Writer's Notebook

Had I got off at the station. The question refused to go away. But I didn't, I couldn't, not after thirteen years. I knew this was going to happen but with the mainline being blocked I had little choice but to pass through Venmouth. Still, it was behind me now, and wouldn't come back. I settled back into my seat and tried to find the sleep that had eluded me before our arrival in Venmouth. Before long I was drifting away, walking along along the street that led down into the town. Nothing much had changed. The station was still as drab and deserted as ever. There was the pub where we used to enjoy many an underage pub, and there's the driving test centre. The few passers-by all seem to be adorned with Ted's large, bushy beard. Ted, he must be dead by now. The man with immeasurable patience, patience my parents never had. Was that why they had asked him to give me extra driving lessons?

But why am I going down this way? Why didn't I take the shortcut; I always took the shortcut. Even in my dream I couldn't face the house. Bethan had been on at me for months to do something about the house, but I just couldn't face it. Delapidated, crumbling, and dozens of similar adjectives she had used. A new one in each letter, and each one designed to stir me out of my inertia. Little did she know, what my real motives were.

But shortcut or no shortcut, I was slowly getting closer to the house. There was no mistaking it now, the large gable roof jutting out over the houses in front. Just another 50 yards and I would be at the corner; then the small climb to the top of the hill and the house.

It was now that I woke up; woke up to find I hadn't fallen asleep after all. I really had gotten out of that train. I really was hear walking towards my past, a past I was at long last going to have to face up to.