Mist & Concrete

Many years ago there was a paper mill in this spot. My Granny worked there briefly, in an administerial job before she’d had my Dad. A while after it had closed its doors to the workers for good, a fire broke out in the abandoned building. Youths, probably, they said. Not too long after, that the council had the remainder of its burnt husk demolished in a controlled explosion. It was the turn of the decade, and my home, a tiny restored 17th century house which I would not live in for many more years, had just finished being renovated. The vibrations from the demolition of that paper mill could be felt in the nearby area. Including in my newly built, not quite settled, not-yet-mine home.

And so, through an odd, interweaving of events over much time, my home has cracks that can be seen along her plastering, that creep across walls and in to windowsills. All because a shiny new paper mill was built at the turn of the century, along the road from a crumbling, forgotten ruin that seemed to belong to the past.