Last can of Red Stripe
Tuesday August 17, 2010
I have just taken out the rubbish in Halford Road for what is probably the last time. The day after tomorrow, I will be gone, and this air of finality pervades every normally mundane task that I perform.
Today, for example, I did the washing up for what was probably the last time. I bought a tin of tomatoes for probably the last time. I drank a can of Red Stripe for what was probably the last time. Well, in the case of the latter, probably not.
I still have over 24 hours left in Fulham, and with nothing else to do but consume Jamaica’s premium export lager, this seems rather unlikely.
Anyway, I’ve been writing a column for h&f news for about two and a half years now, and despite the fact my replacement will doubtless be more capable and amusing than me, I feel loathe to surrender this one patch of print available to me with which to bore the general public with my uninformed observations.
If I’ve been the continual, fortnightly annoyance I fear I might have been, I apologise profusely. But not that much.
Venting ones own pathetic grievances in public is so much more satisfying than in private. And what better way to do this than in a local newspaper column?
It’s weird, but there aren’t many better ways to reach such a diverse audience as with a free-sheet.
I’ve always loved this borough, but having a community-wide involvement, in my own meagre way, has truly made it home.
I’ve lived all over Britain, from Notting Hill to Newcastle, but nowhere has ever been as truly inclusive and exciting as this almost random administrative division of west London.
What I mean to say is that I’ve been recognised in the supermarket from my column mugshot five times.
Recently, it’s been particularly – dare I say it – poignant.
I returned from what can only be described as a stressful holiday (lost luggage, arrest on a false charge, nothing to eat but sauerkraut), getting into London Bridge Station at 1am.
A walk through the deserted City in search of the N11 bus took me and my flatmate Robinson on an accidental tour past some of the most iconic buildings in the world.
A sense of genuine liberation filled my head. And one packet of deliciously over-salted peanuts and a banana later, we were on the bus in the direction of the North End Road. Home.
As the bus rolled over the funny little railway bridge that separates Chelsea from Fulham, we reached some sort of delirium, chanting the phrase ‘BACK IN THE LBHF!’.
Stopping only to purchase what was definitely not my last Red Stripe from the 24-hour offie, we strolled back home.
And there is nowhere in the world I’d rather be.
Digby Warde-Aldam
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