Failing

'The Fell' by Sarah Moss finally came and it was a quick and engaging story. I like books that cover a a brief period of time, it makes them feel very immediate, as if you read them in real time, as the events unfold. Kate goes out for an evening walk. It'll just be an hour, up to the top and back down she reasons, she needs to be out of doors ... but she is supposed to be isolating. Her neighbour Alice, sees her go, but is more worried about her own situation. Her son Matt surfaces from his video game to find her gone, and when he realises that she's not just in the garden who can he ask for help when his mum has broken the law. And Rob from mountain rescue tromps across the moors with the team of searchers, not judging or blaming, only hoping that she will be still alive when they find her. 

Kate follows a raven up the hill, he seems to be waiting and coaxing her on, and then after she falls he hovers around, waiting to peck out her eyes she muses, but in her delirious state she imagines him taunting her:

"Another mistake, says the raven, shall we make a list? We could go all the way back, couldn't we, tell me, Kate, what was the first mistake you ever made, would you say? What poor choice set you on the path to where we find ourselves this evening? School, she thinks, school was all mistakes, though whether this night was determined by the time I left school - Raven, you're not my mother, you're Miss Boucher, aren't you, Miss Boucher who told me off in front of the whole canteen on my first day because my shoes were the wrong colour and she wasn't interested in my weird duck-feet and my mother's admittedly hereditary last-minute approach to matters such as shopping for school uniform, it's as if both of us and probably now poor Matt as well think that if we ignore for example Christmas or summer or the beginning of the school year it might go away and we won't after all need presents or sunscreen or the right shoes, which isn't entirely mad because the end is nigh, we do know that, and if we're about to die in a nuclear war or that one where the magnetic poles swivel which she always imagines as the planet flipping, Australia on the top and Greenland on the bottom and all the fuses in the world blowing like fireworks as the planet spins through the darkness, or a more conclusive plague than the current slow-burning one or any of the many other reasons for the streets to run with blood, who wants to have spent their last days of ignorant normality looking for navy lace-up shoes in a size 2H?" (p.114-5)

And as she struggles to reach shelter and drifts in and out of consciousness he harangues her further:

"So yes, mistakes: the two big relationships of her life, her education, the lack of a carer, not to mention not being a great mum, not really understanding how to be a mum until it was probably too late because don't they say it's the first thousand days that determine the course of a child's life, Matt's future already damaged by her drinking coffee in pregnancy and crying when he had colic, not to mention not being a great daughter either, not to mention failing to cope with lockdown even though she hasn't been sick, hasn't lost anyone, and not only failing to cope but actually failing to isolate herself when told to do so, not to mention failing to go home before dark, not to mention failing and falling off the rock, yes, you could say there were mistakes.

Breathe through the pain, but it's the sort of pain that stops you breathing." (p.139)

Lovely atmosphere and the insides of people's heads, which works well in a book that has not much is happening, and of course taking place during lockdown when people were very physically isolated from each other. It is weird for me to read a novel like this; lockdown did not happen for me, I went to work, where social distancing barely happened, and did not get any of that navel-gazing time when everyone was wiping down their shopping and looking out of the windows and counting how many times their neighbours left the house. And it feels strangely all so long ago now. Has life returned to 'normal'? In some ways yes. I still have a 'wash your hands' reminder sign up in the hallway. 

Anyway, Kate sings to the raven, and she mentions this song, so for your enjoyment, The Manchester Rambler:

Stay safe. Be kind. Ramble somewhere.

Daughters and Mothers

Back in 2013 I enjoyed 'Sick Notes' by Manchester author Gwendoline Riley and so pounced when I read a review of 'My Phantoms'. In it a young woman negotiates a somewhat fraught and distant relationship with her mother. Bridget can manage with their annual birthday dinner but as her mother gets older and unwell she seems to want them to be closer. It's not even that she dislikes her, it's more ambivalent; that the mother, Hen, is just needy, has unspoken expectations of her daughter and seems to look in all the wrong places for companionship. It is a portrait of two people just not getting on, with Bridget caught between what she ought to feel and do as a dutiful daughter and what she does feel and want to do. And then there's the father in the background, and you begin to wonder how the two girls are functioning adults. It's funny (funny weird, not funny ha ha) how often I read books that just make me and my family seem so normal, and make me feel grateful. Sorry, it had to go back to the library last week so no further thoughts, but very much worth the read. Quote, as the two girls are getting ready for a weekend visit with their dad:

 "'There's no point in provoking him, is there?' she used to say - to repeat - chivvying Michelle and me to find our coats and shoes; to be ready ten minutes before our father was due. Even back then I knew that she was talking to herself, really; whisking herself through the task in hand. My mother had her sayings, but she did not give real advice, ever, about anything.

