In many of these residents, I also saw glimpses of my Nan, realising she wasn’t alone in her inner conflicts between feeling cared for and feeling controlled.
I sat in my A-level History lessons, staring at images of prisoners in Nazi extermination camps, alongside the same boys who had grown up in that school and probably participated in its “humorous” and “edgy” Nazi fetishism, trying to make it all fit together. I was very quiet, focusing. Still I couldn’t.
The custom of using chopsticks differs across cultures, across countries, even across households. But wherever you are, using chopsticks takes practice, patience and perseverance.
Back in my childhood bedroom, I am stuck in an unpleasant time-warp, sixteen again and agonizing over awful boys, listening to utterly miserable Smiths songs. It’s the deja-vu experience no one wants.