ffmohammed-siddiqueAll my life I have been told what a loveless marriage it was. I have recently been thinking about the nature of what it means to be a writer, one of my pet theories is that it is the author’s version of any event that is the one that is remembered, as events and reality can be lost in time so very quickly. Just think of the world of politics and how it relies on the unreliability of memory. Memory nearly always fades, or changes allegiance it seems, but the person who writes things down is actually capable of rewriting the past as they affect the perception of those around them by committing stories to paper and hard drives. I have some ex-girlfriends I’m going to try this with in future tales, but they are other stories. I decided to let my dad love my mum, it’s a better way, and really, I don’t know any different.

With a new version of old love in place, I felt I had to visit where my dad used to work before I was born, I can remember Mum telling me about Dad working there when they met. The factory is still in existence, doing the same type of work that has been done there for almost a century. I also had to visit the street of the house he lived in at the time, which has evolved from Victorian rows of worker’s house, red bricked, small, and pulsing with shift changes. This little bustling area is now nothing more than the galvanised, squat occupation of lock up culture, cheap car repairs if you’re the mechanic’s mate, and rip offs if your not. I also needed street plans and photos of the town, I imagined that maps and images would let me re-imagine my father’s walk to work, tread in his footsteps, though his feet are bigger than mine.

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