Rhi Axtell – Writer

Twelve years later, I stared out of the train window and waited for a familiar landmark. It didn’t arrive. Outside was dark and all I could see were the silhouettes of houses and a reflection of my face squinting right back at me.

I am currently in a hotel in Portsmouth – the same city I lived in for three years while studying for my undergraduate degree. Three years of learning who I was, learning how to be an adult, of learning many lessons I would have to un-learn over the decade to follow. I expected some kind of rush of emotion when we rolled through Fratton station – the station that had been just down the street from both of my student houses. The same station I had left from so many times to make the slow journey across southern England back towards my hometown. Did it look familiar? Yes, sort of. As familiar as any station looks in the UK – similar station electronic signs, similar brick walls… but nothing that said this was your home. This was YOUR place.

Back in 2015, I visited my Nana and recorded a two hour conversation with her about her childhood. I recently finished listening to that conversation again – one year after her death.

The final words she says on the recording, after talking about the places she lived as a child, are:

“I’d love to go back, but it’ll never be the same. Nothing stays the same, does it? But it stays there in your memory.”

She was a wise lady, Nana.

And I was sad as I got off at Portsmouth & Southsea station. Nothing did look the same. I had stepped out into a strange city. I had stepped out into a foreign land…

UNTIL I went around the corner and found myself standing in front of Portsmouth city hall. The very same old building where I stood to have my graduation photos in 2013. I could see the very step I stood on, and remembered that awkward smile I had plastered on my face.

And there, at the edge of the very same square, was the Isambard Kingdom Brunel Weatherspoons – a pub where I had held many conversations while sipping on lemonade (I didn’t drink alcohol at that point). It was one of the first places I ever sat and thought to myself, “oh my god, I’ve made friends. People are actually interested in talking to me.”

And down the street was Pop World. A night club where someone I was with wasn’t let in because he was ‘too drunk’ (he wasn’t drunk, he just had a thick Polish accent and difficult to understand sometimes).

The memories (and the mental map of the city) came back in a rush. I felt dizzy. I laughed out loud.

The hotel I am currently spending the night is right next to the building where I used to frantically try to learn how to program games. I wrote essays in the building. I met my ex for lunch in the building.

But it’s not the same place I remember. Twelve years later, there are differences. New shops have opened up. Old shops have disappeared. Some buildings have changed shape. The streets feel strange. It’s like walking down a once familiar path that has now become overgrown.

Portsmouth has changed in twelve years, but guess what?

So have I.

(I have less hair now)

See you next time.