Walk The Black Dog

Tag: Odyssey

Odyssey, Pt 1.

Southampton

I left England on December 22nd 2011. My day would start in Millbrook Rd East, Southampton, and by evening would finish at College Avenue Pittsburgh, USA.

I can’t tell that story without telling the story of my time in Southampton. This is the move from the North of England, and some of the reasons for it.

July 27th, 1997

I left my parent’s home in Trinity Lane, York, the beautiful walled city of which I now have deeply nostalgic, postcard memories, to take the train to Southampton. I would go on to live in Southampton for almost 15 years, which is the longest I have remained anywhere. And I went there pretty much on the flimsiest of notions. Basically, I’m going to blame my dear friend P, whom shall remain mostly anonymous as he’s very private and I’m happy to respect that.

I was not a stranger to the city. I’d stayed for an abortive semester at the Southampton Institute (Now Solent University) from late ’93 to spring ’94. I didn’t love Southampton, it was, at the time, a place I knew. A place to go, not a place to end up. As I wrote, It stands as the place I lived longest during a nomadic life, even if I managed no less than 12 residence moves in the time I was there. I’ve been in the United States over a decade now, and I’ve never really missed it, and yet I think about it constantly. I look up the roads on Google street view, peruse various Facebook history groups for the town (the only good use of FB, I think), so clearly the city left its mark.

My first impression, in September 1993, was not good. I had visited the boat show with my parents in 1986, and thought it a dull, ugly place. Concrete, dreary, grimy high street, docks and cranes, a sliver of waterfront. It had the shit bombed out of it in the war, and it looked it.

With my mum at the boat show

It was little different six years later, although I do remember the hull of a freighter towering over what must have been the Eastern docks, reminding me of the purpose of the place. Southampton hides its maritime industry and heritage remarkably well. You would be surprised at the number of plummy home counties boys that go to Solent because they think it’s on the coast. It’s basically Hull, without the benefit of being in Yorkshire.

I took a walk with my Mum through East Park, noting it was full of homeless people (I never saw as many as I did that Sunday…) And yet, as a student with little interest in academic work, but plenty of interest in everything else, it wasn’t a bad place. I had a fun time, until it was no longer fun (because I had to drop out) and I left in May 1994, fairly sure I’d have no reason to return, unless I would somehow be buying a boat in the future.

A close friend – P – from Sixth Form college had been in Southsea (up the coast, in the locally verboten territory of the demon-haunted Portsmouth, very much Mordor to Southampton’s Shire, or so the locals say) and was set to enter nursing school in Southampton. My friend from college days, P would frequently write to me (remember that?) and in March 1996 I decided to pay him a visit. I scrounged the 35 quid bus fare from my Mum, plus some beer money, and I got the National Express bus to Southampton, via Birmingham. It took all fucking day. I remember going through Doncaster, having never seen it, and never wishing to do so again. It was the Monday after the ’96 Brazilian Grand Prix and I had a copy of that day’s Telegraph with the race report on the back page.

I got in late evening (around 9, I think), had no mobile back then, and had to find a pay phone to call P and let him know I’d arrived. I knew the town, so started off toward the area of Newtown (where he lived) and encountered him half way, coming to meet me. We hit the beers straight away, and the night ended with a curry. That set the tone. What followed was a fairly pivotal week, psychologically. I had a good time, perhaps too good a time, because it put something in my head that didn’t quite go away: The thought that, perhaps, I could move there. It was everything I was missing – independence and a built-in social life.

I extended the trip by a day, which was all I could (money rather than time being the limiting factor), returning on a Saturday, and I fell into a pretty bad funk when I returned to York. I was depressed enough on the bus home, and it just got worse. The boredom and loneliness was really eating me up, and I was ignoring or seemingly unaware of the fact that my routine was neither helpful nor healthy for a 22yr old.

My closest friend in York at that time was Jamie; we’d been at college together (although he was a year ahead) and he was a chemistry undergraduate at the University of York. By this time he was very much doing his own thing (between a tough degree and a busy private life) and could not really give me the friendship I wanted. The effort of the long walks to and from campus in Heslington seemed to characterize my building resentment. Jamie was distant, in every way that mattered to me. It wasn’t his fault. I don’t think Jamie understood that I comprehended his struggles, especially in the rigorous second year. I felt very much like an outsider, and I had just come back from a place where I’d be treated the opposite. It was like magnetism, in retrospect. It set something in motion.

I spent my weekends volunteering at the Yorkshire Air Museum in Elvington and I had aspirations of getting my pilot’s license (and actually came close). Around this time either me or my Dad had the idea (I forget whom) I might join the RAF. I was still easily young enough, and although I didn’t possess 20/20 vision I could still enter as an officer candidate. I was, frankly, scared by the idea. I was unfit and actually quite intimidated by the prospect. That fear turned into the perception of being pushed against my wishes, so I bottled it, didn’t do the the interview and had a bit of sulky fight with the old man about it.

My dad was generous to me, paying my flight school fees (GBP55 an hour(!!), he never asked me for any of it, even when I worked) and was understandably keen that I pick a direction and do something for myself. He didn’t know how to motivate me, but didn’t recognize that If I didn’t know, there was no possibility anyone else would. He hung in there with the flying in the hope I’d get something out of it.

These things have to come from within, and a part of me felt like I’d done my time with that during a very unpleasant time in secondary Grammar school. I really thought I was finished with other people’s ideas of structure and discipline. It’s fair to say it as a delayed rebellious impulse, and I should have known better, but I wasn’t mature enough to see it.

I should have gone through with the RAF interview at the very least. I can see that now. You never know where these things lead. An older gent at the museum told me to go in, do my five years, and do what I like. He was 38, and to him it was a simple matter of pragmatism, and what’s five years, anyway? I was 22, that was nearly a quarter of my life experience. It felt like forever.

I have learnt that you can have your differences with your parents, occasionally very serious differences, but having lived their own lives, they generally know what they’re doing, even if they appear to go about it in a heavy-handed way.

In my there and then, I decided in the first instance I’d better get a job. It would give me money, something to do and get my dad off my back. My mum gave me a tip about a contract job, at BT’s call centre on Stonebow. I started 22nd April 1996. Mums always know what to do.

Stephen Richards / Telephone exchange, The Stonebow, York

This turned out to be, as they say, a good move, gaining me money and a social life that would not have been out of place at a student union. The place was a hoot; easy money, constant boozing, girls, a 22yr old’s dream. It would also enable me to visit Southampton another three times that year, in June, September, and December. Writing this now I look back and can’t understand my priorities at all, but it is what it is. People do things they don’t understand. Holding down a job is good for most people, it just gave me more money and time to piss about. The flying fell by the wayside, which I regret to this day. I flew solo, so I’ll always have that.

The June visit South was memorable as I have a specific memory of sitting in the smoking room at work the day before I left, talking to Mandy. Mandy was a very beautiful brunette I very obviously had a crush on (I think everyone fancied Mandy), and I was getting on like a house on fire with her, and of course I was about to bugger off for a week. I clearly remember lamenting this fact.

Mandy Mandy Mandy

This second visit to Southampton would go on to be as much fun as the first. There might not have been Mandy, but there was Hannah, Imogen, Karen, and Lou to distract me. No downer on return this time either, as I had something of an existence to go back to.

