Being 31 … in Weston
This town is not built for people in their 30s. It is built for 14 year olds and their kids, and for those bitterly hitting death’s door with their canes and mobility scooters. And yet the council wonders about why businesses are failing or fleeing, and why the main source of population influx is junkies and travellers.
Last week, on a few trips into town centre, it struck me just how out of place I am here. There are no shops that sell clothing appropriate to my age. I can get all sorts of cheap as shit clothes for a night at the clubs, or any variety of elasticated waistband polyester slacks that will really set off the plastic cap over my rollers. But decent clothing for those of us between these two poles, forget it.
The same can be said about restaurants here. You’re in luck if you want fast food or something with an OAP early bird special. For a cheap but good quality lunch that gets to you quick, forget it. There are some good places to eat, but god help you if you’re on any sort of timed lunch break.
Even the events here go to the extremes. T4 on the Beach or Helidays, where you can hear Elfan Ap Rees drone on about himself when one of the displays has to be cancelled. (You can also check out his Jag with personalised plates, parked on display next to the helicopters!)
I like the South West, and I do like Weston for some unknown reason. I just get the impression that Weston doesn’t like people like me, no matter how much they try to say otherwise. The proof is in the actions, and the actions of Weston prove that this is not a town for people in their 30s with actual aspirations. It’s a place to relapse, a place to raise the kids only 12 years younger than the parents, and it’s a place to die.