Going Back — Part 1

I left Paris in 1976. I loathed living there. Not so much the French who weren’t racist as much as they were slightly contemptuous of anybody who did not speak French. It was the wonderful citizens of the United States and England who make life miserable with their obvious racism.

We lived in the UK for one year — 1968. I was 6 years old then. I loathed living there. These were the years of Enoch Powell and the entire ‘rivers of blood’ bullshit. I remember being chased by a bunch of howling reprobates who wanted to ‘kill the Paki!’ I am not from Pakistan.

I swore never to go back. I even refused to renew my passport.

Then I had to go back because the company sent me in 2000. I first went to Cannes and from there visited London before heading back home. Can you believe I encountered racism then? (From a bunch of nasty little schoolboys).

I didn’t want to go back. But my wife and daughter are keen, so we’re going. I’m planning a journal — perhaps not a diary, but a collection of writings about what happens.

If you’re interested, keep watching this space.