And so it went. I had, in a brief time, built quite the life for myself in York, I had a lot of friends, but the reality was I was spending most of my wages behind the bar at Fibbers, and going absolutely nowhere. But who cares? I was living and enjoying myself with practically zero responsibilities. The only thing I had to do was get to work on time, a rule you’d be surprised to learn accounted for many, many dismissals among my friends, oh, and don’t get shitfaced at work. Another infraction some had issues with (It’s the North, after all). Looking back, I don’t think I would have changed anything. Some of the friends I made, I still think about to this day. It was weird in a way because this part of my life in York was entirely unrelated to what had come before. I made it from scratch. All new people, all new experiences. I wasn’t especially close with some of my old college friends (although most were still around) and at this time everyone was in that transitional period between university and the world of employment. I hadn’t completed university and so could not, and probably did not care to relate to them, but that was very much on me.

Jamie had long since graduated by this time and like so many others had come back for a temporary spell to work at BT while he figured out his plans. BT was one of those word-of-mouth gigs everyone seemed to pick up at some point. It was clear to me we had grown apart. Still friendly, but he was on a different path. I don’t think he was overly keen on my indolent and somewhat townie lifestyle, and I didn’t resent him for it. Jamie appeared laid back on first appearances, but he was smart and driven. He left to do an MA in Norwich in December 1996, and I have not seen him since. We were out of touch until relatively recently.

As 1997 came around, I had some choices to make. I was drifting, I knew it, my parents knew it (holy hell did my Dad know it, because it was a source of continual friction) I was living high on the hog, getting pissed most nights, something had to change at some point, although at this time it didn’t feel urgent. I was edging towards the daft notion that moving cities would fix all this, and so I decided to spend an exploratory fortnight in Southampton, and talk to the employment agency that place my job with BT to see if they could arrange anything down South. They said yes of course, because employment agencies are universally incompetent and habitual liars, and promised me a job at the BT office in Southampton. I decided I would pitch the idea to P, make preparations to move there, visit employment agencies, talk to the bank about moving my account, all the admin… I don’t think I’d told my parents any of this, but really I just thought they’d be relieved.

I put the idea to P. Being a terrific mate, he was absolutely thrilled. I would ultimately spend all 14 days down there, and get virtually nothing done except getting pissed most days and enjoying the finest Indian food Southampton had to offer. Looking back, I think it was time well spent, because no amount of planning would avoid the work situation I encountered in my first month there. Because getting a job was so easy in York, I overestimated the efficacy of employment agencies. I worked at one a few years later, and I can happily wish they all burn in hell, assuming they don’t find gainful employment there.

P and I, May 1997, Tennyson Road, Southampton.

I don’t ever remember planning a date to move, because I didn’t plan anything then, but I also noted a hint of outstaying my welcome in Southampton, because I’d been there over a week, and it was something like my fifth visit in a year. I was no longer new, and neither were the people I’d met. The shine was wearing off. Recall that I wasn’t one of them. I wasn’t an undergraduate at nursing school, I was just some mate of P’s that was around quite a lot. Looking back, it was nothing out of the ordinary (I would been annoyed by me, tbh), but it bugged me at the time. I’d got used to being Mr. Goodtime, but that’s no more real than a holiday romance. Part of the intent behind a longer visit was to see if I could get on with these people outside of a week, despite the fact that at this point there was no plan to move in with them once I arrived. There was not, at the time, a place for me in that house.

The problem with visiting people who are essentially students is that you get the impression life is like that all the time. Beer every night in the RSH social, lazy days in the Alexandra pub (where a lunchtime pint can end at 11pm) Of course, it is not. It can’t last. The other consideration is the illusion you’re one of them, because they like you and appear to accept you. You are not, there will always be a distance between you and persons of a collective experience you were never part of. P would probably tell me this was all in my head, and he might be right, but it was how I saw it. It did not discourage me because it was part of the reason I’d spent more time there.

My plan was lazily simple. Figure out somewhere to live, get to Southampton, and pick up contract work at BT, effectively translating my existence from York to Southampton, with minimal effort. Hah.

Things never really came to a head with my Parents back in York. They never put any pressure on me. They knew I wasn’t really up to much but working and pissing my wages up the wall. I just announced It was time to go, I was 23 by now, long past the time I should be living at home. I remember my mum’s look of surprise and – I think – disappointment, as if it were a resolution, but not necessarily what she wanted. I couldn’t tell, and we never spoke of it later. My mother had a way of seeing things though. I cannot comprehend my lack of motivation and direction with the benefit of hindsight, and I did not have a hope in hell of understanding it when I was 23.

It all went off with little fanfare. I handed in my notice, after a marathon of overtime to get a fighting fund in case of problems on the flip-side (this is called foreshadowing, what I’m doing here) and I was alone with my plans. Nobody tried to stop me, nobody had any reason to. It was what I wanted. My sisters were supportive, and I think they thought I would inevitably get pulled into London’s gravity well once Southampton pinched out (nearly happened once or twice) but I had little intention of anywhere but sunny Southampton.

I had my leaving do at work, got suitably hammered (although I do remember having a bit of a flat day, I was tired and grumpy) and I have this memory of being in The Blue Bell on Fossgate and telling someone I was leaving for Southampton and them looking at me, wide-eyed, saying “What do you want to go down there for?” With the benefit of hindsight, I should not have left York. Not at that time. It wasn’t the answer, but at that time I didn’t fully comprehend the question. The moment had a definite feel of ‘not with a bang, but a whimper’. This was it.

On the train to Southampton with all my belongings in a brown and black holdall, I’d be heading to the same house I rented a room in, 4 years earlier in my student days. A terraced house on Wilton Avenue, in the Polygon, Southampton’s student hinterland. It would be a wobbly first month.

Arriving on a Sunday, at the very end of everyone’s final semester, the atmosphere was subdued. A lot of people I’d met would be moving on. They were just starting their careers. Even the house I had come to know during my visits, the splendid shithole of Graham Road, wasn’t the same. I remember sitting in the RSH social with a pint thinking “Now what the hell do I do?” It felt very different, and yet I can’t say what I was expecting. That hazy week of March 1996 in perpetuity, like a sort of razzed-up Groundhog Day? So far it was a grey July evening, and a trudge back to a quiet and lonely room, to think about the start of my new life. So far, it wasn’t quite how I envisaged it.

To be continued…

October 30, 2025
Odyssey, Pt. 3

FAIR SEAS, BUT A Storm warning

The millennium had arrived. 2000 was upon us, all the computers kept working, the apocalypse would have to wait for now. My auditing job at the College was coming to a close. They were trying their best to keep us on, but the urgency for the work was no longer present, and by February it was clear I’d need to move on. Martin, the curriculum manager at that time, told me to call him if I needed to keep the wolves at the door. I appreciated that. City College would feature in my future, in a significant way.

A note on memory and perception of time – I had been in Southampton less than 3yrs at this point, but in recollection it felt more like ten. Memory is an odd thing. Jobs I did for six months felt much longer, and it’s curious to me that this is not a long period of time I’m describing, but it feels it, perhaps because of the high number of events.

The university interview was one month away. It was not a certainty, I had an assessment to get through. In the meantime I needed work. On the way home to Middle Street I dropped into an Agency I’d noted in passing several times, they were small and I think Independent. I registered with the desk and they told me there was actually a job available In their office – talk about landing on your feet – and I could start when I liked. The rate was decent, just over £6 an hour (seems nothing now but it was enough for a modest living in Southampton in 2000) but it dead mean long days, 0830 – 1800 which I knew would be a drag. That was not the only issue.

The owner was a whip-thin middle-aged woman whom referred to her banana yellow German convertible as her ‘baby’ and seemed exceptionally highly strung. She barely spoke to me – ever – and instead relied on the office ‘business development manager’ Bernie, who was around 40, ex Royal Navy, and your stereotypical idea of a sales guy. He would schmooze customers, but was overbearing and brusque with employees. Between him and the owner, you never knew what you were walking into. The office manager was a German/English woman called Chris, who was quiet and a lot more even, but she also seemed ineffectual. Bernie was the owner’s bagman, and he knew it. An interesting feature of this workplace at that time was it allowed smoking, the only place I witnessed this, before or since. They all smoked. I could not, as I was out front.