Here, 'there's no point in provoking him, is there?' seemed to mean, 'There's no reason for me to behave in a sane and civilised way when he doesn't (is there?), not when there's a golden opportunity here for me to join in and be mad too.' And she didn't even mean 'provoking', did she? She meant an omission, not an action. She meant: You mustn't fail to anticipate something he could plausibly decide to be affronted by. Which rather left one with nowhere to go. Michelle and I had never been cheeky or disruptive. We'd been mild and quiet from the start when he was around, and it made no difference. Anything could set him off, or not set him off. All depending on how he wanted to feel; on what kind of satisfaction he wanted to extract. Not provoking him could provoke him. It often did provoke him. She knew that. Why did she like to pretend otherwise? For excitement's sake, perhaps? Or because she didn't want to feel left out? I've an image of a dog trying to join in with a football match, but that's possibly too wretched. I think her mental sleight was more akin to the way Michelle and I, after our swimming lessons, used to hit the buttons of the arcade games in the snack bar: we hadn't put any money in, but nonetheless persuaded ourselves that we were affecting the progress of the yellow lights, which flashed in steps, then slowly cascaded. In fact, there were a lot of children who liked to do that, as I remember. It must be a thing children like to pretend. If someone else had got there first, I used to wait my turn, not too close to the machines, but not too far away either." (p.26-7)

'A cupboard full of coats' by Yvvette Edwards is the story of Jinx, and her mother. But her mother is dead, and the how and the why form that basis for a long weekend of soul searching by Jinx and Lemon. Neither of them killed her but they have both felt responsible. I find it hard to get my head around volatile, abusive relationships, and why people stay in them, but it does make for emotionally fraught story telling. So we watch Jinx, watching her mother, falling for this charming man, this man who invades their lives and then their space, who gets his feet under the table and has no intention of moving. Jinx sees, and she knows, but there is no one to tell, and as her mother lurches from joy to misery and back again she can only watch from the sidelines, powerless to stop it. 

But her guilt and sense of responsibility has over the years translated itself into feeling unable to bond with her own child, a son who now lives with his father, and conversely to the situation in My Phantoms, comes over to visit her. And unlike Bridget's father who ignores or lords it over his daughters, Jinx's feelings of inadequacy drown her every interaction with her son. Here she watches, jealously, as Ben chats animatedly with Lemon:

"I listened as he told Lemon about Max in his class whose tooth came out when he bit an apple in his packed lunch. There were anecdotes about his Power Ranger toys, Thomas the Tank Engine, and Shaggy's exploits in Scooby-Doo. He talked about his new teacher, Mrs Smith, and how impressed she was with his reading. Lemon gave him piece of paper and a pen and Ben proved once and for all that he could write his name himself without any help from anyone.
I was in shock. I had never heard my son like this before. I had simply thought he was a morose child, because morose was how he always was when he was with me. I had never seen this side of him, this laughing chattiness, the non-stop outpouring of everything going on in his life, the pleasure he took in his accomplishments, such as they were. And I felt hurt. Really hurt. Wounded to the core just listening to how natural and happy he could be with a virtual stranger, when I had been trying for nearly five years to have a relationship with him and had come up against brick after brick after brick.
He made me feel how he had made me feel when he was a baby. Like no matter what I did or how much time I put in or how hard i tried, anyone could walk into his life and they were immediately more important than I was. Like I did not matter. My existence meant nothing. And all the while, as I sat on the periphery of their conversation, I could feel myself getting angrier and angrier, and though I tried to rationalize my way out of it, I just couldn't stop myself." (p.38-9)

She is a very unhappy young woman, with so much hurt and grief bottled up, thrust into premature adulthood by the loss of her mother, and so good at covering it all up. So Lemon stays, and cooks for her, and in caring for her and making her vulnerable they each share their story of what happened, and the unfolding of the story, the build up of the violence, and the silence, is very skilfully handled. Here Jinx watches Lemon bring Berris and try to make peace after the first beating:

"I'd hated that man so bad for weeks, wanted nothing else in that time but that he pack up and get out of our home, yet he looked more wretched than any man, woman or child I'd ever seen in my life. Like he knew he'd done the worst thing a person could ever do and was truly, to the heart, sick and remorseful and sorry. He couldn't lookout her and he couldn't stop himself from bawling like a baby. It was the most pathetic thing I'd ever seen.
In that moment, because I knew what he'd done, how he'd smashed in my mother's face in temper, because the memory of him polishing off his dinner and the look of pure satisfaction in his eyes was still fresh and vivid in my mind, my feelings shocked me. I looked at the man who had caused our family so much hurt, so much upset, and there was no denying it; I felt sorry for him.
I felt sorry for him." (p116)

