Red Brick Inheritance 


Red Brick Inheritance 
I was born in a red brick slum, taught at a red brick school, walked most days past the red brick remnants of the Brickworks ruins. Red brick and grey skies, the base colour and texture of my life. Victorian walls, mills in the Bristol Byzantine style. White letters spelled out on red brick. 
When my parents died, I didn’t inherit much. £60 and a chip on my shoulder, that never went away. No land, no trust fund, no relatives taking me in. I slept rough, on sofas and floors of friends, in derelict buildings and parks, in hostels where hipster tramps had beards and bad clothing before it was cool, mumbling to themselves the incomprehensible mantras of the Brahmins of the bottle. 
I squatted for a while in grey brutalist concrete crescents, cold asbestos air matching societal indifference. Escaping sometimes into an inner world of colour, psychoactive psychedelic stimulation, a simulation of a better world. 
In time, I went to a red brick university, a former polytechnic. I moved to different places, until I found myself here. A job, in a glass and metal box, a home, a cell in an old church. Encased in red brick. Out of the window, red brick views beneath slate grey skies. 

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