I would deal with assessing employees and passing off leads to the consultants. A recruitment consultancy is a sales operation; the product is people; they stand or fall on their ability to secure staffing contracts from local business. This means most of the consultants day is spent trying to sell the company services. The staff are seen as lightbulbs, unscrew one, put another one in. This consultancy was an industrial recruiter, meaning factory workers were the majority of their business. I was the last ‘commercial’ (office) placement – in their own shop.

One morning I was at my desk writing some notes, and the phone rang. One ring. Bernie charged over and told me pointedly “You’ve got to be picking up that phone! Don’t let it ring!” Also keep the desk tidy, and stop going to the toilet so much (I mean, was I?). The owner was glowering at me, or us (I could not tell) in the background. For whatever reason, Bernie was on my case. One of the other consultants told me not to worry about him, that he did this to everyone – which he did – but I was already of the opinion that life was too short for this. I had my interview to look forward to. Whatever this was, I knew it wasn’t forever.

March had me attending the Lanchester Building at the back of University of Southampton’s Highfield Campus. It was a sunny day. I had an introductory talk about the foundation year (which lead into a full BSc engineering degree either there, or another university, for a total of 4 years). The head of the Foundation year was Dr. Anna Barney. Dr. Barney would, from start to finish, be fantastic. She asked me to do a single page mathematics assessment, which I was dreading. It was not difficult, about GCSE Maths level. She talked me through my performance (I could not remember how to do some fractions) and she was happy with the results. I’d got over the worst part.

This is important because maths was the big thing I was worried about and it didn’t seem to be the mountain I feared and I convinced myself it would be alright.

That said, I’d already made the first of many errors here. The crucial point I had underestimated is that I had been given a reading list and a table of topics I was expected to understand in fluent terms at the time the course started, i.e. it would not be covered, you’d be expected to know it already. The course starting point would be beyond these topics. This matters in mathematics because it is a semantic tree; you need to know the roots before the trunk, the trunk before the branches, the branches before the leaves. I emphasize this because it’s highly relevant to what came later.

I was in. I’d be starting October 4th, 2000. I went back the office, Bernie picked up on my good mood and did his best to ruin it, but it didn’t matter. This was my break. I would finally embark on a meaninfgul degree, start exploring my potential, and it made my modest existence completely tolerable, but I still had seven months to fill.

P, for his part, had also decided to go back to school and was prepping for a chemistry degree. In Leeds. He’d already taken a preparatory A-Level at my old shop City College, as he needed it for entry requirements. P, in retrospect, got it right. He is incredibly intelligent and I had the feeling it all came easily to him. What this also meant was we would definitely be parting ways, that the Southampton epoch was coming to an end. For him, at least. I would remain for another decade.

For me, I had to sort out my work situation. I was in my sixth week with the recruitment people; they had secured the contract to staff the Tall Ships Festival in Southampton that April. The resultant workload had caused objection from one of the consultants, Jackie. They sacked her on the spot, it was very ugly stuff (she left in tears, humiliated in front of everybody), and Bernie was the axe man. He came to me and told me “We’ve terminated Jackie’s contract, so any calls for her are to be directed to me”. It was all quite unpleasant. I understood the owner had a business to run but this seemed a bit much. I also realized that if that was how they treated tenured employees I was probably not going to last long.

On some days, Bernie would have his young son in, and I’d keep him busy with the pinball game on the desktop computer. Bernie can’t have been all bad because his lad was a terrific boy, but I caught Bernie glowering at me when I was talking to his son, as if I were about to offer him some heroin, but I hadn’t brought any with me that day.

when I was filing away paperwork in the main office something on a consultant’s notepad caught my eye. It was a telephone number and the word ‘Receptionist?’ written next to it. We didn’t do commercial recruitment. Reception was one of my responsibilities. I knew my number was up. I asked the consultant the next day and she told me I wasn’t supposed to know but yes, they (meaning the owner and Bernie) wanted someone else for my job. Bernie got wind I’d asked about it and called me upstairs to grip me.

He told me that “..You are not the world’s best receptionist” And I reminded him this was not a requirement of the job, because this was not the world’s best recruitment agency. This didn’t go over too well, and he told me I wasn’t a great employee, took too many breaks, ‘hovered around’ too much. I told him I didn’t plan on doing this forever, and he actually took a lot of interest in my plans. I had the impression office Bernie was a totally different person to the actual Bernie.

I didn’t care for the man, but I didn’t hold anything against him, he had his ways and that was it. He’d taught himself this overly assertive management style, but I think he needed to get out from under the owner, this was obvious to me, because it was toxic. I walked out at lunchtime and headed straight to the pub. That recruitment agency would be gone within two years, leaving just their head office in Basingstoke. Southampton has an abundance of employment and letting agents, most of the smaller ones get bought or die off.

I knew this was coming, so I’d already applied for a job at P&O Nedlloyd (herein PONL), the container line that had an operations office in Southampton. I did not disclose I had no intention of staying beyond October. The job was on the imports side, arranging land-side movement of containers coming into Southampton, and other UK ports. My prior experience at Meyer basically secured the job. There was a probationary period whereafter you’d be a permanent employee. It was about six months, the starting pay was decent. There was a week’s training, too.

This would be a very social place, it was a full floor of young people, with old bosses. My desk boss Mike, was a good guy but he picked up an air of indifference from me that drove him mad. I overheard him once talk about me to another employee. “The problem with James is that he thinks this place is a holiday camp.” I did not. I had no idea what he was on about. Perhaps it was the fact I continually ignored his repeated complaints about my work. You had to do a lot of billing calculations and I always left it last minute, because I didn’t like it. Then I would go and ride the ferris wheel.

It was all a little too much like hard work, and I knew that this was not going to be my career, so it was difficult to find much motivation. The high spot was the very active social life the place offered – I really enjoyed it.

By now I was doing regular study at night, for the first time in years. I was working through the foundation mathematics workbook as instructed by Dr. Barney. Progress was steady, and I wasn’t concerned, I just needed to keep at it. This isn’t foreshadowing, I did keep it up, but I realized I’d not complete all of the topics in time. I did not fret on the basis that I hadn’t struggled with any of it and so assumed that would be the case for the remainder.

I wanted to see if I could secure some part time work to help offset the cost of my education. University was no longer free, and my accomodation plans (I decided I wanted to stay at the university to get the full experience, leaving my girlfriend free to continue living in her very small apartment). I was concerned that if I tried to keep a foot in two worlds It might affect my commitment to the whole endeavour. My accomodation would be about £80 a week and anything I could do to offset the student loan would help. I got in touch with some old colleagues at BT, and they asked me to come back as a contractor but wanted me full time until October, wherein I could pick my hours. It was more money than PONL.

I gave Mike the good news who wished me good luck, and told me “not to fuck it up”. And so ended my time at PONL. I wasn’t especially sad to leave but I did miss the people, it was a fun scene. I never saw any of them again, which is a weird and repeated phenomenon given it’s a small town. PONL no longer exists either – they got swallowed by Maersk. I still see branded PONL containers here in the US. The former office was Carnival Cruises for a while, before being converted to student flats.

By now I’d fully realized a separate life from the people I’d come to live with and love. I had my own friends, had my own social circle. We still hung out all the time, but I no longer felt dependent on them, which was good because before long we’d all go our separate ways. This is one of the reasons I felt less positive about the Middle Street house – I associate it with this terminal period in our friendship.

