My Lovely Landlord

Remembering Mr Iqbal and resisting blanket hatred

I stood on the edge of a football field on a coolish day in late summer. Behind me, my sister was playing with her team. We’d travelled up to an away game, which meant the usual — we stood around cold, drank cheap hot chocolate, and, on this occasion, I tried my first oatcake (I thought it was vile).

Just across from the field, atop a small hill and relatively distant — hazy in the summer air — was a large Sainsbury’s supermarket.

“That’ll be Dewi’s local shop soon,” my mom said wistfully.

I stared at the bright orange sign, looming like a beacon, a signpost to a new world.

It was only 40 minutes up the road from home, but to us, this was a big deal. I was the first in my family to go to university. My parents and grandparents had attended the same high school as me. As a rule, we did not go far.

Once I started uni, I did indeed spend a lot of time in that Sainsbury’s. It was a lot of firsts for me: its photo booth was the first place I had an ID photo taken. It was the first place I went grocery shopping on my own. The first place I tried Mikado. The first place I signed a property contract.

(Incidentally, that view is no longer there. A row of houses was built in my final university year, obscuring it. Almost a message from the universe: this phase is over, on you go.)