I've lived in Bristol pretty much my whole life, centrally, close to the heart of this city of beauty and grime, of wealth and extreme poverty, of utter delights and contradictions. Memories of Kingsdown, my childhood hood, are of a creative enclave perched on top of the hill, the smoke and colour and messy charm of Bristol spilling out before us in a jumbled, thrilling expanse.
This was back at the start of Thatcher's reign. The St Paul's Riots took place when I was three-and-a-half and I remember clearly the feeling of that neighbourhood being one of notoriety and danger. Driving through was a necessity, getting us from home to the bottom of the motorway and out to the rest of the country, and I would peer out of the window, fascinated by the people and the places I saw as we whizzed past.
St Pauls still thrills, on no weekend more than carnival weekend. Heading down at midday to catch the procession of kids from local schools dressed up, alongside bands and dancers, the kids were awestruck at the sights but most of all the sounds. Loud samba bands and passers-by blowing whistles were deemed 'too noisy!' by both, until they got their hands on a whistle of their own.
Heading down to the main stage, through the stalls and food sellers, slices of watermelon and cans of Red Stripe along every street, you could see a kind of mesmerised delight in their eyes, both boys enjoying the music and the excitement of the new.
One of my children enjoyed himself far more than the other (regular readers will be able to work out which one I'm talking about!), and I caught a glimpse of what might be when T's energy is channelled in positive ways. Is this wayward child of mine harbouring a major creative spark? Reckon he could be a performer. Actually, what am I saying? Already is.