On this trip, John stays at the Missoni hotel. He loves it there there. Though he does feel a slight sense of déjà vu hearing Gotan Project played in the hotel bar. But I think that there probably is a sense of order in hotels that both John and I really like. I mean everything has its place. And, I don’t know, maybe there is something quite primitive, childlike, about the feeling of being received and looked after.
‘John takes a sip of his Whiskey Sour and breathes in a sense of calmness that he hasn’t felt since his last trip away. He looks at his watch. 12.02am He knows should go to bed soon.’
When I wrote those few sentences about John, I started to think about my dad and how little I knew about what he did for a living. I mean I know he worked for a company that that they sold transformers and generators and that got swallowed up by a bigger company. And that he used to go up to Edinburgh on work trips occasionally. He used to try and tell me about it when I was a child but I thought it all sounded a bit boring. I was much more interested in my Duran Duran records. But I guess I do feel envious now of men who have followed in their father’s footsteps; that they have something that has been handed down to them.
Anyway, on the Friday evening, John flies back down to London. And on their descent, he looks out of the window, sees London’s southeastern suburbs with all its semi-detached housing. He tries to work out where they are. But he can’t. Then, a few minutes later, he recognises the two tower blocks, ‘the twin towers’ as he like to call them. Brockwell Park comes into view and the pale blue of it’s lido. Everything is moving so fast. His heart beats with excitement. He follows the main road up from the station, which looked so different from here. And there it is. The huge Victorian house now cut up cheaply into small flats. His home.