Today, I realised as I was watching French students rioting in Paris - not quite sure what the connection was - it is exactly 25 years since I left my parents' home. One quarter of a century (of freedom, I nearly added). I can remember the day crystal clear. My parents in the front of the car, Dad driving, down the road to Manchester. It was a Saturday. They took me to - well, fancy that, I'd forgotten this connection - Piccadillly Station. Where it all begins. I remember sitting in the train and looking out of the window and being truly amazed to see them both standing there, waving, tears rollling down their cheeks as the whistle blew and the carriage started to move forwards. One week later I came back to reassure them that I hadn't left completely.
But it was the next day, the Sunday, that I'll remember forever. The first day of freedom. The beginning of the rest of MY life. Only 100 miles further south but a different place. I remember lying on the bed in the lodgings and staring out of the window at the blue, blue sky. Was I imagining it or was that sky bluer than I'd seen it before? It was a perfect English spring Sunday. I went outside for a saunter down the tree-lined road. The passing vicar greeted me - or maybe that was the day before; at any rate, I ventured into the nearby stone church for a look and ended up staying for the service (something I hardly ever did at home so it felt like freedom). The rest of the day is a blur to me. Just a wonderful feeling, something that took me completely by surprise, a general 'yes' feeling that this was the best thing I'd done for a very long time.
25 years on, the memory still feels good even if it's now tinged with just a hint of sadness. All these years on, I've still left home but never quite settled into a home of my own. Maybe that's for the next quarter of a century. After all, you have to give yourself time... :)
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