I always think I feel a cold sneer of disdain for my home county, the home county of Kent. But tonight I drove from my childhood home to a wedding of a school friend across the Weald.
I drove the routes my mum took me on when she was teaching me to drive. I sang along to Pearl Jam as I zipped past oast houses and black-beamed wonky cottages and dog-leg turned through narrow high-streets and I remembered as I drove.
I remembered school bus journeys and house parties and long summer evenings and GCSE exams and cider nights out and bunking the train and living for friendships and how it all feels like a different person who is still the absolute essence of me.
And when I got there, it was like a bit of that old me woke up again. I chatted to women who I hadn’t seen since we were teens on the seafront. I gossiped with friends who I never see but still feel I know.
And I barn danced. I stripped that willow and do-si’d that do.
I didn’t take any photos tonight but if I had you’d see me, hair flying, face grinning, feet tangling and me spinning and spinning and spinning until you couldn’t tell if it was me or the teen I once was.