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COLUMN ........................... Lizzie Enfield Notes from North Village I am on the train coming back from Eastbourne. A group of lads gets on. They’re a bit what young people call ‘lairy’ – a little loud and boisterous, feet on seats, not much awareness of the other passengers, and they start passing a hip flask around, so also drinking! I note the flask touch. My own kids take vodka on journeys in water bottles, so that it looks like bottled water. The flask seems more classy, if easier to spot the fact that they are drinking. So I’m sitting there being all middle aged and making assumptions but I tune in and realise they’re discussing An Inspector Calls, the set text for this year’s GCSE English. “Yes, but in the end it shows the younger generation is the hope for the future,” one concludes, as they pass their flask around, taking turns for fairly delicate sips. Not that much chance of getting that drunk with whatever it is they are drinking, even if it’s 60 percent proof something or other. I am wondering what it is, when one of them elucidates me. “Terence,” he addresses one of the other boys, and I wonder ‘does anyone call anyone Terence these days?’. “Yup.” So they do. “Your mum’s sloe gin is really good.” I nearly laugh out loud. It’s such a turnaround. “Where does she pick the sloes?” Seriously? Teenage boys drinking sloe gin while discussing Priestly and where to pick sloes? “She normally gets them on Ranscombe Lane,” Terence replies. “It’s a good place to go.” “We go there to pick elderflowers for my mum’s wine,” says another. “In fact we might go at the weekend.” “My parents don’t make their own alcohol,” says one, with an air of slight embarrassment, as if it’s somehow shameful to buy booze in a shop, an embarrassment he tries to make up for with his next comment. “But they do have an allotment.” Lewes, I think, to myself. They will definitely get off the train at Lewes. But again, they confound my stereotyping expectations and travel with me all the way to London Road station. Here they disembark and head in the same direction I am headed. So they were from the North Village all along. I suppose that’s not entirely surprising. In the days of ASBOs I remember telling a friend who lived elsewhere that a friend’s son had one for drinking and talking too loudly in Blaker’s Park in the evening, which garnered the reply: “The only kids I ever see hanging around there all seem to have a cello or a brass instrument, albeit they do sometimes talk quite loudly about jazz cadences.” The boys are still in front of me but they stop in front of a house. “Hey,” says the woman in the front garden, presumably the mother of at least one of them. “How was Eastbourne?” She is tending window boxes full of geraniums, which I now suspect are not just for decorative effect but for home brewing. Illustration by Joda (@joda_art) ....35....