Ghosts of Christmas past

I am watching A Muppet Christmas Carol, the fire is lit, the cat is sleeping. The box of Thorntons chocolates is open, as is the first bottle of Prosecco. My family are here, helping to prepare food, relaxing, catching up and appreciating the opportunity to be together. I am acutely aware that there are many other Christmas scenes. I follow the poet Lemn Sissay on Facebook, and he is sharing the preparations for special Christmas day celebrations for young care leavers in Hackney and Manchester tomorrow. What a brilliant way of celebrating the spirit of Christmas. The recent tragedy in Glasgow is heartbreaking. This time of year focuses joys and sorrows like no other, with its emphasis on the importance of family. Such a loss at this time of year is unbearable to contemplate. Christmas also focuses the memories, tracking back through the decades. The first Christmas without my dad, when he was working in Nigeria. There's a serious black and white photograph of my sisters and I round a tinsel Christmas tree. We recorded a tape to send to him, reel to reel on a Uher, with our festive wishes. My only memory of that time is of a deep melancholy, yet I know my mum would have been doing her best to make it a happy time back home in Manchester. Then there was our first Christmas term at boarding school,unhappy and out of place. A three day plane journey took us to the other side of the world, to join our parents in an surreal equatorial and exotic world. A post colonial Christmas at the club and jungle longhouses to visit, shrunken heads hung like baubles in the rafters. As I continue to search for a proper job and contemplate temporary unemployment in the new year, I am also acutely aware of the struggle for employment and a sense of worth that many of the young people I know are experiencing at the moment. I know I'm worth it even if no one else seems to! But that comes from years of experiences and excitements. I have a secure home and a lovely family. I look at some of their situations and recall the decisions I made in my late teens and early twenties that must have been difficult for my parents. And coincidentally Christmas was the time of year when things came to a head. The break up with the drug dealing boyfriend. The decision to drop out of my first university after a term. It all worked out in the long term, and here I am writing this. So as the year turns and we move towards 2015 I take heart from the memories of Christmas and wish all those who read this the best of times.

Stop working for free?

At the Louder Than Words Festival in Manchester last weekend, writer and journalist Barney Hoskyns discussed his new book about Woodstock, the town, not the Festival. He also told us about his Facebook campaign, Stop Working for Free. He introduced me to the concept of algorithmic hypercapitalism. I have been thinking about his Stop Working for Free campaign all week. This time last year, the first Louder Than Words Festival gave me opportunities to write about music and share my words on line. Melanie Smith, founder of Mudkiss and amazing photographer, asked me to write some reviews with her. The first went up on Mudkiss and since then I have published them through Louder Than War and Penny Black Music. When I look back on the past year I am overwhelmed by the opportunities I have had, and it's thanks to people like Mel and John Robb and John Clarkson that I have been able to do it. All this is done for free, in the same way that the online magazines are produced with hard work and no financial rewards. I have been on the guest list for most of my concert reviews and have been sent CDs to listen to, so I'm not out of pocket. It seems that we are living in times that value celebrity rather than creativity. This is hard on those who have managed to earn their living through their creativity and interests up till now. Creativity has often benefitted from collaboration and cooperation, sharing and caring among practitioners and friends. It can't all be about fees and invoices. I see the same issues in the heritage, museums and archives sectors. This is the area where I am looking for paid work, but volunteering is the trend. Of course volunteering has a value beyond the financial. It can bring many benefits to the individual and the organisations involved. I used to be a complementary therapist, and there were always debates on whether you should make money from ill health. Therapists deserve to make a living, and to cover the costs of their training courses. One way round the issue was to have a sliding scale of charges. You could also make a conscious choice to do something for free. In the past I have been part of local economic trading schemes (LETS) and have occasionally swapped treatments for paintings and pots. I was once a part of a workers cooperative, still a successful business over forty years on. We were trying to change the way we worked together, the business model and the way we were rewarded for our work. I have friends who work as freelancers and writers. Some have earned a reasonable living from their creative work, but like Barney Hoskyns, their working lives are now less secure. Big organisations are taking advantage of a culture of interns, of people who can do something for nothing for the sake of enhancing their CV in their own struggle for paid work. It can be a cynical experience. Over the years I have chosen to do what I am interested in as a volunteer, whilst doing a variety of day jobs to earn a living, some more relevant to my interests than others.I have helped run events, an arts festival and a youth theatre. I have been a school governor, a tour guide and even been on radio and TV to promote causes I care about. Paid work, creativity and interests all came together for me last year when I was a National Archive trainee. I am disappointed that I can't find paid work in that field, but I am enjoying volunteer opportunities to keep my spirits high. Those of us who use social media are all helping market, promote and advertise events and people we find interesting free of charge too! There's an issue around value and price in the creative world. Favours among equals, or giving someone a head start by encouragement and involvement, are all valuable ways of working together, priceless lucky breaks and connections. If it's freely given, and if you don't feel taken advantage of, then it works. Perhaps it's time to seize back value and forget price.

