looking down to my hips on this boring office day, i came across an old scar i'd forgotten all about.
back from a holiday, many years ago, i was having a bath in a flat in clapham. and out of the blue, un-called for, a worm wriggled it's way out of my hipbone.
it sat looking at me for a while, and me him (or her?) both quite surprised, i'm sure. it's not everyday a southamerican worm makes its way to hip london (this was before clapham became the hell-hole of yuppiedom it now is) and it's not every day that a woman gives birth to a non-human life form, from her hipbone (except for in alien movies)
and then it floated away into the bathwater, and we never saw each other again. but he left me with a scar so i wouldn't forget. this worm. my worm.
Clapham is the source of all things strange. If my life were a teen vampire show with butt-kicking hard-bodied girls angst ridden but righteous...then this would be the Hellmouth. This I realised within hours of living there. In a flat above my mother-in-law.
ReplyDeleteThe playground in Clapham has, on an average day Will Self + papoose, Doon Mackichan + toddler, and Ian Hislop (+1).
My kids always wanted to go cycling in the wooded part of Clapham Common 'cos the bumps were like ramps. "What are all those balloons daddy?" "Why are there only men here daddy?" "Can I pick up this syringe daddy?"
The Yates' Wine bar up the junction is always virtually empty...but it's impossible to get served.
I witnessed a baseball bat attack on Lavender Hill. at 4pm. Broad daylight. The chap staggered about drunk but in fact concussed as he was hit again and again. I was supposed to be taking my youngest son to a birthday party. Instead we went back inside.
It was then I realised I had to get the fuck out of Clapham.