BT was going through some changes. The corporate clients people had all moved into Friary House (where it all started for me), Telephone House would be sold, and the office was divided into fulfillment (back office) and services (talking to customers). I floated around fulfillment, handling work orders. My mate Beth was still there, and it was great to be back in regular contact with her. She was heavily pregnant, but it didn’t slow her down much. Helen was around too, and there was a lad called Matt who was another contractor, who I’d get to know. There was also Vicky(?) (I am not certain of my memory of her name), yet another Northerner who was a little stand-offish at first but we became good friends. This would be the most relaxed time at BT, nothing like before, and I felt the duties were appropriate to contract work; none of this bullshit of treating them as if they’re fully-signed up employees but with none of the rewards.

The Boat Show takes place around every September in Southampton. I didn’t usually bother going, it was expensive even for locals and attracted a lot of the hooray Henry and Henrietta types. All Range Rovers and hockey sticks. Not my people. For whatever reason, my mum decided she wanted to spend this weekend with me prior to me going back to university. It stays with me because we had a really pleasant time together, and it was the last time she would visit me there on her own. We looked at the brand new West Quay shopping centre (Europe’s biggest city-centre mall at that time) and around the boat show, laughing at all the yachties and marveling at the gin palaces. I had the impression she was worried about me, for some reason.

I think she knew something I didn’t.

TBC.

October 30, 2025
Odyssey, Pt. 6

Big Things Have Small Beginnings
– David Lean’s Lawrence of Arabia, 1962.

Cranbury Place had started out too damn small, and only got worse. My girlfriend of the time (herein referred to as SG) was already fussing about it and had one day announced she wanted to look at a flat in Portswood. I explained I’d rather be sealed in a pit of my own shit than live in Portswood (all that wasn’t good about Cranbury Place, but even further out), so we found a much nicer flat right on Southampton’s High Street. It would become one of my favourite homes. Excellent location, right at the liminal space where town started to quiet down some between the centre and sleepy waterfront, High ceilings and Edwardian vibes. I loved it there. I think it was around £500 pcm, which was at the upper end of what we could afford but easily worth it. I had, for now, escaped the clutches of SO14’s gravitational pull.

I’d firmly resolved to get out of Natwest, and saw an ad for a position at none other than Southampton City College, as a coordinator for an IT basic skills program. I leapt at the chance, and in July got an interview, and – despite not a huge amount (just the audit work) of educational experience – got the job. I’d start early August. I had entered the world of education, one I have been in ever since. To give you some perspective in how my days of chopping and changing were behind me, this was only two employers removed, from my seat in the USA Today.

The college was in a transitional period. It had undergone serious financial hardship and was under some kind of special fiscal management. This was a huge deal at the time and a lot of people were relieved their jobs were safe. Colleges can, and do, go under. What this also meant was a new sheriff in town.

City College senior management was dominated by women. The principal was Lindsey Noble, the director of HR Tania Burton, and together they’d introduce a lot of – not always popular – changes. Performance related pay was one of them. SCC had a fairly militant staff, and strikes were not uncommon. I wasn’t union (strike was teachers only) and so I crossed the picket lines a few times. I was on good terms with all the union people, and had a lot of time for them. There was zero acrimony.

My outfit was part of an ‘enterprise’ (quote marks doing some heavy lifting there) initiative, meaning we were supposed to make the college money, but my specific bit was state-funded so we didn’t really fit in, and in time we’d be spun out from them. We ran three types of basic skills courses: Learndirect, CLAIT, and ECDL. The latter two were pretty good – and they were free. Learndirect was well-intended but from my point of view all they did was print endless glossy reports and send them by the tonne – It seemed intensely bureaucratic, and the tutors didn’t like delivering it.

The department was run by Fred, who disliked me, and Julie, who did not. More on Fred later. Becky was my immediate boss, and I liked her a great deal. Sadly, as is often my luck, she’d leave not long after I started.

We were based in the library, and teaching staff initially had crazy long hours (I think it was very tough on Becky and her family) but I was 9-5 thankfully. We dealt with a lot of foreign students (Asylum Seekers and economic migrants from the EU) and I liked that part of it. It played to a lot of my strengths in desktop computing – I’d been into computers for years – and this lit the spark of what would come next.

Lindsey Noble set the college on an aggressive redevelopment plan. The campus was a bit of a dump, and prior to the Noble era the most recent building was the 1995 library. She did a great job here, completely changing the appearance of the campus from its Victorian edifice to something modern. And we were moving into the flagship new bit!

We occupied the ground floor of what became known as Z-block and set up shop. We shared it with an art class, and occasional health and social care students. A large number of the latter were single mothers that were doing the course as an incentive from the local Council, and it was my first experience of being some kind of supervisory person, because I had to learn to deal with them as well as my own students. I learnt (after a rocky start) to like them a great deal. They’d tell you all about themselves if you gave them a minute. Nobody really cared about them outside of college, and they were a Tory bogeyman. They all wrote me a lovely leaving card, which they absolutely did not have to do.

I got to know Nick at this time, whom would play a much bigger part if my life in due course. He was one of the library staff, formerly managed a big comic shop in town, and we would share many lunchtimes and the odd beer together. His girlfriend of the time also worked there, as would his future wife. It was a place I built a lot of relationships, and that had really started back in 1999 with Ray Howell.

As much as I was satisfied, SG was restless with my lack of any real profession and the fact I was still on a low salary. She had ambitions to start a family and get a house, and honestly I didn’t care for any of those things. Be that as it may, she did have a point, and I decided to get my ticket in IT support, which was a City & Guilds qualification the college offered. I could do it for free.

I spent one day out of my working week taking PCs to bits and putting them back together, as well as some learning some theory. I loved it. It was my first ‘class’ as it were since the university fiasco, and, reader, I aced it. I’m forever grateful that the college gave me this chance, because it started me down a road.

The IT manager of the college, a real card called Andy, tipped me off that he had a Helpdesk position going. He wanted me for it. Excellent news. I completed my application that same day, and dropped it off directly at HR. And waited. And waited. And waited. Something wasn’t right.

Andy later took me aside and apologetically (I could see he wasn’t pleased about it) gave me the bad news: Fred (now Andy’s boss) had vetoed my application, for reasons unknown. In weeks to come during weekly pints with my old gaffer Ray, the story would evolve thus: “For some reason Fred did not want you in that role.” Then, “For some reason Fred did not think you were best for that role.” Finally (actually much later): “You know, Fred never liked you.”

During this period my mother got diagnosed with terminal cancer. The autumn of 2004 was, in memory, a long black march towards trauma and the realization my mum was almost certainly going to die. The final chapter of that is described here, and I don’t need to say much more. For my part, I would be drinking a little more than was healthy, put on a lot of weight, but I would survive. I was not easy to be around at this time I am sure, and it didn’t help things with SG. Becky’s successor, Susan Vance, was absolutely fantastic throughout. If you ever read this Sue, you have my gratitude, and I don’t think I showed it nearly enough. Sue was one of the best managers I ever had. My mother would pass away February 25th 2005. It would be one of the defining moments of my life. I didn’t know that yet.

When The Student Is Ready, The Teacher Will Appear
– Some good-sounding bullshit

One of the computing lecturers, who I shall refer to as AJP, was a great bloke, and a Northerner to boot, so of course I liked him. He told me of a new Higher National Certificate program for IT Systems Support. An HNC is essentially equivalent to the first year of a degree. This was a 2 year part-time program they intended to compress into one year, and would I like to enroll? I had to get approval from the department head. I was allowed, but I would have to make up the hours. That was one full day a week. I’d take it. Fucking right I’d take it.