If I knew then...

This is a photo of a pile of stuff ready to be packed up and taken to the new flat where my youngest son and his girlfriend are going to live. On top of the pile is a dhurrie, one of two given to me as wedding present over forty years ago. They had asked if they could take them to the new flat, and I had got them ready to go. Thinking back to that June day in 1974, I realised that I was even younger than they are now. The marriage didn't last, but I have never regretted it. I had a home and stability after the unsettled years of boarding school , with parents on the other side of the world. I got through university with a degree and bought my first house in those early married days. I have watched the process of the flat search in Bakewell, not known for its cheap and cheerful property prices and with a general reluctance on the part of landlords and estate agents to let to young people. Finally they have found one, a great attic space in an old Georgian building. My sensible inner voice thinks that they would be better off continuing to live with me. If they paid me a proper rent and bills, my own financial anxieties would be lifted too. But it's important that they have their own place, learn their own lessons and enjoy their independence. Walking down the steep hill between my house and the town centre I watched a young child running faster and faster, as his mother called 'Be careful! You might fall!' It brought home to me how we give our children negative messages out of fear and hard experience. If I had been warned off my early marriage, I wouldn't have taken that risk. There are many other points in my life where an apparently foolish risk taking took me somewhere I didn't expect to be. Even last year's leap in the dark to become an archive trainee wasn't a sensible move. After all, I had a permanent full time job at the time. I haven't got one now. So taking a chance or two in life is an essential part of growing up and enjoying the process. If I had known then, what I know now, then I would never have had the chance to learn what I now know!

Manx for the memories

This series of photos were taken in the Isle of Man on a recent visit. I have been going there on holiday to visit family and friends for most of my life. As a place and a landscape it is part of my soul. It's been a Viking raiding post, an internment camp in both world wars and a popular twentieth century tourist destination. The boarding houses made way for the financial institutions and parts of the island are now showing the effects of the recession years. As a child I met Manx friends of my aunts who understood and shared their sense of their own past and folklore, inspiring me to explore those subjects in my own life. I have taken my children on holiday to the island . My godmother still lives there. I've been to the TT and the Manx Grand Prix. I have seen the fairies at Fairy Bridge. I've heard the story of the Black Dog of Peel Castle, the Moddy Dhoo. I've climbed the battlements of Castle Rushen and sung 'Ellan Vannin' in the Glue Pot in Castletown.I've watched the seals in Peel Harbour,collected delicately coloured snail shells from Niarbyl Bay and been amazed by the Manx crosses in Maughold churchyard.I've been to Tynwald and seen the oldest parliament at work.As a child I met Gerald Gardner, king of the witches,at Witches Mill. I have favourite rocks and and views. These photos hold the ghosts of past visits, holiday memories, loved ones. The island' fortunes ebb and flow. The three legs of man land on their feet, whichever way you throw them.

