General
So Much To Answer For
3Today didn’t start nearly as early as planned. Frou-Frou wanted to head into the sprawling metropolis for stationery and to explore her new favourite yarn shop (that’s yarn, not wool .. hooo no …amazing the stuff you pick up if you mix with the wrong sort of people) so, for the first time in ages, I went for a mooch round town.
When I first moved down to Manchester, I’d spend every Saturday wandering round all the weird and tatty shops. Inside the Corn Exchange was a jumbled collection of shops that felt like they had been there forever. The piles of merchandise outside each one had spread until you weren’t sure where one shop ended and the next began, but it seemed to work. I’d start in there, then wander into the second hand bookshops round Shudehill and Hanging Ditch, extending my ToBeRead pile yet further. Afflecks had a couple of shops that stocked obscure magazines and film fanzines. Every now and then a bootleg CD or shady copy of a shady version of a shady film, could be had under the counter, if the proprietor liked your face.
Could never (and still can’t) resist Vinyl Exchange. I loved the way the shelves held piles of the slimmest possible CD enevelopes, each containing just the sleeve, and maybe a brief, handwritten note about the artist, maximising use of the limited space available. I loved the implication of it – that the people coming to buy there weren’t looking for a pop star’s face or a display unit to guide their selection. No, these customers were serious music fans. People who took delight in painstakingly working through a hefty pile of CD sleeves in search of a single obscure and unusual item. People who knew what they wanted. People who couldn’t leave without buying at least something. In short, my kind of people.
While Vinyl Exchange has barely changed, the rest is gone. After the IRA bomb, the Corn Exchange became Triangle, a glitzy stack of pricy, trendy chainstores. What used to be the labyrinth of back streets has been rebranded as The Northern Quarter – home to design studios, meeja empires and an expanding selection of strangely soulless shops trying far too hard to be the sort of places they are replacing. Where there was quirky, now there is homogeneous. The odd little items in one odd little shop can now be found in all the other odd little shops in the same range of colours, shapes and sizes.
Nostalgia is a useless practice. Manchester has always seemed to me to be a city in a state of flux – constantly rebuilding and remodelling; updating itself to stay interesting. I’m sure much of what bothers me is actually nostalgia for being 23, newly moved to the big city and with a wage packet to burn for the first time in my life, and it’s churlish to moan about change when that’s something I’ve always loved about the place. What saddens me is that recent change seems to be away from the individuality and originality that makes Manchester what it is, and towards the fashionable, mass-produced conformity of every other city in every other part of the world.
Maybe i’m just a grouchy middle-aged bloke, too old to get what the kids are up to, but I hope that someday soon Manchester will do what it does best – have a look round, raise two fingers to the rest of the world and carve its own path.
Time To Go Home
0Today’s title WAS going to be “home again, home again, jiggity jig” but smart alec has used it already. Last day of the holiday so, after a quick check of the law with regards to squatters rights and holiday cottages, we decided it was best to pack up and leave.
Despite my fears, we didn’t quite need to use a shoe-horn to get everything in, but I think a periscope might have been a useful addition to the car. We made it back over the Pennines in time for lunch (near enough) and were happy to find that neither of our houses had burnt to the ground. Once we’d checked on the cats (neither of whom seemed particularly bothered that I’d been away, even less so after I’d refilled the food dishes), we spent the rest of the afternoon lazing. Frou-frou sensibly crashed out for a nap, with a somewhat optimistic plan about getting up later to go into town. I zoned out in front of rubbish telly and flicked through websites, occasionally nodding off a bit myself.
Once we’d both sort of regained consciousness (it’s often hard to tell) we carried on the rubbish telly. I’ve spent about two hours watching soaps tonight, which would have been more interesting if I’d had any idea who anyone was or what the stories were or what the hell was going on. Still, they all seemed to revolve round buxom 20-somethings in tight tops so not a total waste of an evening.
