Farewell Spiteville. It was nice loathing you.
A piece of brick whizzing past your head as you return from the shops at night. A car pulling up with the occupants making threats about knicking your bike, the strangers entirely full of anger as they hear a southern accent. Being spat at when you refuse to give a stranger money. Would you want to live here? This is a post-script since leaving Skem, after having been in Wigan for four weeks. Leaving behind the grim concrete buildings, a populance full of hate to any one perceived as an outsider, or heaven forbid, someone who works. I suppose you might ask me what the plan was, moving there? Simple-I wanted somewhere with cheap rent, not wanting to waste my inheritance, so thought I was being ever so wise. Deep down I think it may have been my equivalent of the wool shirt monks used to wear as a self imposed sufferance. I had that sufferance for a year and don't intend to return. An airless, noiseless vacuum is what it feels like. It's neither a town, village, city, but a s...