Fire and Rain

Just yesterday morning, they let me know you were gone. Early one morning, nearly ten years ago now, I got a phone call from my friend Joyce's sister, letting me know that she had passed away. There was relief in the shock and sadness.She had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour about eighteen months before. She was told to go out and do all the things she wanted to do before the symptoms caught up with her. She cashed in her pension and took a lump sum on her life insurance.She went to Venice for the last time. She made the most of life whist she could, until she became confined to bed at home and in a hospice. She was a remarkable and interesting woman and a great friend to me and my children. We met through an alternative health course I was teaching as an evening class. We bonded over many shared interests, and had some excellent adventures. It was through Joyce that I appeared on the Antiques Roadshow with my arts and crafts fire screen.Her mother had been an early star, with her Wheeldon exhibition tea pot,later sold to buy her council house in Liverpool. What a story! So we were treated as VIPs whenever we went to see it recorded. I still see us in the crowd if they show some repeats. One of our shared interests was the music of James Taylor. This was at a stage in my life, when as a single parent on a limited income, I was unable to go to live music concerts. Babysitters, transport, tickets, logistics - it was all too complicated.We discovered that James Taylor was appearing at the Bridgewater Hall in Manchester. It was sold out, but the box office suggested we phone on the day for late seats. We did, and we got two. Her husband came to babysit, we jumped in the car and raced over to Manchester for an unforgettable night. Over the next couple of years, we saw James Taylor twice more. I knew she had planned her funeral, a humanist service. I knew there would be a James Taylor song, and I expected to hear You've Got a Friend, the soundtrack to our friendship. I was caught up in the lyrics of Fire and Rain, 'I always though I'd see you again'. She had chosen 'Shower the people you love with love' and I try to live up to it. One of the sad things is that she has never appeared in my dreams, as far as I know, I never have seen her again, unless you count those occasional and accidental glimpses on an old Antiques Roadshow. The reason I am writing this is that I have just booked to see James Taylor in Manchester next month.Friends gave me a ticket voucher for my big birthday, and it has covered the cost of one ticket. Too expensive to invite anyone to come with me, so I am going on my own. Except I won't be alone. I know it will bring back so many memories. Joyce and I should have celebrated these big birthdays together. This is one way of doing it.

Home thoughts on abroad

I listen to the Today programme on Radio 4 for an hour or so whilst I am getting up in the morning. I catch about ten minutes of Woman's Hour on my drive to work. Most days I can absorb the opinions and information, but this week I am moved to write something, more for myself than anyone out there who reads this. I know I may reveal a political naivety or an idealistic rather than pragmatic approach here too. I'll start with Woman's Hour. I can't be the only listener who finds it patronising. Maybe it's my age. I don't consider myself old, I think of myself as mature and experienced. I know that my generation were movers and shakers back in the 60s and 70s. I still have plans and dreams, and some of them get transformed into reality. I would prefer to plan to live in a commune than sheltered housing for the over 50s. I'm happy to share meals with people of all ages, but I don't want to be described as a grandmother ( and I am not! ) simply on the basis of my age and my ability to cook. Because of changes in pension entitlement, I have to continue working and applying for jobs for the next 5 years, in competition with younger people. I don't envy them. At least I am doing it from a position of experience and employment. It is a potentially soul destroying process. Especially when you hear about the random ways HR departments whittle down the volume of applications. I know I can switch off the radio if I don't like what I hear, but I am intrigued to follow how women's issues are being dealt with on what considers itself a serious radio programme. The Today programme has been particularly interesting this week. The sad news about Robin Williams gave Adrian Strain the chance to share his thoughts on his son's suicide and his work as a Samaritan. His comments on his conversation with the policeman attending his son's death will stay with me for ever. As a Samaritan, 90% of his suicidal callers are women.The policeman revealed that 90% of the suicides they attend are young men. Women talk, men take violent action against themselves. Heart breaking.I have lost friends to suicide over the decades, like many other people. Could you have done more? Would a chance intervention have changed the course of their lives? Adrian Strain suggested a very practical intervention for young men presenting with stress at their doctor's surgery. Of course a sick note presupposes you have work to be absent from. And that's another factor. Finally Gaza, Iraq and Russia. Listening to Paddy Ashdown on Radio 4 this morning made me realise that WW1 and even th Great Game are still creating ripples through present day politics. The Sykes Picot agreement and the containment of Russia's power before the Revolution. He described it as a convulsion. An interesting image. If an airlift of refugees from a mountain in Iraq can be planned by international powers, then why can't women, children and the vulnerable be taken out of danger in Gaza? I remember breaking up arguments between Iraqui, Kurdish and Iranian students on a regular basis at a language school in Manchester in 1981. They tried to explain, and I could only relate it to Northern Ireland at the time. And my other naive question, as Paddy Ashdown talked about the type of interventions he thought would help, is where is Tony Blair in all this? Is he on holiday? I thought this was his role as envoy in the Middle East. And each time I hear a broadcaster say Sunny and Shia, it sounds like a tragic joke waiting to happen.

