enter teenage boy fog, one thing leads to another and everything becomes interlaced.
English and Scottish accents at the park. Weekly football magazines from some glamorous land called Fleet Street about teams called Wolves and The Arsenal. Swallows and Amazons. Coronation Street. The Beatles. More and more books, some set in overgrown English gardens. Roy of the Rovers. Look and Learn.
Look and learn indeed - Wozza - an Anglophile from Nu Zild.
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