Cambridge is without exagerration the most difficult place I could have chosen to move to (if you recall that I will never go anywhere featuring sunlight). The culture of the place is so fundamentally antithetical to the way I’ve always lived it generally feels like I’ve taken up residence in a diorama. A very nicely arranged and pretty scene, but still – false.
This is largely a function of history and assigned value. I’m a working class rabble rouser wandering in a world that is the very definition of elite – without any academic affiliations or desire to acquire them.
I’m surrounded by people who care about status more than almost anything else, and I do not register on their scale, nor do I care. When asked what I do I honestly shrug and say Nothing.
Even if pressed I will not admit any of the numerous items on my CV that would impress a famous academic. People are welcome to believe whatever they like.
Life in the NW was and is all about community and friendship, a huge overwhelming truth that I didn’t have the skills to appreciate when I believed myself a permanent resident.
Life in Cambridge is about isolation and work, and although I do not belong here, I am thankful every day.