the summer of '85

Or was it '86? Anyway, Amer, my cousin, the ultimate cool dude (something like 'the Swede' from Roth) showed up out of the blue, straight back from Venice Beach. Who else amongst the Paks listened to soul and blues (er, well, except for the Dougal, but then she was also listening to Rimsky-Korsakov as well).

And this was the one song of that summer.

Summer.
Victoria park, stealing a court to play tennis in, or one-touch football on the patch of grass we called 'Wembley'; lazy summer days sucking berry-flavoured icicles, or playing cricket against the old tree late, late into the evening. Bjorn Borg, the man of all seasons, beyond the seasons. Reveling in the Windies crushing the English-Welsh and immigrant sentiments swirling, taking delight in the defeat of the beast. And to this day, still find it hard to admit that white folks can be revolutionaries! Though there is E.P.

Miles: white musicians: always one beat behind the tempo.

Yes, there was the racism, the encounters with the occasional yobs (running for my life in one instance) but the strange thing about childhood is that you don't think about distinctions (Roxana: please take note!). Not Welsh, not Pakistani; neither muslim nor christian, not black or white. Not this, not that -the Hinus would say. And why do I need to read about this later: neither Greek nor Jew, neither of 'the West' or 'the East'.

Still flinch at the word 'true': a true muslim (baloney!) or a true patriot (nonsense on stilts). These are meaningless words to me. Hannah was, as always, spot on. I feel like being sick when I see people waving their little flags, all starry-eyed. Or Jewish settlers with their fake beards, 'pious' little christians with their sunday-school, Ned-Flanders drivel, or muslims with their suffocating cardboard morality.

So, how did I end up like the black sun? Listening to Chopin and Bach, for Christ's sake! This defeats me. [Answers on a postcard].

Minefield - I Level