Today we said goodbye to Norwich and wound our way across country to a little village north of Nottingham. We stopped in King’s Lynn for coffee… another historic town where the beautiful medieval skyline seemed to mostly frame car parks. We lunched in Costa and Greggs… it was only a matter of time.
Just north of Nottingham, Woodborough is immaculate. Gardens clipped to geometric precision, cars the size (and price) of small houses. Once, this was all knitters’ cottages and muddy lanes. Now the cottages are extended, triple-glazed, and buffed into glossy homes. We ate in one of the pubs… good GF food, live music with just the right level of tastefulness. Not the most photogenic day.
As we’ve travelled I’ve watched the flags. In Norwich, just a few; around King’s Lynn and Grantham, one or two more. But in London, and especially between Cambridge and Norwich, they multiplied… St George’s crosses and Union Jacks taped to lampposts, sagging from upstairs windows, planted defiantly in front gardens. On their own they might be football, or celebration, or national pride. Together, and paired with recent headlines and the odd sweatshirt… “If you hate this flag, I’ll help you pack”, they harden into something else. A challenge. A narrowing of who belongs here.
Honestly, it makes me really sad. When I lived here years ago, of course racism was present, but whispered. People knew not to be too public about it. Now it feels louder, more performative, like a misguided badge of honour. I should be clear, I left Britain for Australia 20 years ago and currently call New Zealand home. Current affairs, a fair distance and nostalgia all colour my view. But that same distance makes the change clearer. I remember when the racists whispered; while now some of them now shout. And I grieve that change, because the Britain I love… messy, warm, funny, complicated, has always been so much bigger than slogans on a shirt or flags on lampposts.
The Obligatory Blog 