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“A nowhere place that was easy to loathe.”

Guy Gunaratne, on the suburban London of his youth:

Neasden was never pretty – an unremarkable concrete outcrop between a dual carriageway and the North Circular. Somewhere on the way to Ikea. It’s the sort of place new immigrants land before moving to Kilburn, Cricklewood or Wembley. As a teenager, these neighbouring areas seemed far more compelling. Wembley had a Burger King. Cricklewood had a High Road and once, Doris Lessing. Kilburn had, for a time, Zadie Smith. What did Neasden have? It had a roundabout with a museum. A Tesco Express and a Tennessee Fried Chicken.

So many of these weekly Guardian pieces (all of which I love) tell of idyllic rural upbringings, with lonely moors, rushing streams and bucolic farmland, that reading this account of bland suburbia is actually quite refreshing. After all, more of us are from places like this than from the country.

And the funny thing is that, despite Gunaratne’s youthful envy, I would guess that people who grew up in Wembley, Cricklewood and Kilburn were probably just as disparaging about their own hometowns. They might have even envied Neasden for its Tennessee Fried Chicken. 

November 11, 2018 in Books | Permalink

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