Rites of Passage

My daughter and her lovely boyfriend got engaged a few weeks ago, much to everyone's great joy. The proposal took place on the oldest working wooden roller coaster, in Tivoli Gardens, Copenhagen. I like the symbolism. The roller coaster of life. There has been a flurry of decisions and arrangements as a date and venue are set for this time next year.On Thursday morning we went to look at wedding dresses at a proper specialist wedding dress shop, a new experience for both of us. She looked gorgeous in all the ones she had chosen to try on. When I got married the first time, we had a traditional wedding. My parents seemed to organise it and they certainly paid for it. I remember meeting the vicar,and going for lunch at the hotel we later booked for the reception. My bridesmaid and I went to choose a boutique bought long dress for her to wear. My husband to be had a white suit made, at a bespoke tailors. A clothing designer friend made my dress for me. I can recall going to buy the fabric, blues and creams, floral and floaty with ribbons and flowers and butterflies in lace. I wish I had kept it. I hand wrote the invitations, using cards with an image of Breughel's wedding feast. None of it was stressful. I was doing my first year exams at University a few weeks before the date. The style of the wedding was traditional, but the friends who came were a troupe of beautiful hippies. Velvet jackets,long curly cavalier hair styles for the men, ethnic dresses,flowing locks,loon pants and embroidered mirrored t-shirts. I need to look for the photos. A bright sunshiny day. My second wedding was simple and a secret, with two good friends as witnesses. It took place in a registry office, and we only announced it after the event. I wore a white cotton dress from Warehouse, where I was working at the time. There are only two photos. So once a bridesmaid, twice a bride and here I am as the mother of the bride. It's forty years since my first marriage. Things have changed in the wedding world, and it's going to be an exciting and interesting time. No doubt I will write about some of it here.

Eyeless in Gaza

Some weeks bring strange connections. My work as a guide at Chatsworth means that I spend some time talking about Tintoretto's Samson and Delilah to visitors, a 16th century Italian interpretation of the biblical story. A figure hides under a table, watching as a servant combs and cuts Samson's hair, as he lies against Delilah, oblivious in sleep.The hidden figure is waiting for his chance to blind Samson once his strength is destroyed. Some visitors are familiar with the story, others aren't. Last Saturday I went to see Doors Alive, a tribute to the Doors and Jim Morrison, at the Lowry. A review is due to be published on the Penny Black Music website. The show is called Perception, in acknowledgement of Aldous Huxley's book, The Doors of Perception, the source of the band's name. Aldous Huxley also wrote a novel, Eyeless in Gaza. Words and phrases, titles and names, all in a connecting wheel with their own associations. And then there is the news from Gaza each day.

