Down from London (DFL) – You having a Turkish mate?

Departure day from London and I’m feeling a lot of trepidation. Don’t get me wrong, we are moving to a beautiful place near Exeter with an incredible view looking out towards the Exe estuary. We’ve had this bungalow re-modelled and created a brilliant living space. It’s fully accessible (if you didn’t know I’m in a wheelchair because of MS) with a spare room which will be nice considering I haven’t had one for 20 years. It’s not as if I’m taking a shot in the dark though as I know the area really well. My mum and dad retired there in the early eighties, and I lived there for a couple of years doing a catering course. I met a lot of my lifetime inner circle of friends at college there before most of us left to go to poly or art college, later gravitating to London. I’ve always looked at it as a spiritual home: it’s my motherland and those roots run deep and I’ve always felt comfortable in its borders. However, London pride spills through my veins too. It’s my birth town and I’ve lived in Fulham for the past 20 years. I’m well known in the neighbourhood and have a lot of friends here. Any venture outside normally leaves to numerous conversations with an abundance of people from those recognised by 52% of the country as a terrorist’s ie Muslims, road sweepers and just about anyone up for a chin wag – it’s a cracking part of town. For the last 10 years I lived in social housing in sharing a 1st floor flat with my wife Julie and and dog. It’s small and the lift breaks down a lot but I’m not complaining considering the lack of housing for disabled people. However, since I stopped working at a charity 3 years ago, I haven’t got out at much and have felt more and more imprisoned in my flat. My MS has been very active in that period too often leaving me often exhausted unable to even lift my arms. For the record I suffer from the primary progressive type of MS. This normally involves 24/7 pain, broken sleep and in my case severe disability with little hope of remission. You get used to it as what else are you going to do and everyone has their own cross or monkey to bear, but the sword of damocles is never far for anyone living with the disease. It’s been knocking about in me since I returned to London in ’89, before diagnosis in ’97. It always played on my mind, but I didn’t have time to think about it, immersing myself in work and having a stonking laugh. Much though has changed in 30 years. Communities broken by social cleansing and a manipulated housing market. The ethos of the place has been transformed. Gone are the salts, the clubs and pubs, the places that gave people a reason. Much of the high streets a former shadow littered now with empty shop fronts or sterile coffee shops and an infestation of mini supermarkets, supported by people fed on stress and uncertainty, enslaved by the system, able only to communicate by smart phone often from behind drawn curtains. Maybe I’ve just become a cynic in my mid 50’s perhaps I’m just as angry as I was when I was 16 fighting the tyranny of a Thatcher government, looking to dismantle the country as we knew it. In hindsight compared to the tyrannical ass-holes of today she was like Joan of Arc. London today, might look incredible with all the swanky buildings and bling but it’s forgotten what drives it and that’s the people. When Julie was made redundant a few years back we made a conscious decision to look to move out. By chance I saw the place we bought online and we both fell in love with it purchasing it soon after with proceeds of the redundancy, equity from a previous property sold and everything I could lay my hands on. My best mate had painted the back drop of West of the Exe when he was 14 and gave me the painting. In a way I’ve been living there ever since as I’ve always loved the picture, so it’s destiny calling if you want. To get it ready it’s taken 9 months so it’s been like living in limbo travelling down every few weeks to check it’s progress before returning to London and counting the days down. It all seems to have come about so quickly and now we are loading boxes into our Hired Luton van preparing for journey and new cycle. It’s bitterly cold outside so I’m looking forward to my new ‘Pentalow’ but it’s been emotional saying goodbye to everyone. Normally I’m quite stoic in these times but I’ve welled up a few times this week and I’m sure our kid will whose driving the removal van will be taking the piss as we motor down the A4 for the last time as a resident of my London Town. I know I can always return, but I’ll never be a resident again as I’ve moved on. I’m a Devon bauy again and if anyone calls me a DFL (Down from London), I’ll be having words and telling them to go tell the Devonians – Coke is back!