Things were deteriorating at home. SG had a close mate whom had a new boyfriend, and SG had fully immersed herself in their social circle, to an extent that concerned me as it was beginning to get uncomfortable. One of these lads is now her husband, if that lends any perspective. Her mother had also made no secret of the fact she didn’t want us together. I gave us a few weeks.

Relief had presented itself in the form of her colleague offering us her old home at a very discounted rental rate. It was in Calmore, well outside of the city, but as a conciliatory measure, I was willing to give it a try. It was, I knew at the time, a stupid mistake. We should have called it there and then. It was the natural, synchronous point to go our separate ways. Instead, I left a flat I adored, letting the zombified corpse of our relationship stumble on for a while longer in a house I fucking loathed, out in some anonymous shithole suburb. Plus, I had to ride the bus. The indignity! I am still angry with myself I let this happen, but it wouldn’t be for long, as it turns out.

My outline notes for the end of this just say “Strap in for 2006”.

It’s a fun one.

October 30, 2025
Odyssey, Pt. 7

THIS IS THE WAY

On the third of January 2006, I came home from work to find SG in what would be the finale in a long line of sulks. On pressing what was wrong, she told me she thought we should split up. We’d been together seven years. We’d shared this house in Calmore since September.

It had been less than a year since the death of my mum. When one of the worst possible things in your life happens to you, the premature loss of a loved one over an excruciatingly slow and painful period of time, things change in you. I am not saying I am over it, because I don’t think I ever will be, but getting through this had changed something in me. Hardness and perspective. I felt like I’d been battered into some of other form. If I could get through that…

I decided to go quietly. There was no sense in friction as this had been coming for a while. I can’t say I wasn’t upset, because this had been half of my twenties seemingly down the drain, but deep down, I didn’t truly see it that way.

I was good friends with my colleague Nick by this time, and short term he let me stay at his digs in town just a street off from Bedford Place. Nick, on his good days, always knew what to do. He took me out to lunch and we had some chips and a pint as I lamented things. Just then, Coldplay’s ‘Fix You’ came on the jukebox, and we both burst out laughing, because it reminded us of this:

Nick, It turned out, would have to vacate his current place as the landlord decided to renovate and/or sell up (I don’t remember the details). We would look for a place together.

There was a friend on the Eastern side of the Itchen River Nick wanted to be close to. We looked at one or two places, but this whole area was Mordor to me, I didn’t like it, too far out, involved a bridge, and orcs (probably). I wanted to be close to Work and the city. We eventually settled on a little rental on Avenue Rd, a very short distance from my last house with the gang on Middle St. SO14 had pulled me back in.

All but two of my addresses up to this time were in that same square mile. I can’t explain why, and there would be two more during my time in Southampton.

The snag was, this place would not be available until February 15th. I would be at the house in Calmore until that time, and we’d just have to deal with it. Six weeks. It sounds awful, but actually it wasn’t bad, SG was out frequently with her mates and the bloke she didn’t know that I knew she was seeing. I didn’t particularly mind. What difference does it make? She would be out on holiday for a week during the day of the move.

I was getting on with my HNC and completed the first module, and was surprised how well I took to the academic side. I found I could sit down and sweat out study for hours on end if I needed to, which was revelatory to me.

Moving day came around, and Nick recruited his cousin George (I had a lot of time for George) and a Sprinter van from SixT (why do I remember this shit?). I realized I actually owned very, very little, which made things easy. It was about an eight mile shuttle between Calmore and the new place, and we did it in one trip. We did not, however, have room for my bicycle, a Halfords heavy old thing which had kept me sane in Calmore. I decided to leave it and collect it later (editor’s note: never). I’d also left my ironing board, which would be returned to me during a puzzling reunion with SG a bit later.

We emptied the van and headed to Nick’s, and after collecting what I estimate was about 300 tonnes of comics and the rest of Nick’s stuff, slammed the van door shut and headed to Avenue Road.

That evening, I remember looking out just after sundown at the melancholy blue light on the dusty roofs of the houses opposite, and having this sinking feeling of starting all over again, back here in that same square mile, like a giant fucking loser. It was odd and left me feeling quite low. The mood was gone by morning, and never came back.

80 Avenue Road was a small, two bedroom house with a garden. I was sharing it with Nick and his Dalmatian, Anya. I came to absolutely adore that dog, she was such a character. The house was unfurnished, we had very little stuff, and this minimalist setup (front room was a TV and futon) would remain for the duration. I even had to buy a bed, but I had my desk, shelves, and a basic chest of drawers. I made it work. Money was still tight at this time, and living in the city meant much higher rent, but the tradeoff would be worth it.

Nick, from his time managing the local comics destination, seemed to know half of Southampton. I met an incredible number of people through his network of acquaintances and the Friday evenings in Goblets (long gone, sadly) were a highlight for me.

About two weeks after moving in, I got a cryptic text message from my ex SG, telling me she needed to meet in person for some very important news. I had a brief moment of panic wondering if she was pregnant (it was possible), as did Nick, whom I had of course immediately shared the text with.

It turned out the purpose of the meeting was twofold: Firstly, I needed to know she had met someone – she considered it important because she believed that I thought it possible we could get back together, oh, and here’s your ironing board. Okay.

None of it was anything I didn’t already know, I was completely over it by this point. There is obviously more to all of this – there always is – but my dad told me once that it doesn’t do to dwell on these things, so I took his advice and moved on. I wished her luck and asked that I be allowed to get on with my life, no more texts, chats, or any of that. And that was that. I would never see her again.

I have nothing but good memories of Spring in that house. Carefree sunny days, dog walks on Southampton’s spacious common, sitting in the garden on the rickety lawn chairs. I don’t remember much about work, because it was all routine at this point. It was a 2 mile walk there and back, and I lost a bunch of weight, not least because I’d regressed to a decidedly student diet of beans on toast, and various pasta creations. Weekends I’d splash out on a kebab from Lodge Road, or – if I’d just been paid – the hallowed Chinese takeaway feast.

I’d spend long hours sitting with Nick watching LOST (red hot TV at the time) and the excellent reboot of Battlestar Galactica, or sometimes watching him noodle about on the Xbox, with the ubiquitous can of Fosters in my hand (4 for a fiver from the corner shop!). I reconnected with my older sister in London, and started going up there regularly on my weekends. I had started to see a wider world, one I could maybe be part of. I was single, debt free, and could do whatever I wanted, go wherever I wanted. When you’re 32, that’s a superpower. I toyed with the idea of going to London in the future, but never that seriously. Nothing was keeping me in Southampton.

Our friend Stacey came to visit our house at Easter. She was the daughter of one of the library staff, and I’d spend many work lunchtimes with her. It is safe to say I had no small feeling towards Stacey, but she always seemed to have a boyfriend or something going on. She had bags of charm, and had that quality of treating you like you were the only person on earth, on the occasions you got her attention. Nick was of course greatly amused by it all, and gently ribbed me whenever she visited, although he was kind about the clearly unrequited nature of it. She stayed very late after one night after an evening out, and we of course didn’t have anything to eat, but she had previously spied my Lindt Chocolate easter treat in the fridge, and demanded that. That was Stacey to a tee. Stole my heart and my chocolate bunny. We’re still in touch.

Summer Brought in a change of mood and tempo. Nick had met the person he would eventually marry, and I was spending lots of time with Alexandra, a recently-divorced colleague that I had developed an on/off thing with. She was from Northallerton so of course I liked her. I was still very carefree and didnt care that it was nothing serious, but I liked spending time with her. She was highly intelligent (a mathematics graduate and trained teacher) and seemingly very sorted out. She’d bought her own flat at 23 (miraculous given the housing market at that time), got married young, and had it all fall apart on her. I just liked being around her, but she had some latent, severe mental health issues I would come to see in time.

