Anyway, what makes you from somewhere in the first place? Since the local maternity unit closed in the mid 80’s, no-one – home-births and roadside emergency deliveries aside – has actually been born here. Our new bundles of joy* mainly first appear in Luton, Stevenage or Watford (the ultimate ‘lesser-of-evils’ choice, perhaps?) or, as is often the case, much further afield and subsequently move to St Albans once the desire to ‘settle down’ themselves gets too great. It hurts most Snorbenites that their off-spring will be forever burdened by their introduction to the world being a WD, LU or SG postcode. But not as much as it hurts people from Harpenden to have their children both born in Luton and be saddled with a Luton dialling code, so look on the bright side. My daughter was a WD birth. This pleased me. Greatly. It’s every parent’s calling to want their off-spring to have a better start in life than they did. Not many people can say that about their child having ‘Watford’ in the appropriate section on their birth certificate. I can. As my own form states ‘Romford, Essex’. Such is the stigma associated with this that I even lie to my telephone bank and the answer to the relevant security question states my place of birth as somewhere less embarrassing; somewhere with more up-market and exotic connotations. I refer, of course, to Hemel. Petty, but true that I’ve lied. I mean, Romford! Have you been to Romford? Of course you haven’t. If you had, you’d not been reading this; you’d be out racing round what passes for our low-rent ring-road or doing (Dunkin’?) doughnuts in some deserted car park somewhere. Plus, chances are, you wouldn’t even be able to read in the first place.
St Albans draws people in like iron filings to a magnet. It has a lure. Something. Though many people are not quite sure what. And, unlike those red, horseshoe-shaped magnets from the cartoons of yesteryear, there’s no comedy ‘off’ button: once you’re in, you’re in. I know loads of people who’ve moved to St Albans; I know of hardly anyone who has moved away.
Anyway, what makes us who we are? We St All-banians are growing in number. In years to come, there will certainly be more old All-banians, but will there be as many surviving Old Albanians? I know a real immigrant Albanian who lives in St Albans. He is (unfortunately, for the purpose of this piece) not an OA. However, I know he spends most evenings pondering whether when he’s old he’ll be an old Albanian, or an old All-banian. Or repatriated by UKIP.
I like St Albans. In fact, I like it a lot. I voted with my feet (which is an electoral concept that makes the single transferable vote look positively dull). I moved here for six months in the late 90’s. And stayed. This is the longest I’ve ever lived anywhere. Does this mean I’m now technically from St Albans? Have I been given a free transfer to St Albans by Essex?
My other qualifications for naturalisation are fairly limited: I’ve been up the Clock Tower; I’ve been to every pub in St Albans (yes, every – I like to be thorough when it comes to watering-holes); I’ve done the half marathon; I’ve been on a rail-replacement bus service. I’ve flirted with starvation whilst queuing at the Waffle House. What else does it take to qualify?
For the purposes of research, out of the blue I asked my wife where she was from. After the initial blank look, she stated ‘halfway between Dublin and Belfast’. Clearly, where she is from is defined by two places she’s not from? But she was born in London. So where’s the sense in that? She sees ‘from’ in the context of ‘where I grew up’. I, too, am going to adopt this principle. One day, when I eventually grow up, I’ll then know where I am truly from.
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