And much of the book I liked Lemon, he cared about music and food, and loved Jinx's mother from the sidelines. But then he tells his side of the events, and I rethink. And then he meets up with Berris after he is released from prison and he says this:

"'You know, after what he done, I thought for a long time he was the hardest-hearted man alive, the coldest, the evilest. But after I spoke to him last time, watching him, listening, not how I done most of my life but kind of fair-like, not squeezing him into the way I wanted to think of him, but looking hard to see who he really was, what he was, after all that I come to the conclusion he was just sensitive. Oversensitive. Even small things that wasn't meant to be no slight hurt him. I tried to imagine how it felt to be in his shoes, and they was small and tight and uncomfortable ...' " (p.247)

and reading it made me feel sick, because she captures here so succinctly how men justify violence against women, as if it was all ok, and he was forgiven, because he was sensitive and her going out dancing and having a nice time without him is behaviour deserving of death.

Sometimes it feels hard to take stuff in, because stories like this repeat down the years, in real life as well as fiction. But Tish and I enjoyed this article about Grace Tame who steadfastly refused to politely smile on camera with the Australian prime minister, and people go ape-shit about it. Women don't owe the world a smile.

Stay safe. Be kind. Don't smile if you don't want to.

Feminists at the Manchester Literature Fesitval

 The Manchester Literature Festival has come and gone for another year, and much inspiration was found there. By both design and accident I ended up going to hear a string of feminist writers. Cathy Newman talked about her book 'Bloody Brilliant Women', a history of all the women who are missing from  ... history. Followed the same afternoon by Caroline Criado Perez, who lead the campaign in 2017 to have Jane Austen on the £10 banknote. Her book 'Invisible Women' catalogues, as she says she had to, the many thousands of tiny ways in which the existence of women is ignored and belittled by society that is designed around men. I kind of skim read the book because it becomes a little depressing and predictable, but all the things she says in it very much needed to be articulated clearly.

The following weekend I volunteered at the Deborah Levy event, and then stayed on with Julie to hear Mona Eltahawy in conversation with Mariam Khan (editor of 'It's not about the Burqa', an anthology of writing by Muslim women). Mona's book 'The Seven Necessary Sins for Women and Girls' is currently being read so I will give you more on that later, nevertheless she is one forthright feminist who doesn't pull her punches.

I was a bit let down by the poetry: one event where neither of the poets used the provided microphone and were unable to project their voices across a small bookshop and the other where I was so tired that I struggled to stay awake. I loved Vona Groarke's reading and may well seek out her collection, and, though we had listened to some of his collection Deaf Republic on Radio 4, I found that Ilya Kaminsky's accent is so strong that I could not have followed the poems without the thoughtfully provided printout (which is pretty much the same as just reading them). Howard Jacobson left an impression by demanding to know why his picture was not on the T-shirts when David Baddiel is. Julie and I also went to the Castlefield Sermon which this year was given by Gillian Slovo. Although she has lived most of her life in Britain she has written about South Africa and expected it to be part of her talk about the hope for democracy, but instead she discussed her work with the Grenfell Tower survivors and then Extinction Rebellion. So it has been a fascinating, but very non-fiction, couple of weeks. 

How to get into Manchester University

Almost exactly five years ago Monkey went off to Monkey. She had an amazing year, but learned that acting was not for her. Fast forward quite some time and discovering new interests she started teaching herself Japanese, and a plan developed to go to Japan. That plan morphed into a plan to do a degree instead, which will involved a government funded year of living and studying in Japan. Where would you want to study Japanese other than at SOAS (no longer called the School of Oriental and African Studies, just called SOAS). 

So we visited SOAS:

and admired their awesome library:

We loved SOAS

Then we visited Sheffield, they had a lovely park outside their (slightly less awesome but still nice) library:

We loved Sheffield

 Then we visited Durham, and its awesome cathedral:

(I got to go too and pretend I was a tiny person):

We loved Durham (but mostly because we know it)

Tish and Monkey went to UCLAN but failed to take a photo. 

Monkey did the Manchester visit on her own.

We now have an extensive collection of university tote bags. 