Out of the blue, my younger sister got in touch and asked me if I fancied a trip to New York with her. She’d pay. I could not believe it. This was an act of incredible generosity – there is no way I could otherwise have afforded it – and we would go for a few days in July. I went up to London to stay with her prior to departure.

What followed was five perfect days in the Big Apple. I loved every second of it. The city was all I had thought it would be, Paris being the only other place I’d been that really delivers what you expect of it. There was a heatwave but it didn’t slow us down. It was pivotal for me, it created a spark in my head that life could be so much more. There’s an electric, thumping can-do attitude that seems to crackle in the streets. This markedly positive first impression of America would play a big part in what came later.

Times Square, by me

I came back, utterly exhausted, feeling a bit like NYC had thoroughly had its way with me (it had) and got the National Express back to Southampton.

I was late completing my HNC. the new, compressed format of the course had meant some reorganisation of of the delivery and subsequently deadlines, and it wasn’t yet critical, but I had to get it done before July ended. It felt like the last mile of a marathon (not that I’d know…) but I got it in just under the wire.

I’d started to recognize some issues in Alex. She would periodically keep me at an arm’s length, but when she wanted me around she was aggressive about it. I went out for her birthday, and she introduced me to her friends, not as a partner, not even as a friend, but as a colleague.

View post on imgur.com

I remember telling myself there was no point putting myself through this, it just didn’t fit my low-drag lifestyle I presently enjoyed, so I told Alex I’d be stepping back and letting things cool for a bit. This was fine, for a time. Until it wasn’t.

Days later she ordered a cab to collect me at 2am after I’d told her I didn’t want to see her, followed by a torrent of abuse on the phone. When that didn’t work, she responded with threats of self-harm. I didn’t bite, and kept my distance. I told P about this, who had plenty of professional experience at the sharp end of mental health support work. He told me to block her number and change my locks. P knew what he was talking about and I took his opinions seriously. I stayed away. Not long after, she didn’t turn up at work, and it turned out she had taken an overdose while previously at the office, and they’d put her on paid leave. Whatever contact I had with her would always end in the same way – late night phone calls and erratic behaviour. Eventually she changed jobs and I heard she was working in Basingstoke, had been put on anti-psychotics and seemed to be doing well.

We lost touch, but much later on, in 2009 a mutual friend informed me she had returned home to Northallerton at some point, and had subsequently taken her own life. I was shocked, but not completely surprised. On her day she was an amazing person, someone I loved being around, but there’s a terribly high price for untreated (and she’d implied she’d resisted help for years) mental health problems, and when it came out, it consumed her.

Between Christmas and New year I would see P for the first time since the previous December. I travelled up to his new home in Hertfordshire, and spent the break there. This would set a pattern, as I don’t remember P ever coming South again.

It had been a decade since my first set of visits to Southampton from York.

October 30, 2025
Odyssey, Pt. 8

Up and up

January 2007 would kick off another period of big changes. It would see me back in another relationship, a change of occupation to the profession I am still in now, and start the final chapters of my time in Southampton. I would leave the country within five years, but I didn’t know any of that yet.

I had quietly – and by my standards calmly – calculated that I needed to move on from City College. As detailed previously, while Fred was around, I had no prospects, and I had resolved to start shopping around for a career in information technology. I’d take whatever I could get. I was on my fifth boss by this time at SCC, could practically do the job in my sleep (some would argue I did..), and I had the sinking feeling the department wasn’t going to last (and it didn’t…) The amount of managers that had been thrown at us was not a good sign. They were all put there on their way to something else – nobody wanted it. We were also charging more and more money, a sign funding was drying up. I’d been around long enough to see the writing on the wall.

Around this time I met Alice, a vocational student that on completion of her IT skills course, asked me out for a drink. I was a bit taken aback, this didn’t usually happen to me. Alice was a perennially serious Polish expat (Southampton having a huge Polish population since joining the EU in 2004) and she was definitely the right person at the right time, seeing more in me than the low-drag lifestyle I’d sort of lazily eased into. She civilized me a bit.

In February I spotted a job opening at Solent University, for an IT technician in the business school. Solent was the new name for Southampton Institute, which had achieved university status in 2005. I’d applied to Solent previously (I think it was a library job) with little success, but this time I reckoned I’d found a good score.

I took the risky step of contacting the administrator (named in the job posting) to introduce myself, and asked if it would be worth applying, given my lack of experience. I would never do such a thing now, but at the time I remember thinking they might remember my name and show me a little sunshine. She was very nice about it, probably thought I was a bit of a wanker, but It gave me some cheer.

I applied, interviewed with John Ince (Senior management at SBS), Nick (who managed the main campus IT operations), and Malcolm, a faculty member. I wasn’t sure how I’d gone over, but I really liked Nick, and I’d given it my best. The biggest obstacle was despite having the right ticket I did not have direct experience – I know from recruiting in my present world how this can be a problem for applicants. Usually they just don’t stack up. I left just as another candidate stepped into the interview room, and kept my fingers crossed.

I got the job. My foot was in the door at Solent, a growing organization, and it was doing work I was interested in. I don’t think it can be overstated how much that job would come to mean for me. If you were to imagine a pretty much perfect support tech job, this was it. I’d be largely responsible for myself, had all the resources I would need, and was encouraged to learn.

I handed in my notice at City College. They had been good to me over the 3.5 years I’d been there, but I knew it was time to go. I would see Fred quite a bit over the next few years (usually passing on his bicycle) and there were no hard feelings, but to me this was a lesson in how not to treat staff. If you fuck people about, they’ll just leave. And tell their friends. My housemate Nick would follow me to Solent about a year later. It was a complete coincidence, but migration of staff between neighbouring educational institutions is pretty common.

I had my own office. it was a nice little perk. It overlooked the quad between the canteen and the library. It was great being at a university; there’s an energy from the kids that creates its own atmosphere; I still enjoy it today. I was one of three techs assigned to the different schools of the university, we all worked independently and ran our own little fiefdoms, with escalation support from the central office when needed. I was in a corridor of lecturers, and the place wouldn’t have won any prizes for modernity, but it was cozy, especially when filled with cardboard boxes of toner and computers. My immediate neighbors were Stewart and Matt, the sports science guys who paraded around in football kit and were clearly living the dream, and Bryn, who would talk at enormous and occasionally exhausting length about any subject. If you were procrastinating and wanted an excuse, go find Bryn.

Most work came from supporting the administrative offices, which were scattered about the building, but the most concentrated was a large open-plan room on the main business school floor. Everyone was great. My whole time at Solent was marked by the notable fact that I did not encounter a single person I disliked. I don’t know if the feeling was mutual, but they’re not writing this.

Shortly after I started I got a pretty big bump in pay, as HR had done some kind of calibration exercise to bring salaries in line with the rest of the sector, nationally. This study concluded the university underpaid us (and quite amusingly, HR themselves, of course). For the first time in my adult life, I was making some decent money. My dad always told me money wasn’t everything, it was an enabler, but it was definitely nice to be enabled. I was able to take regular holidays for the first time, and finally upgraded from Asda value baked beans to Heinz. This was the life, folks.

Alice lived in a tiny little apartment on Lodge Road, about five minutes from my rental house on Avenue road. I preferred spending time at hers, as Nick frequently had his partner over and I had no desire to be in the way, plus Alice spoilt me with great meals and her library of DVDs. We decided we’d move in together when my lease was up, in August. I recall Nick remarking he thought it was a bit soon, which I did not welcome at the time, but he was probably right.