As I’ve been reading a book about the filming of “Blade Runner” and herself hasnt seen it all the way through, we’re about to finish the day with a sci-fi classic on DVD during which one of us (clue: the one who isn’t me) will see why I could have made better use of the “jiggity jig” title. Not that I’m bitter …
Neither muckling nor mickling
1Coming on holiday, I often run the risk of a smack in the mouth. Moreso when I am staying in an area where there is a strong local accent. Obviously, as a Scotsman, I talk properly and am therefore jealous of people with accents who talk funny. Jealous and fascinated, to the point where I sometimes have the urge to mimic their phrases and style of speech.
In case you were wondering, the quote in the subject is from a scene in “Billy Liar” (which I couldn’t find on YouTube) where Billy is talking to a Yorkshireman with a strong accent and starts using “yorkshire-ese” words and phrases he has invented with a friend. I can usually catch myself before I do this, but it’s only a matter of time until I do it in the wrong place to the wrong person and receive the aforementioned fistular dentristry
After a while, I do find phrases slipping into my vocabulary. Having lived in Manc for a while, I was chatting on the phone to a friend from home and without realising, referred to my sister as “Our Kid”. There was what can only be described as a deathly silence at the other end of the line, before the acidic reply “So, when’s the next album out, Liam”?
Our holiday is coming to an end, and I think I might adopt some Yorkshire phrases in order to ease the transition back to normal life. ‘appen that’ll be reet gradely.
Holiday Time
2In most of my everyday life, my time-keeping is pretty good. I’m not often late (useless bloody public flipping transport notwithstanding). I can organise a schedule of time-sensitive tasks (never missed an episode of Doctor Who). Much as I love the Douglas Adams quote about deadlines – “I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.” – I’m actually quite good at keeping to them.
So how is it that when I go on holiday, I can’t manage to do ANYTHING in a timely fashion? I go to bed progressively later for one thing. Last night, I discovered the Guardian published the daily cryptic crossword at midnight which meant I could have a “quick go” before I went to bed. Which was why I staggered into my pit at 3 a.m.
This wouldn’t be so bad if my body clock wasn’t set in stone at the other end of the daily routine. I’m awake and needing to be up and about by 8:30 at the absolute latest. Try as I might, all the years of having to get up and out and off to work mean I can no longer do the all day lie-in of my student past. I do sometimes find myself asleep on the sofa during the afternoon, though.
The upshot of all that is that so far all my post-a-day blog posts have been rattled off at 11:30 p.m. in a mad panic. I reckon that as long as I START one each day, it doesn’t matter if it’s not published until after midnight. Frou-Frou is apalled by that and thinks it all has to be done and dusted by 23:59 and not a second later. To avoid any smugness on her part were I to not complete the month, I’m having to stick to her schedule.
This is forcing me to limit my usual re-writing and refining and tidying up which is probably a good thing. My perfectionist nature combines with my lack of self-confidence to create a big, old mess of procrastination where nothing ever gets quite finished in case it’s not good enough. So apologies if anything this month is poor or it gets progressively worse – it’s just a matter of time.
More Tea, Vicar?
2Frou-Frou, it must be said, is fond of her tea. That’s “fond” in the same way as I am “fond” of the idea that one day Dita Von Teese may find herself stranded on my doorstep with nothing but her stage costumes and an as-yet-undefined reason why she can’t leave the building for a fortnight.
So, as we are currently driving distance from Harrogate, home of the (apparently) world famous Betty’s Tearooms, a visit was pretty much inevitable. We tried last year but a 45-minute wait on the pavement was more than even herself could put up with.
“Good morning sir, madam. And which cafe would you prefer for today’s visit?”
“Is there a difference?”
“We recommend the main room for the full Betty’s experience”
“pfffft … the? full? …oooww, who just kicked…oh”
Decision made, we settled in and ordered. I was slightly scared that I’d have doilies and scones forced down my throat but what I actually got was the nicest cup of spiced Hot Chocolate I’ve ever, ever had. Honestly. And I’ve had a lot. oh yes.
The rest of the day paled in comparison. Even coming back with a sack of Wii games and a couple of nice propelling pencils wasn’t an improvement on the cinnamon-and-nutmeg goodness.
The weather has taken a turn for the worse, so with any luck we’ll be forced to stay indoors tomorrow with nothing to do but play Wii games and read books.
And wait for Dita and her milk truck full of hot chocolate …