Durham did not hand out tote bags:

Meanwhile, amongst all this dashing around the country, Monkey did an access course with the Distance Learning Centre. It took her about 10 months and cost about £1200. She took her exams at home with the tutor supervising over Skype. The UCAS application went in and the offers of places came back, for all five of her applications. She didn't even expect an offer from Manchester because they wanted a B in English, so it threw a spanner in the works a little. To get a place at SOAS she needed to get nearly all distinctions in her assignments, so the pressure was pretty intense for a while. 

After she finished the course Monkey had plans to fill the next six months with stuff that she had put on hold. Instead we had to move house and it interrupted everything ... except the long circular discussion about SOAS or Manchester. SOAS was the place to go, it has so many courses to offer and it is small and everyone knows each other and it's right by the British Museum and has an awesome library and a fantastic felafel stall that sets up once a week right outside. But on the other hand, if she goes to Manchester she can stay home, have hardly any expenses, save for going to Japan, not have to stress about house mates or cooking proper food or dealing the other practicalities of life (and to be honest their library is pretty awesome too). I wanted her to go to SOAS. She wanted to go to SOAS. But we want this experience to be a success, she still needs support and there would be nothing worse than her going to London and not being able to cope, so the practical argument won the day, and it is the right decision.

So this week she went to Manchester University 

(and didn't want a first day photo taken):

This photo just because it's lovely, Dad and Monkey.

Welcome to Moss Side

Well we finally made it. I have a house of my own. We are settling in to Moss Side, a formerly rather notorious part of south Manchester, but now a perfectly lovely place to live. The long and torturous process began back at the end of January when the landlord at Prestage Street decided not to sell us his house and we were obliged to search further afield. In a very swift decision making process I viewed half a dozen houses over a weekend, and ended up picking this one:
Within four days I had made an offer that was accepted and it should have all gone swimmingly. The best laid plans and all that, complications with the land registry, meant that things dragged on for many more weeks than I anticipated. We lived surrounded by piles of boxes, coming home from work every day expecting ... hoping ... that there would be a message from the solicitor that we were ready to complete. I never want to buy a house again. Yes, I know some work needs doing on that flashing over the bay window ... trust me, it's high up the list. It is small, cosy and has everything we need. We are painting, and more painting, photos of fun stuff coming soon.

Little purple flowers sprouting in the walls around the yard 

conspire to make me smile.

Welcome to Old Trafford

Dear blog, I am so sorry I have abandoned you for so long, but we have been moving house. It has all been very stressful and hard work and I have been too exhausted to read or knit, much less write an actual blog post. Things are finally beginning to calm down. The boxes are mostly empty, and it is a bit worrying that there are a few things we still can't locate. I'm sure it will all be fine. As we get used to where Monkey put everything in the kitchen and I adjust to my extended ride to work, we can also appreciate our new surroundings: this fabulous mural adorns the side of a house just down the street, and the Hong Kong Chippy on the corner of Henrietta Street is set to become a regular haunt.

Many, many new crafty projects are in the pipeline for the new house, some functional, some purely decorative, from new bath mats to a fire screen. When we put all our crafty stuff in one place it was quite worrying how large the collection was, however we are fortunate enough to have a cellar which is becoming a craft room. I have managed to re-read 'A Month in the Country' by J.L. Carr that mum bought me for Christmas, and that I read many years ago when I joined a book club in Stow-on-the -Wold. It is a mere handful of pages long. Meanwhile Monkey has finally arrived at the end of Anna Karenina that she first started reading eight years ago. I have struggled to concentrate on reading so will probably stick to less demanding books for a while. And there is still so much white wall space just crying out to be covered in something. 

Literary failures and successes

I have admitted defeat (for the time being) with Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon. I picked it up in the library on the spur of the moment and struggled with it for a fortnight, but it is impenetrable. Even though there is a wiki specifically designed to lead you through the finer points of the novel I decided that this is just not the right time for me to tackle something that needs an explanation of what is happening in each paragraph. Maybe when I have a year with nothing better to do, or when the arthritis has removed my ability to do anything other than read, or perhaps I'll get one of my grandchildren to read it to me as I lie on my deathbed. Anyway, I'm sure I'll give it another go at some point. 

On the plus side the Manchester Literature Festival is now well under way. I went to my first event last month however, one of the preview events, that saw my wonderful Professor Harari visiting to promote his new book. I did his Coursera course, 'A Brief History of Human Kind' three years ago (unfortunately it no longer seems to be available) and I was so excited to discover he was going to be coming to the festival. His new book, Homo Deus, is an examination of where the human race might be headed next.

I was a little starstruck when I went to get him to sign his book and managed to mumble something barely intelligible about how much I had enjoyed the course, but it was really lovely to see him in person, and he was just like he seemed in the online lectures. 

