“I’ll need to see your return ticket.”
Drivalia, a car hire firm, continue to make stuff up. Renting a car in England with a UK licence and no utility bills was such a hassle that I’d changed my licence to a Cypriot one. Now, apparently I need to show them a worthless reservation to demonstrate I’m not going to abscond with their car.
Honestly.
No fault of Drivalia, I’d booked the car pick-up for eight, which is fine unless you are standing at the desk at six forty five. Mo checked with his manager, and got it sorted for me.
Muttering darkly I headed off towards the motorway trying to work out how to turn off lane assist, cruise control and all the other crap that cars have these days. That said, Android Auto is brilliant. In all the years I had an iPhone, I never managed to get a car with a functioning CarPlay - whereas Android Auto just works. No agenda. I’m just saying.
Autumn sun was shining upon Andover, and my walks down at Charlton lakes were lovely. Swans, geese were the stars but the chorus line of bird life was great too. People said hello, a few even started a conversation. I felt so emboldened, I even took my phone out of my bag at one point. My luck held and I was not mugged, beaten or left for dead.
During the week, I risked a trip to town and a “Turkish Barber”. There are several in the precinct these days.
“Money Laundering” people tell me. I had no need to clean any money, but I did want a haircut, and truth be told, I’m rather partial to a the full monty; wet shave, beard trim, hot towels etc. Despite being a filthy immigrant money launderer, the chap was a very skilled barber and gave me a great haircut, shave and beard groom. Chatty too. A Kurd, and therefore very much not a Turk. He denied being a money launderer, but then he would, wouldn’t he? Still, a great man with the clippers, so I left him a tip.
In Bristol, I’d pre-booked a hotel for me, and a spot in a multi-story for the car. Again, I’d arrived early, so I arranged to leave my bags with the hotel and amuse myself for a couple of hours. The black woman at reception had one of biggest smiles I’ve ever seen and we shared a laugh and a joke.
I had a quick Google and found a museum half way up Park Street. The Georgian House.
“Discover what a Bristol sugar plantation and slave owner’s home might have looked like around 1790. Eleven rooms spread over four floors reveal what life was like above and below stairs, from the kitchen in the basement where servants prepared meals to the elegant formal rooms above. Free entry.”
Another "damned immigrant" smiled, greeted me, and gave me some hints on how best to experience the museum. I got talking to a pair of freshers from the University, who’d been sent out to do some research on Bristol and the slave trade. Proper British people. More likely descendants of slavers than slaves, I’d say.
I had a cracking visit - and even went off to another museum around the corner. The Red Lodge. Elizabethan, don’t you know?
I’d been in Britain for more than three days, and had nothing but positive experiences. Black people, white people and brown people had all been charming, helpful and downright smiley. Even 100% definite confirmed immigrants were, well, great.
Alright, the sun was shining, and I hadn’t done any work yet, but the hellscape of urban decay, with criminals roaming the streets making me fear for my life were just not there. The febrile atmosphere, with people warily eyeing each other across racial or national barricades? I couldn’t find it. Everyone was just getting on with their lives - and mostly seemed to be quite enjoying it, frankly.
I know that I lead a very privileged life - and that many people do not and are struggling to make ends meet. However, let’s all agree not to let other people tell us what reality is. This year, as every year, all the people in the UK, indigenous or migrant, are just trying to live their lives as best they can, and wish no ill on anyone. That’s the reality I saw.
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