Oh the Sisters of Mercy

Each time I listen to the news there is a new confirmation of the terrible discoveries in Tuam, County Galway. Infant bodies in a mass grave, in a septic tank of all places. Such disrespect on so many levels. Like many people hearing these news stories I am deeply shocked, but as someone who survived convent boarding school for four years, I am not surprised. Recently my sister lent me a book, Childhood Interrupted by Kathleen O'Malley. She and her siblings were taken into care ( a word that must surely have a new meaning nowadays)and brought up in an Industrial School run by the Sisters of Mercy, who also ran the now infamous Magdalene Laundries. I recognised the breed of nun described there. Moral righteousness combined with cruel arrogance. God was on their side. I attended convent schools throughout my education . My primary school and grammar school were run by nuns from the Faithful Companions of Jesus order, who also ran a teacher training college in Manchester. They were religious and strict, but never cruel. In fact it was the older generation of lay teachers who put the fear of god into me at grammar school. When my sisters and I went to boarding school we met a very different type of nun. Our parents were in the Far East, where my father had taken a job as a civil engineer. Airmail letters took two weeks and in my misery there I used to joke that we would be dead and buried before my parents knew anything about it. It's hard to believe how difficult international communication was in the late 60s and early 70s. These nuns had a cruel arrogance I had never met before. Of the two kind ones, one left and the other had a breakdown. Perhaps we were singled out because our parents were so far away. Much of the unpleasantness affected us all though. Some of it was laughable. Confiscated non regulation underwear and tampax. Limited laundry and bath timetables. Hair washing once a week. All punishable if ignored, and of course as growing teenage girls who cared about how we looked and smelt, we did ignore it. Tales of punishments from the junior part of the school, where my younger sister lived. We weren't allowed to visit her. She was 7 when she went there. I was 13 and my other sister was 12. Punishments there included an iron bar across the back of your legs and being made to spend the night in a reputedly haunted room. The milk of human kindness for these lonely small children. We were more rebellious and resilient at the senior school. Sneaking letters out to friends, especially boys, via the day girls. Even to our parents so that they weren't censored by the nuns. They never believed us anyway. They were paying for the privilege of our boarding school education and there were many and varied reasons why we were closeted away there. In the years after I left, looking back on the peculiar education, the attitude of the nuns to us and the wider world, I felt sorry for them. They were dealing with teenage girls living the mid to late 1960s, with all its changing attitudes. It was beyond anything they were familiar with in Ireland and they only had their cruelty to try and control us. As these stories emerge in the press I realise that these nuns, unlike the first nuns I encountered at school,were of the same habit as the Sisters of Mercy. They weren't from that order, they were Presentation Sisters, but their attitudes and expectations were only a whisker away from them. They would have been capable I am sure. There's so much more I could write. Over the years I have alternately felt sympathy for them, utter contempt, benign dislike and occasionally sentimental at the strange bond that is created for those who have endured a convent education. A few years ago I was relieved to discover that there were radical environmental activist nuns in the States. It restored my faith in the potential of a religious life. Needless to say I am no longer a practising catholic, though I still consider myself a cultural one by virtue of my education. They say we make our own hell. When I hear these revelations in the news, I hope that's true.

Carnival time and Flaming Lips

This time ten years ago I was writing up my dissertation for an MA in Folklore and Cultural Tradition. My chosen subject was carnival and I described and analysed my local carnival tradition in Bakewell in a study entitled Good Deeds and Bad Behaviour. As carnival season in Derbyshire approaches I am reminded of the background reading as well as the observation and participant involvement that went into my final piece of work. The topsy turvey aspects of carnival traditions mean that roles are reversed and truth can be spoken in jest. It's also a liminal experience, a space and time between our everyday worlds, where anything can happen. Men dress as women, women dress as fairies, children dress as aliens and anyone can take on an animal disguise. There are grotesque figures, giants, and cartoon characters from popular culture. On Tuesady night I went to see Flaming Lips, in all their glory, with their spectacular stage show featuring giant inflatable aliens, suns, stars and caterpillars with butterfly wings. There were women dressed as face painted fairies and men dressed as furry animals. Wayne Coyne was resplendent in a Lycra body suit that looked like exposed muscle,with no protective layer of skin, but accessorised with tinsel strands in strategic places. I had a strange desire to be an academic again, to have the opportunity to analyse and describe Flaming Lips and their stage shows through the eyes of a folklorist, discussing their approach to the carnivalesque, incorporating Mikhail Bakhtin's notion of carnival as grotesque realism. But I will content myself with sharing these thoughts on this blog post. If anyone knows of any academic approaches to Flaming Lips and their work,please send me some links. In the meantime, here's a link to Mels's fantastic images on Louder Than War. http://louderthanwar.com/flaming-lips-manchester-apollo-live-review/

