It was a Sunday and I'd just made the trip back down the M1 after a very productive morning. I took a a meandering detour round a few old roads that had seen better days and soon found myself back in the middle of Stoke.
It's a funny old place.
It's full of a strange mixture of people who've always lived there, and people who have arrived there by mistake looking for Hanley. They've followed the road signs to the letter and somehow ended up in a sea of grey buildings, charity shops and second hand electrical goods.
We were moved out of the building above last Summer, as they'd received the planning permission to convert the whole thing into student flats. We'd all since moved into a much newer office in a more central location but somehow I knew that I missed the old building. Is that what I really missed though, or was it the people who I shared the dilapidated stretch of carpet with?
Maybe it all comes back to the same thing that all of these epistles come back to; a burst of nostalgic longing for a time when less things mattered during the sunlight hours. That being said, there was always a way to make things more important than they needed to be. Somehow though, the fire of bad intentions always seemed to be deflected by hiding away from the horrible weather in a Woodchip cocoon.
I do kind of miss that old place, if for no other reason than everything seemed so much simpler.
This old ship is picking up momentum as we speak, creaking into life as it sways from wave to wave. The tide will keep on turning, and we will end up where we may. Our paths will cross that much is certain.
Speak soon.
Take care.
Ben
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