Forton services (again)

I have my dad to thank for my love of science fiction. It was he who exposed me to Arthur C Clarke, John Wyndham, Brian Aldiss, and many others. When Thunderbirds, Stingray, Joe 90, Captain Scarlet et al, came along, I was more than ready for them. 

Over the years, I've revised my opinion of Robert A Heinlein, whom I used to love, and Robert Silverberg, who, at the time, seemed unnecessarily dark and complex, but my love of science fiction never waned. (And hooray for Iain M Banks, when he came along.)

I grew up believing both in a bright, new world of the future and also the inevitability of a dystopian existence (thanks to John Wyndham, although I still love his books). 

It was only when Labour were elected in 1997 that the bright, new world seemed to manifest itself and the UK seemed flushed with an unstoppable optimism and a headlong dash into a better future, right up until the moment Blair inexplicably (and, I think, uncharacteristically) decided to get on board with the war in Iraq. And then it all went downhill, gradually at first, but ultimately in a headlong dash for the cliff edge under Theresa May and the Brexiteers. 

These days, Forton services - now, actually, rebadged as south Lancaster services - seems like a memento of that lost spirit of optimism. It wouldn't have been out of place in any of Gerry Anderson's TV series (except, maybe, Stingray). It still gives me joy and makes my heart beat a little faster.

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Reading: "Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant" by Anne Tyler.