Last night I did my second event; the most wonderful Lemn Sissay was performing as part of the 8th annual Black and Asian Writers Conference organised by Cultureword at the Contact Theatre. I confess I had not heard any of his poetry previously but knew of him after he was elected Chancellor of Manchester University last year. He approached me in the foyer when he arrived, because I was wearing a MLF volunteer t-shirt, and asked about books for sale, and he was very distressed to find that, due to some very poor communication, there were none. The event, nevertheless, was a roaring success, sold out, and he was so funny and engaging and chatted on during the question and answer session way past the official finish time. 

His new collection is called 'Gold from the Stone'.

I will just give you this poem, called 'Some things I like', which is quite a good example of his style and delivery, though this video is from a couple of years ago. 

Gale warnings at Home

Home 

There are lots of interesting (and also free) things going on at Home (formerly The Corner House) next weekend to celebrate their first birthday, but Monkey and I went today to see a production of Twelfth Night by Filter Theatre. A riotous gig is how the website describes it and it was certainly most loud, hilarious and unconventional Shakespeare. The audience were a little slow on the uptake of the players requests for participation, but once we got into the swing of it the party really took off. A bare stage that looked more like a rehearsal space containing only musical instruments lets you know right off they are not going for a conventional setting, and then we had some dialogue over a mobile phone and the arrival of Viola is accompanied by the BBC shipping forecast, interrupted by further dialogue over the radio. Sir Toby seemed a little confused as to which play he was meant to be in, spouting lines from Macbeth, Hamlet and Henry V, at one point sporting a donkey head hat, and wandering down the aisle saying 'a plague on these McVitie's Jaffa Cakes'. There was pizza and tequila shots and a conga line on the stage, followed by a cascade of small sponge balls. The physical comedy was so well rehearsed and put together and it came across as very spontaneous, and never interfered with the intrinsic humour of the tale. We were a little confused because several players were playing more than one part and it was not entirely obvious (to me anyway, Monkey was more familiar with the cues), but for people familiar with the plot (which I was not) I'm sure it was fine. Shakespeare plays are very self-consciously 'plays', often talking directly to the audience and telling you that they are telling a story. Just the other day I reread my review of Hard Times from five years ago and the immersive nature of that performance contrasted very sharply with this play, that continually reminded you that you were watching performance. They are ending their tour this week at the Theatre Royal in Plymouth.

Theatre and Literature

Another posting lull will hopefully be followed by a massive surge in posts as a lot is going on in the next couple of weeks. My son Jacob has just been for a visit and I took the offspring out for a joint birthday outing to the Corner House. It recently renamed itself 'Home' which I find to be the worst name for a theatre ever and so I am pledged to continue to refer to it as the Corner House (though the theatre building is not on the corner of Oxford Road and Whitworth Street where the cinema is but further down the road and round the corner). We went to see the performance company 1927 on the opening night (in Manchester that is, it has been touring worldwide for some time) of their intriguing piece of theatre entitled Golem (do visit their website and watch the trailer). Described as somewhat like a comic book come to life, it was thoroughly engaging and brilliantly put together, with performers interacting with a projected animation; it tells a cautionary tale of the insidious nature of consumerism. 

Starting on Monday is the annual Manchester Literature Festival. This year they are celebrating their tenth anniversary and the brochure (mine is already looking a little the worse for wear, tea stains mainly) has photos of the participants at age ten. I have a lovely selection of events that I am volunteering for this year, starting with the wonderful Michael Rosen on Monday evening, discussing the future of children's poetry. Many of the events are free so if you are in the vicinity do check out the website, find someone you have never heard of and open a new door in your life.

Austerity Rules UK

So, the election result was pretty depressing, compared to last time when I felt relatively positive (little did I know!) It reminds me of the third Thatcher victory, the terrible sense of hopelessness and incomprehension. Rather than sink into a state of despondency I went along today to a demonstration in Piccadilly Gardens. It was organised by a couple of local young men with the assistance of The People's Assembly Against Austerity, which is acting as an umbrella organisation for a huge variety of protests that are going on against pretty much every aspect of planned government policy, from the human rights act to the fox hunting ban, though focussing mostly on the widespread cuts in public spending and the privatisation of the NHS. Having been involved for many years in the anti-nuclear movement I think that even though marching through the streets is not going to bring down the government any time soon, it still has an impact on public opinion and ensures the politicians know we're watching them.

