The wind blows swirling sand like puffs of smoke down the prom. The sea is blue-green, the sky is blue-blue, and the sand is golden and bright in the sun. It’s one of those days where things are right.
We’re lucky to live by the sea; luckier still to live by long stretches of proper sandy beach and also be in a big vibrant town, the sort of town with a solid year-round economy. This town doesn’t depend on the beach but is still sort of defined by it.
If you read the news recently, you’d be forgiven for thinking that Bournemouth has almost become one of those supposed ‘no-go’ areas because of illegal immigration. It depends what you mean by ‘news’, of course. But if you expect your news to resemble reality – and you should – then the reality is that Bournemouth is largely the same as it was five or ten years ago: a steady maelstrom of people of all ages and backgrounds who get along more or less happily in a town that was once handsome and prosperous, and is now, like every other town, fraying a little around the edges.
I actually live in Poole, which is like Bournemouth. It almost IS Bournemouth, a fact that infuriates the sort of person who’s lived here all their life. Bournemouth is a bit bigger than Poole and has an airport and a football stadium. Poole has the vast natural harbour, the cross-channel ferries, and the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra (don’t ask). The two towns merged together physically years ago and these and all other resources are shared in practice, a reality that was finally reflected by a merger of the borough councils more recently. You can drive from one into the other without noticing. The beach is continuous. Now all the bins are collected by the same lorries and all the libraries share their books. Plus ça change.
I’ve lived here for eighteen years. I came here for a job that I assumed would last me five years at most. But then children happened and, with them, the realisation that Dorset is a good place to live, so we stayed and lived. Now, like the sudden jangle of a phone alarm at 4am, I realise that my 45th birthday is just weeks away, and life has more than half passed. I have, I’m guessing, twenty-five years before I retire. I assume I will live that long; I assume I will live to see tomorrow, otherwise what do I become?
What will I do with those twenty-five years? Will we move away? Will I change jobs? What can I achieve now?
I won’t change the course of history, that much is reasonably certain by now. I probably have ADHD, so being consistently driven and goal-focussed is not really my forté. (In fact, if no second post ever appears here, you can make your own diagnosis.) But it seems important to me to do something, to be a small but meaningful cog in the benevolent machine, to leave more than a echo of DNA and a fully-paid-up council tax account. Our children have been the backbone of our existence for nearly fifteen years. What do we do as they become increasingly complementary to, rather than the focus of, our existence?
That’s what I’ll try to find out.