Damascene:

I think the term in theology is Damascene.  Most of life is filled with Damascene moments anyway.  Just imagine the next game of Scrabble you are going to win with that word.  I was walking down Paradise Street, feeling the irony of it all.  The sun from The Mersey was blinding, that sort of pale, all powerful Autumn light that blinds the eyes and warms the soul.

It was at that point I realised a small, subtle disconnect.  I didn’t feel Scouse anymore. In any case, as Scouse as I thought myself.  Or Meself, to be precise.  Like. 

Let me explain.  We have recently returned from a holiday in Liverpool.  It coincided with both mine and my stepson’s birthday.  The two weeks were a kind of restful whirlwind, meeting my oldest friends and saying hello to my family.  However, there was as much lounging round our holiday home, reading a good book.  Three of which were totalled within the walls, looking out the yachts sailing past the window. 

However, it was when we ventured into Liverpool itself I noticed that subtle changes in its psychogeography.  Liverpool is rapidly changing into just another high street.  In the face of such a deluge of social and political change, I’m not sure that another Specsavers or the umpteenth Costa is the answer.  I used to spend a lot of time on Bold Street, it used to be my little boho district.  A sort of wacker Tribeca.  It now resembles a long, greasy forest of takeaways.  Some scuzzy, some trendy and the inevitable chains.   But there are far too many of them.  At least Leaf is still there, offering tea, culture and a gut-busting Veggie breakfast.  See also: News From Nowhere, an independent bookshop run by a collective of Scouse women. 

If we talk about the soul of a city, it’s dripping out of the centre and into the outskirts.  The really interesting places are on the edges and back jiggers: I met two friends for coffee in two entirely different locations.  One at the restored Georgian glory of The Bluecoat, another at a trendy coffee shop called 92 Degrees in The Baltic Triangle.  The latter used to be home to drunken sailors, early in the morning.  It’s now home to businesses, bars, gigs, galleries and a giant mural of Jurgen Klopp. 

So, where is my soul?  Where is Liverpool’s soul?

It’s still there, below the low hum of MRI and underneath the blips of radar.  If you slow your breath down to subsonic levels.  It’s still a socially aware and politically aware city.  I went to a book signing of There She Goes, Simon Hughes book.  I recommend it as an absorbing record of the city’s recent tumult of lies, murder, corruption and rebirth.  I feel that was an indication of my disconnect.  I lived through a lot of that book: Militant, Hillsborough, and Jamie Bulger.  And I felt I was the only person in a packed bookshop asking questions.  Everyone else was still shouting the slogans and feeling the passions of Hatton.  If we view it in situationist terms: The Hacienda has been built.  It’s called Liverpool ONE shopping centre. You’re in it.  Stop speechifying and put your leaflets away.  We lost the argument. 

For a birthday present, my wife arranged for a visit to all of The Three Graces.  Afternoon Tea in The Port of Liverpool Building, a visit to the Museum Of British Music in The Cunard.  Before that though, climbing to the top of The Liver Buildings.  This is a recent, mystifying addition to the tourist calendar.  It took me to the edge of tears, but the climb didn’t make me lose my breath.  It’s hard not to look in awe at an ever-evolving city, resembling a space age building site and not feel humbled that this is where I came from.  And there will be probably come a time, long after I’m dead when Liverpool Waters will be built.  Which will entomb the Liverpool waterfront in glass and lose its UNESCO World Heritage Status.  My stepson will probably enjoy a show in the Birkenhead Opera House.  Having brought him up right though, he’ll probably scowl at the new Everton stadium. 

Home, is where the heart is.  It’s easy and very addictive to lounge in a La-Z-Boy Chair with a good book.  But a home is made by the people in it, not by furniture.  We were driving back from North Wales when I heard a member of China Crisis interviewed on the radio.  And for a moment, I was just a kid from Kirkby again.  And then I remember, in the light of a significant birthday candle; I’m defined by the people around me.  My wife, my stepson, my friends, my family. 

Places are just that, places.  It’s the people that matter.