Michael Rosen (his blog is here and well worth a read) summed the situation up just perfectly on Facebook the other day:
"The government's trick is to convince enough people that cuts in healthcare, education and welfare are inevitable and necessary whereas a redistribution of wealth from the rich to the poor (and to provide better healthcare, education and welfare) is impossible, crazy and dangerous. Meanwhile UKIP (with Tory and Labour nodding in the background) claim that poor healthcare, education and welfare is caused by immigrants and not as a result of the super-rich hoarding wealth."

There is a big demonstration planned at the Bank of England in London on 20th June, so if you are at all despondent get out and add your voice to the gathering crowd.

Chorlton Arts Festival

The annual Chorlton Arts Festival is in full swing at the moment, and continues until the 24th May. It is one of those local events where you browse the programme and see all sorts of interesting goings-on ... but then never get around to going.

I was skyping with Monkey at the weekend and chatting while looking on the site for something fun to do during my leave this week, and I came across a book binding workshop.

It was organised by The Manchester Craft Mafia at The Beagle, where they apparently hold monthly crafty gatherings. So I decided to take the plunge and leave the house for a couple of hours.

Paper, thread, scissors and needles were all provided for a very modest fee, and armed with some basic instructions we were set loose.

And a good time was had by all. Including me. Many other events of all shapes and sizes happening this week, many for free. Check out the calendar on the website if you happen to be in the vicinity.

Listening not reading (much)

I went last night, as a volunteer that is (not that we had much to do), to hear Kate Tempest at the Contact Theatre as one of the last event of the Manchester Literature Festival. I was probably the only person in the audience who had not heard of her. She was this lovely mixture of worldly and naive, looking at first glance so young but with a voice that has quite a gritty quality that usually comes with years of hard living. She recited from memory for over 20 minutes her version of the story of Tiresias, it was utterly spellbinding. This is just a little taster of her style to tempt you, there is lots more on Youtube, and if you ever get the chance, do go and see her.

As a consequence I did not really get going on the Read-a-thon until this morning, and actually we have been planning a trip to the Manchester Art Gallery to see an exhibition about the First World War, so the reading has been quite limited compared to last time. Also there has been no cake this time:-( The Monkey is in London so I have not had company to stay up all night with.
I am really enjoying 'The Secret of Lost Things'  by Sheridan Hay and also 'Notwithstanding' by Louis de Bernieres (that I picked up at random in the library when my reserved books had not arrived, despite being 'in transit' for three days.) I hope everyone else out there has been having a good weekend of slouching on the sofa surrounded by books. 

Beta Testing the Central Library

I have been to town this morning to help beta test the facilities at the about-to-be-reopened Manchester Central Library. The official opening day is Saturday 22nd March 2014, and we were specifically asked not to "spoil the surprise", so this will be the most unrevealing post I could possibly manage. 

On the top floor there are lots of books on shelves:

Then there is another floor with even more books on shelves:

There are lots of computers:

While there are lots a lovely new plush 'designer' chairs I loved the fact that they still had these old ones in the reading room, these are definitely more conducive to serious study:

and the computer terminals have not completely replaced the old filing system:

I explored each floor, played with the moving bookshelves, tested the toilets, tinkered with the archive displays, logged on to a computer and dutifully asked the librarians some questions to check their helpfulness. I was disappointed to find that the 'lending library' section was not open yet and will be housed in the Town Hall Extension. 

Then I sat on one of the plush new chairs and did the Guardian Sudoku.

Many years ago when the children were young we took a trip to the Central Library, but I confess it was not for the books. The legendary reading room has an interesting acoustic quality that causes sounds to reverberate in a particular way, so we went in to experience the phenomenon: if you drop a book the sound travels around the room and back very dramatically. I experienced another aspect of this today: a group of people were listening to a man talking when I went in, even standing quite close I could not make out what he was saying, but as I walked around to the opposite side of the circle I heard his voice coming from the dome above me, as clear as if I was standing next to him, and even the whispered conversation of two women was bounced to the ceiling and back down to me. So, a word of warning, be careful what you say in the reading room, you never know who might be listening.

Sick Notes

'Sick Notes' by Gwendoline Riley was picked up in a charity shop, probably simply because she is a local writer. It is the story of Esther who has come back, we know not where from, to a flat in Manchester that she shares with her friend Donna. Pretty much she mooches around for a few months, sleeps with a few people, gets drunk a lot, stares at the ceiling, hides under the grubby duvet and doesn't really know what to do with the rest of her life. And then it ends. She does mention having a bath at one point but the book left me with an urgent need to wash my hands, which is possibly the most unusual reaction I have had to a piece of literature. 

