Tomorrow I return to the mean streets of Leeds, the city I was brought up in (I wasn’t), to roam for the whole evening (it’s not to do that) and take down any crime that might be criminising its way around the rose of the north (I won’t be doing that, criminising isn’t a word and I don’t think Leeds is the rose of the north).
Yes folks: tomorrow I’m going back to Leeds.
For less than 48 hours.
To watch some bands and stand in a carpark, also to potentially explore our old stomping grounds and laugh at the poverty in which the surrounding area exists.
It’s not an interesting story.
But it is still the only place where I get this sort of excitement about going back to. Even though everything is different, even though most people have moved away, even though I’m years older than I was when I moved there, it still has some stupid magic left over for me.
Even though every year when I go back I realise it’s lost a lot of that magic and most of it is contained squarely within my head and I should stop living in the past and move on as just because I had fun there it doesn’t mean I can’t have fun anywhere else and then I sob big salty tears.
Still, I like Leeds. It was a good three years. Yeah, it was only three years. Felt like a lot longer and had a much bigger effect on me than three years should have. Ah well.