Alice had a colleague who owned a one-bedroom apartment on Queens Terrace, at the Southern end of town, close to what Southampton pretends is a waterfront. We could rent it at mate’s rates, not perhaps as cheap as you might think. It was easily the nicest place I’d ever lived in. It wasn’t big, but the space was well organized and the living area was perfect for two people. It was an older building that had been extensively refurbished, so it all felt very modern. The bathroom was all black tile and chrome. It was a bit Scarface and I loved it. P visited once (on what must have been a rare occasion, he didn’t come down too often by now) and remarked “The 80s called, they want their bathroom back”

I liked this end of town. It was behind Oxford Street, which is easily the nicest street in central-ish Southampton, a weird little oasis sandwiched between the docks, a dual carriageway, and a housing estate. There was one minor downside. Southampton has dead zones either side of the busy town centre. Businesses and places to go just sort of evaporate, and on the Southern side it gets very sparse until you reach the rather spotty waterfront developments. It feels like a sort of hinterland. Oxford street is really the only place to go. There is the absurdly named Ocean Village a bit further along the road, but even that didn’t have much apart from a tired multiplex cinema and a couple of pricey bars, intended to service the housing blocks sitting atop them. Beyond that, it’s the Itchen River and Woolston. I was going to make some pissy remark about nobody wanting to go there, but thought better of it.

The Itchen Bridge, about a 5 minute walk from Oxford St. By me.

Oxford Street, Southampton (license: See watermark)

Nick would move in with his partner, and find a place not too far from Avenue road. We’d not really spend much time together, and our respective moves had left us quite far apart. That chapter would close for now. We’d both had over a year of fun and hedonism in the little house on Avenue road, but it now felt like we were rejoining civilization and being all grown-up, like.

That August also brought a two-week holiday in Poland, which was utterly fantastic. I saw a lot of the country, swam in the Baltic, and camped in a tent for the first time in about 20 years. I liked Poland, against all my expectations, knowing nothing about it. Krakow is a beautiful city, like Prague but without the insane tourist numbers, and the mountains around Zakopane are breathtaking. They like their beer and food, too. I was startled to realise I’d been staying within a few miles of what used to be Auschwitz the entire time, but it’s just part of the history, and history is all over Silesia.

Zakopane, Tatra Mountains. By me.

Wawel Castle, Krakow. By me.

Work would give me a golden opportunity. They ran evening classes for Cisco System’s CCNA certification. This remains the single most useful knowledge I’ve acquired in my career. It’s golden, and it only cost me my time. Being able to do this was highly influential in informing my own attitudes to professional development. It was three hours every Tuesday, and was taught by a lovely bloke named Imran who worked in IT for the National Air Traffic Service (NATS). Instructing was his side gig. The knowledge continues to serve me to this day. If you work in IT you should take the CCNA. It’s unbelievable how handy it is.

Solent had a pretty fast social life, and Brought a lot of new friends into my life. Andi worked in the office upstairs, and we became good friends over time. Through Andi I’d get to know his friend Jen, whip smart, very beautiful, slightly intimidating, and great fun – if you could keep up. Then there was Berenika, another lovely Polish girl who was absolutely on my wavelength, and an absolute blast. I always felt a bit guilty around Berenika, because I liked her so much. She could charm the dead, that girl. Tessa worked right next to Andi and started around the same time as me; she’s in virtually every photo I have from the nights out. You don’t realise how much you miss people until you think of these things. Everybody got on with Andi, he had that kind of character, and he would go on to do me a huge, huge favour much later on.

I finally had something I could call a profession. I had come a long way. Maybe I could go a little further?

Life comes at you fast, as the internet likes to say. In Autumn 2008, a position for a support analyst opened in the main computing office in Solent. In IT terms, this would put me behind the curtain. It would take me away from directly supporting users, which I liked a lot more than I’d ever admit, but it was necessary to learn more and start taking on more responsibility. I’d been in post about 18 months, I didn’t feel too bad about moving on from the business school, on the very shaky assumption this would go my way. I remember thinking I had an outside chance, but didn’t think I’d swing it. I knew everybody up there, maybe that would count for something?

I applied, and to my surprise, got an interview. I recall being pretty stressed out about this, because I considered landing the job a bit of a stretch, but still definitely within reach. In hindsight, it really wasn’t a big deal, I just wasn’t familiar with doing well so quickly, after years of trundling through bumfuck go-nowhere jobs.

Nick (another Nick, not my old housemate) would be on the interview panel. He was already technically my boss, but in this role I’d be a direct report. Also on the panel was Stephen, and John, who ran the whole show. I gave an okay account of myself, but very much kept my feet on the ground. The worst that could result would be staying in the business school, but I had a feeling I was tantalizingly close, and I remember It driving me a little mad.

To my astounded delight, they offered me the job the next day. I was elated. It was an exciting position, and a good bump in pay. It might seem strange but I felt like after years of fucking about, I was finally doing something decent.

I would lose my own office, and join the cramped but cheery computing office on the top floor of the library. I’d be an understudy to Neil (my de facto supervisor), and Nick would be in the corner diagonally across from me. James was the Mac specialist and was directly opposite. A team of techs would fill the rest of the floor. Veejay was the nearest to me, and I’d known him since he oriented me on my first day at SBS. My job was essentially image creation and application packaging for the configuration management infrastructure, which was looked after by Neil. It was a time of transition to Windows 7 (remember that?) which offered different methods and would have to all be learnt and tested. Neil would do most of this work during my first year, then it would be up to me for the full switch to Windows 10 and a new configuration management solution the following year.

Before starting the new role I’d spend a week in Spain with my dad; the 2nd of that year, on top of yet another trip to Poland in Summer. I’d also go out to Poland again in December. I travelled so much those days, thanks to the liberal UK holiday allowance and increased means. It is something the US could definitely learn from.

I’d also started journeying to Hertfordshire on the regular to see P, who by now was well established in his Pharma career. I’ve got many happy memories of evenings watching films in his flat, with the warm buzz after a few beers down the pub, then the subdued feeling at 3pm on a Sunday of having to get the train to London as the first leg of the journey home. It was a long 90 miles when you’re feeling a bit blue. I don’t know why, but I preferred to go to Herts rather than host him in Southampton. I put it down to a slight feeling neither of us really cared for the place that much. We had spent a lot of time there, after all. There was nothing new to be experienced.

October 30, 2025
Odyssey, Pt. 9

Big things have small beginnings

Life was going well. I wasn’t piss poor for the first time in my adult life, my job was fulfilling, but there was something missing. I’d been in Southampton since late July 1997 and it was now 2009. I would move on from my flat on Queen’s Terrace, the owner having decided to sell it. A flat in nearby Ocean Village would be our new home. This 2nd floor one-bedroom apartment was a 2002 build (I remember the block being built) and it was a fantastic place, at least to me. I think the rent was something like £650 PCM which seems nothing nowadays, but was the most I’d ever paid to live somewhere. I think it was an investment property, as the landlady offered to sell it to me, during the tenant screening. She had never seen it.

Ocean Village was one of those waterfront renovations you see all over the UK, and apparently most other countries. 80/20 residential/commercial, a nice place to live, but somewhat lifeless. The development replaced some shit nightclubs and a Harry Ramsden nobody went to, so it was an improvement, but it was all yuppie shine and no soul. It could have been in London, Portsmouth, or Bristol. It wasn’t SO14, so that was a major plus for me. I felt I’d escaped the gravity of that postcode once and for all, it was just a place, but it had felt like an albatross.

Ocean Village, looking East. Taken by author.

In Early 2010 I’d been on holiday and had been reading Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead, which I’d purchased at the airport as an impulse buy. I wasn’t sure what to make of the book or the author (much less controversial then, before the hyper-polarized social media of today, where Rand is considered on the same bench as the author of Mein Kampf) and looked around on Twitter for some thoughts. Rand is one of those author people claim to read but actually haven’t, and I found this Twitter account belonging to an American woman that had similar questions, and we got chatting.

