As a StoryTerrace writer, Barnaby interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know him better by reading his autobiographical anecdote below
I was always drawn to places where the past still lingered. The graffiti at school fascinated me: ‘Warehouse Rave 1979’ on a table, the names of ex-students behind the stage curtains. Beyond my school, I loved to explore the wasteland, with its flooded quarry and dry creek beds; the Edwardian coffin workshop behind my back garden; my own house, with the flood-line of 1968 carved into the wall. And so, when I was fourteen, I found myself at the reservoirs.
The reservoirs were empty, decommissioned. Their deep shape reminded me of the hulls of ships; their steep, smooth walls, the raceways of a futuristic computer game. I sat there for hours at a time, staring into the giant bowls below, the dark river flowing just beyond. Part of the mysterious thrill was creeping around the empty complex in the dark. It felt connected to my housing estate along the river; a secret built into the suburb, a hidden layer. My imagination ran wild: the concrete walkways seemed to lead into the past; if I kept going, through the tall grass, past the old scout hut, into the night, I might find myself at my school, back in the 1960s.
I wanted to capture my fascination and share it with others. I thought of making a film of the reservoirs, but my Game Boy Camera wasn’t up to it. So I took a job in the local chip shop, in order to save up the money to buy a decent video camera. The pay was better than my last gig, delivering newspapers.
I didn’t last long in the chip shop. Whilst making chips in the back room, flinging potatoes into a floor-standing chipping machine, I slipped on a fresh, wet chip, and split my lip on the door frame. That put me off.
I skulked away from that job with a lifelong scar under my lip, but not enough money for a video camera. I took up poetry instead. It was a lot cheaper, just a biro and paper. Or in a jam, you could do without materials; just go over the words in your head, commit them to memory, and write them down later. Anyway, things were changing, quickly; a girl from my year had just asked me to the fair. I put the reservoirs to the back of my mind.
