The sadness of an English town
Place — chainfication — melancholia
Every time I cross the M25 I end up regretting it
Well, not every time. There are those times when I cross the M25 in order to get to an airport. And those other times when the destination is some natural spot in the bucolic countryside. And those other, rarer times when I hop on a train and head to a big city.1 It’s every time that I cross the M25 in order to visit some random English town that I end up regretting it. You see, English towns make me incredibly sad.2
I know that this confession, coming from an Argentinean bloke living in London, could be deemed unpleasant — the kind of statement that might invite both accusations of being a member of the Metropolitan Elite and xenophobic calls to “go back home”.3 I swear I mean no offence; but as I have often said here before, as a writer I owe you at least sincerity. Sad is exactly how I feel in English towns. I’m aware that if you are a from an English town, if that’s the place you call home, then you might not be able to recognise thi…