In the ghetto

The following happened between 1030 and 1200...

A friend and I walked down to the Grafton Centre this morning; a shopping centre just outside of the main town, filled with the usual mix of clothes and gadgets. I'm reminded of home there. You see, there is an unmarked boundary that you cross when you take the 10 minute walk across Christs Pieces to the Grafton. Put simply: you enter the "land of the plebs".

Dave and myself just tend to listen to music as we walk together, we know each other so well now that chat is quite repetitive. Alright, we're anti-social. As we pass Christs College, draped in our college scarves and with our iPods on full volume through our Bose headphones we are at one with the spirit of Cambridge. But then you are aware of it - you are out of place. The collegiate atmosphere is gone, and the accents have changed. No longer are there well-shaped vowels, but the local drawl - "auhs it gahn luvvie, alwight?". There is no pashmina in sight, only the gloss of the latest adidas tracksuit and the glare of a huge earring-cum-bird stand.

We sit in Costa at the foot of the stairs in the main hall of the arcade. The small wall that demarcates the shop seems to be more of a social divide; we can watch the people from the safety of our skinny lattes and musings on French literature, as they do whatever they do. It's almost voyeuristic. At the same time, I feel a sense of belonging here. There is a woman with an amputated arm, several people limp past on crutches and a little girl goes and rocks for free on a Bob the Builder ride. This is the kind of place where people smack their kids in public, wear inappropriately tight jeans and cackle with laughter when one of the girls shares her latest shag story. I'm reminded of home - where the locals are on benefit and worry more about where the next meal will come from than whether they get cinammon or chocolate on their cappuccino. For me, this is not the circus, but the real society of which the colleges and spires of the town centre are only a glitzy and elitist sideshow.

On the way back to the town centre, I spot a black man. And another. And another. There is an Asian face too. And another. And another. I'm reminded of the multi-cultural nature of our society. You wouldn't know that these people existed in the centre of Cambridge - it's the kind of place that Jacqui Smith would love to take an evening stroll in. No blacks/minorities allowed says the architecture. As I walk through this Aryan wonderland, sometimes I wonder if Hitler actually won in the end. But here amongst the people of Graftonland, I'm comfortable and belong.

But as we cross that piece of grass again, we are back in the centre of town. Pictures of Milton stare back at us from display cases, advertising a critical display of his works at the University Library. I'm handed a flyer for a postmodern play that doesn't have a title, or for that matter a script. I'm made aware of the plight of the Palestinians, of Chinese Buddhist thought on karma and asked if I've ever given God a thought. A mother dragging two kids out of a flash boutique glares over her huge sunglasses - "You brought that on yourself. He has every right to kick you when you do things like that". Tough love? Crap parenting more like. Oh, to be back at the Grafton, where the people are real and the air is pure!

A group of Germans passes round the corner, their leader waving an umbrella with the national flag on top, shouting commands at the top of his voice. I'm scared. Maybe the fascists did win after all. In this town, you'd never know.