With the benefit of hindsight, it seems absurd this could be the beginning of what would eventually lead me to where I am now, but that is exactly what happened. The relationship I was in had petered out – it was a textbook example of wanting different things – and I must admit I didn’t dislike talking to someone much more on my wavelength – who doesn’t? I did not at this point have any notion of being anywhere else, but I knew that I really did want to meet Jen. She lived in Pittsburgh, a city I knew nothing about other than an air disaster and some vague knowledge of the steel industry. I did not believe this could be anything serious. I was struggling to have any meaningful relationships at home; all of my closest friends had moved away, Southampton and my nice little waterside flat felt like a luxury cage. I had everything material I could want (I finally succumbed to car ownership in my mid 30s…) and here I was seriously considering setting off a bomb underneath it all, because I enjoyed chatting to some American girl.

I had some psychological advantages; I was no stranger to moving about my whole life, to dropping people and picking up new ones, and I had absolutely zero sentimentality about Southampton or this part of the world. I’d lost a parent, exited my first long term relationship in fairly turbulent fashion, found a career, but nevertheless thought I could give it all a good shake. I was 36. I meet kids in America that think they’ll die if they’re not all set up by 25. You have to laugh.

The inevitable end of my relationship came around that September, with mutual agreement; it was tough as I really liked the family and I was still not sure this was the right thing to do, despite having strong reservations for over a year. The draw of security and stability is real. I’d be staying for all the wrong reasons. I had the feint notion of visiting Jen, and wanted to see if she thought this was a good idea, or if I was out of my fucking mind. She seemed amenable to it, and I thought I could maybe swing a trip that November. It didn’t have to mean anything. If we didn’t get along it was just a few easy days in America. There’s no real downside, It’s an airfare and accommodation and if that’s a sunk cost, so be it. An acquaintance from my local had just returned from Canada, chin dropped, cap in hand, having just come back from an aborted relationship with a girl he’d met. He looked like a broken, shuffling shambles. It wasn’t encouraging, and a reality check that as much as I wanted to kid myself, this could have very high stakes indeed.

For her part, Jen was increasingly enthusiastic, in that way Americans often are, and was adamant I should stay as her guest. If she was comfortable with that, so was I, and it simplified planning and greatly reduced expense.

What I wasn’t doing was thinking long-term. I was absolutely in the present and did not want to get trapped in any ideas about someone I hardly knew. It is also trivial to develop a connection with somebody when there is nothing on the line.

I informed work I’d be taking a week off and spending it in America. I think my colleagues had the impression it was a bit out of the blue, which it most certainly was, but my boss Nick was forbearing and mostly kept his thoughts to himself. I’d depart on 14th November. Air Canada via Toronto.

I caught the National Express bus from Southampton Coach terminal (really a tiny brick building with a handful of coach bays. An improvement on the 90s Portakabin) arriving by taxi around 2am, for a 0230 departure. Then, as now, traveling across the Atlantic leaves little change from 24hrs door-to-door.

My original E-ticket

Transatlantic flights typically leave London early morning. I was really excited, it was all such a big adventure, and I still had a somewhat childlike enthusiasm for air travel, which I’ve never really lost. It is my habit to get to airports in good time, following the recommended times to the letter. This drives some people nuts, but I have never missed a flight. I’ve no problem waiting and entertaining myself, and I find hurrying stressful. Airports have an energy I enjoy; the sounds and the chatter of all these nationalities traveling never gets dull for me. I grew up with it. Security is the liminal space between the public and the traveller, once your airside you’re not a visitor, you’re going somewhere.

LHR T3 Entrance in the small hours. Taken by author.

The flight to Toronto to was straightforward enough, just long. As much as I like airplanes even I get a bit weary after being crammed into one for 7 hours.

Toronto is a pre-clearance airport for the United States, which means it has a fully manned office of American border agents inside the Airport which means you don’t have to go through the same in the United States. My visit was suspicious enough that I was interviewed by an officer trying to figure out what I was up to. I think their big worry is that I might have attempted to find a job, hatch a terror plot or – worse – claim social security. Under my circumstances none of that made any sense at all, so It was pretty brief and with that, I waited for my flight to Pittsburgh, just a short hop over Lake Erie. This was the first time some nerves set in, and I messaged Jen just to make sure there had not been some huge misunderstanding, and I that I was in fact expected because I was now in the same timezone. She was unchanged in her sunny demeanor. Thank fuck for that.

Pittsburgh is a huge airport – it occupies an area larger than LAX – but it is sparse, and I made my way through a quiet concourse (at PIT you are funneled through the departure gates, there is no separate arrivals route – a novelty!) to arrivals and immediately recognized Jen. We hit it off right away, which is lucky, because that is by no means a given with someone you don’t know. We had about a 30 minute drive to downtown. It was around 6pm, and the first stop was…a beer at Jack’s. Well, it would turn out to be several beers. I’d been up 24hrs, but in the manner of these things the excitement and novelty melted away any fatigue. I was there. I have a clear memory of the sun going down pretty quick – much later than home – and the long line of red tail lights near Ikea on I376. It’s funny what sticks in your mind.

Jack’s Bar on Pittsburgh’s Carson St. Taken by author.

We left Jack’s late; I remember seeing Downtown Pittsburgh between the buildings, with two landmark skyscrapers and their illuminated neon signs brightening the night sky; impossibly tall, even at a distance.

Downtown Pittsburgh. Taken by author.

What followed was a week that had me very much enamored with Jen and the city itself. It was difficult to keep my feet on the ground. Lazy days watching television and catching up on sleep – I was still very jet lagged – and fun evenings. I wanted to stay longer. A week isn’t enough anyhere. Wherever you go, it always goes by so fast. Monday and Tuesday, you think it’ll last forever. After the Wednesday, it’s hard to not to sense the long, black shadow cast by the end of the holiday, and before you know it, it is time to go. I had one trip out into rural Pennsylvania to drop a friend of Jen’s at home, spent many lunchtimes wandering around the the pleasant streets of Shadyside, stopping at the deli and watching the world go by. I had dinner at Jen’s parent’s home, and The final evening saw us up on Mt. Washington; I wanted to get some photos of downtown Pittsburgh at night. Everybody gets this photo, but I didn’t know that then.

Pittsburgh from Mt. Washington. Taken by author.

I had a good sense of the place, but nothing like enough. Not even close. I was in a curious position. I liked the city, I adored Jen, but what did it all mean? Was any of it genuine? It is easy to think in Hollywood terms, that all it takes is love and everything else works itself out, but that’s a load of bollocks. If there was any possibility at all I was going to uproot my entire life, everything had to be viable. At this point it was all just an idea.

I had a marathon journey home, involving one very long (7hr!!) wait at Toronto, which was agonizing because in Jen’s words it was “…close enough to drive to you” and to top it all off I’d developed a cold, which would cost me another day off work, and having called Jen to say thank you and goodbye I boarded the flight home. I recall pulling my hoodie over my head placing the little travel pillow next to the window frame, and crashing out. I was tired, sad, and I felt like shit.

London. A cold and grey November greeted me on return. I had to gain some clear thoughts, before like so many holidays it fades into the background, as if it never happened at all. I needed to go back.

I wanted to become familiar enough with Jen and the place to wear the freshness out of it all; the new brings with it a honeymoon period where judgement is compromised because you’re having too much fun. I resolved to go back for the New Year and my birthday. Jen was enthusiastic, she wasn’t fed up with me yet, that had to be a sign of something.

In hindsight, I am aware that already, at this very early stage, I had adopted the mindset of committing to it, whatever it was.

October 30, 2025