This description from a brief stint at a boarding school where she meets Donna sets the tone somehow:
"At mealtimes we carried our food in moulded trays to large round tables. We poured glasses of squash from a huge jug. It was unwieldy, loosing its centre of gravity in those small hands and short arms, so the drinks as always sloshing out, sticking the paper cloth to the Formica then dripping over the table lip onto our laps. Whenever I spilt I heard my mum saying, 'You've never understood liquids, have you?' " (p.25) 

And from there we move to a description of her mother's hoarding habit, her obsessive inability to throw anything away:
"One afternoon when I was skipping school I was making myself a cup of tea and I threw out a carton of sour milk. While the fridge door was open I found myself going though all the shelves in there, dropping jars of furry jam, a cracked block of cheese, my brother's half-finished turkey steak (that she'd put in a jiffy bag a week ago) into the bin too. I emptied the rotting contents of a stack of plastic tubs, and then from one cupboard I threw out a dozen empty jam jars, a box of pellet-dry raisins and a bag of grub infested flour." (p.34)

Everywhere just has this feeling of neglect, even squalor, as if people are only passing through, not stopping long, so it's not worth their trouble to take any care. This is the bar, where Donna works (and this seems to be describing the scene shown in the front cover image):
"I take my drink to one of the empty tables near the back of the room; lean back then lay back on it. I feel its viscid surface velcroing my coat. I lie completely still, with my mug on my chest, listening to my breathing and staring up at a tight tangle of wires falling through a hole in the patchy plaster. A sickly yellow glows in two enormous, leaded glass light shades which hang askew on gold chains." (p.43-4)

And the room she lives in:
"My room is a barren tip. The boxes are still stacked in the corners, the bare duvet is on the floor by the record player and there are half-full mugs and scraps of scrawled-on paper everywhere.
'As you can see: I'm currently - riding the crest of a slump,' I say. 'Excuse the ...'
I sweep a hand around the carnage, but he isn't looking anywhere except at me. There are unfinished books everywhere: resting open on my bed like pitched roofs, like dead birds. He picks one up as he sits down next to me." (p.93)

And then on the bus:
"Upstairs on the bus I sit in the last empty double seat. The thin air is dank and there's a breathy grey film on the windows. There's the smell of worn-out mint gum and of sweet shampoo, from the girl in front of me who is combing her wet blonde hair out over and over. I watch her and I don't think of anything. Then I watch a puddle of spilt drink in the aisle elongating with the acceleration, licking at a screwed-up sweet wrapper as the bus heaves itself away from a stop." (p.117)

I partly enjoyed the book because as she wanders she recites places and streets that are so familiar so I can visualise her environment: Market Street, Oldham Street, Hulme Asda, Central Library, the Arndale, Victoria Station, Piccadilly Gardens. It wasn't until I was browsing for quotes when I came across the reason why it is entitled Sick Notes; she refers to writing sick notes for herself for the last two years of school, and it occurred to me that the story of this interlude in her life is a kind of sick note, a made up excuse to avoid getting on with the serious business of living. I think this is why there is such a thing as Young Adult fiction, because, although I liked the book, it is such a long time since I have had things and people to be responsible for that I cannot recall what it is like to have *nothing* to do, no demands on your time and no one to consider but yourself. It was as if I was reading the thoughts of another species. 

The book is wonderfully astute and full of little details of observation that make it very immediate. I'll give you two tiny sentences that counteract the grubbiness of all the other quotes:
"When I crouch down to tie a lace that's trailing through old puddles I see how the setting sun is making sparks of the hairs on my ankles." (p.139)
"I'm reading the graffiti on the bench, fitting my thumbnail in the lines of the runic romances." (p.169)

So, what is it all about? I'm not really sure, but it did inspire me to take maybe a 'sick day' sometime, to do nothing, to wander aimlessly and see where it takes me. But the middle aged me needs a day without rain.

TNT arrives in Manchester

We were informed at the beginning of November that TNT, the Dutch postal company, has arrived in Manchester, doing mail delivery in selected areas. There will definitely not be any friendly cooperation. Even in the first few days people reported seeing them around in Rusholme and Fallowfield, with their smart new orange bikes and their slightly dazed expressions. 

Today we came back from the shops (I'm on leave so have been a bit out of the loop) to find this leaflet from Royal Mail outlining the vague nature of the service that TNT is providing, and reminding everyone of the steadfast reliability of the service that they currently offer. You cannot post a TNT letter, they only collect mass mail-outs from businesses, nor can you pop to your local delivery office to collect your undelivered parcel. They are only delivering a couple of days a week, as yet unconfirmed, and you can bet your life they are not going to be driving out to the outlying villages and farms of the Pennines any time soon. 

So in the run up to Christmas I hope everyone appreciates that we will be around every day, to every house, to deliver your cards and presents, never mind the threat of the worst winter for many years. 

For advice on Christmas posting pop back to last year's post.

Dead Dog Poems

The Manchester Literature Festival doesn't officially start until the 7th of October but I volunteered for one of the preview events last night, at Martin Harris Centre for Music and Drama, where Don Paterson and Paul Muldoon were reading for an audience made up of festival goers and students who had been attending the 3rd British and Irish Contemporary Poetry Conference. The evening became something of a homage to Seamus Heaney, who died just a fortnight ago and had been scheduled to be reading last night. Both poets read from his work as well as their own and spoke about the influence he had had on them personally and on poetry in general. A gentle touch of self-deprecation was the order of the evening, genuinely presenting Heaney as the master and their own humble offerings as attempts to live up to the example he set. The world of poetry is obviously small and both men had plainly lost a friend. 

I find that I didn't really get around to reviewing Don Paterson's Rain that mum bought for me several years ago, I will try and rectify that soon. He was a lovely reader, very chatty in style and shuffling through his papers as if he were picking his choices spontaneously. He seemed to feel that his style was a little depressing, making several references to his penchant for dead dog poems, but on the whole I found him the more entertaining of the two. I particularly loved when he talked about having 'googled' himself and found the vast array of people determined to destroy his carefully constructed reputation, and he read us a poem which set out all the various criticisms of his poetry that had appeared online. It appears that poetry reviewers can be as pretentious as some poets.
Here he is reading Rain. On watching it again I realise how typical it is of how he read, as if he just happened to be reading a poem and someone came along to listen, not that he is reading to anyone. Every time I go to a poetry reading (and it's been a few now) it remind me how much this is an auditory medium, that listening is a whole other layer of experience over merely reading poetry. 



I confess to knowing nothing of Paul Muldoon, who described himself as a wanderer; having a tendency to wander the stage while reading rather than some kind of poetic style. Neither did I have a pen and paper to write notes so I was only left with an impression that I would need to give his poems more attention in print to appreciate them; several times he reached the end of a poem when I was expecting more so I was left with a feeling of having missed the point. He was much more methodical and had his selection properly scheduled with sheets and books arranged in order for the reading, and I felt a little as if he were hiding behind his mop of grey hair.
This video shows him noticeably more relaxed and humorous.



All in all a great start to this year's events. My first event of the festival proper is Patrick Ness. (Warning, don't go to youtube and start watching poetry videos, it could swallow up the rest of your day.)

Culture and all that

Two things to tell you about briefly if you happen to live in or visit Manchester. 

The wonderful Manchester Literature Festival is all ready for action and the website is now taking bookings (if you look closely at the word search on the cover it says 7th to 20th October). I will be volunteering again this year and hopefully a blogging slot too. As usual a wide variety of creative talent, from the well known to the relatively obscure. I am pleased to see a much wider representation from writers for young people, notably Eoin Colfer and Malorie Blackman, and also Neil Gaiman talking about his new children's novel. Lionel Shriver is doing the Manchester sermon (which Ali Smith did last year and was so brilliant). I am a bit spoiled for choice and have so many things I would love to go and see. Do go and check out all the events, many are free, and get yourself a culture fix.

Secondly is the 'do it 2013' exhibition at the Manchester Art Gallery (created in collaboration with the International Festival) that I went to see with my mum last week. What you might call a 'conceptual' collection of artworks aimed at engaging ordinary people in the process of creating art; not so much come and look at the pretty pictures, more come and have your brain bombarded with crazy ideas. Go prepared to join in. On until the 22nd September.

A Tropical Garden in Chorlton

So there is this course on Coursera called Introduction to Art that I have been doing for the last few weeks. This week's project was to make a 'site specific installation', and I decided to inflict my creative juices on the Ridley Birks family. The primary aim was to create a surprise and brighten everyone's day, and make up for the miserable damp grey June we have had.

So here is how their front garden looked at 4.30am today:

and this is how it looked at 5.30am:

Adorned with 158 meticulously created tissue paper flowers, and some felted butterflies. 

The Babe enjoying the flowers

With grateful thanks for the assistance of Creature who went to Fred Aldous to buy the first batch of paper (since I was housebound on Thursday), Dunk who went out late yesterday to get a second batch, and to Tish who sat with me for several hours yesterday afternoon and evening and helped make flowers.