Love Goes to Building On Fire once more

Around this time last year there was a devastating fire in central Manchester and a fireman lost his life. As I walked past the gutted building and watched the work that went on to make it safe and then rebuild it, my thoughts always went out to him and his family and colleagues. Gutted is the right word here, an ugly word, but used for emotional trauma as well as a physical description of what fire can do. As I left work yesterday, the signal kicked in on my phone. A text message from my son told me he was safe, but that Glasgow School of Art was in flames. In the other world that is Chatsworth, no social media, mobile phones or email updates in our world as guides in the house, I had been blissfully unaware.i was very thankful for the message when the news came on the car radio. Charles Rennie Mackintosh and the Glasgow School of Art has been part of my life since I was a teenager when those wonderful designs for fabric and jewellery came into my consciousness and into vogue. That led to an appreciation and awareness of the architecture and furniture he designed. It was part of the hippy fascination with art nouveau and art deco as I was growing up. Eventually those jewellery designs became ubiquitous, but always lovely. When my son was applying to do fine art at university, he got an interview at Glasgow. Eight places on the course, sixteen called for interview. That seemed a huge achievement. I went with him to Glasgow, took a tour of the School of Art whilst he was in his interview. It was like a dream come true, to see the building and furniture I had only seen in books and photographs. The sense of identity and pride was palpable. It's a place with presence, meaning and history on so many levels. For the individual students who have been there, for the people of Glasgow, for people who care about and make art. A spiritual place. A place with spirit. That spirit will be called upon now. The news this morning is that far more of the structure of the building and the work within it has been saved than any of us could ever have imagined looking at those devastatingly destructive flames on the news yesterday. I have been involved in fire salvage plans and fire evacuation training through my work in heritage and public places. Suddenly all that theory becomes reality as I think of how much work must have been done yesterday by the fire teams and staff, working to those plans. The miracle that there was no loss of life is also an amazing outcome. I know that modern conservation techniques can bring things back from the brink. I hope there's a wave of help and expertise heading Glasgow's way. My son didn't get in to do his first degree there. It was a hard knock, but he went to Sheffield Hallam and it all worked out well. After several years of working and continuing his creative practice he got in to Glasgow last autumn to do his MA. He's there for two years. He has just finished his first year, had his interim show. That's why the text message to say he was OK was so important. My heart goes out to the students and staff who have to deal with this shocking experience. This morning it feels more hopeful and the Phoenix will rise I am sure.

Response and responsibility

Part of the process of transition for me returning to Bakewell is picking up the responsibilities I was able to avoid whilst I lived near the Nico Ditch.Car and computer, house and garden, family and cat, all alongside starting a new job. Luckily my place of work is familiar in some ways, but my role there is different.I used to deliver tours, emphasising highlights of the house, its history and its collections. Now I'm getting the chance to deepen my knowledge of the art and sculpture in the collections, and making more connections within the house and its history. One day I might be in a room with Egyptian statues of Sekhmet, brought from the temple at Karnak to Derbyshire in the 19th century. Another day I might be in the presence of a subtly powerful Rembrandt painting, or an image of a baby, drawn in 1490. Visitors to the house come from all over the world. It's on many people's wish list. It's an amazing place to work on many levels. Hopefully it will help me get through this period of transition.

Redemption Song

I have struggled to write this blog since I left my job and flat in Manchester - a definite period of transition. Adjustments to be made. On Thursday 10th April I went to a meeting at the Imperial War Museum North, finishing off my involvement with a World War One project started in the archives of Greater Manchester. Take a look at the GM1914 Wordpress blog and Centenary Connections from IWM, with an app in development to help you explore stories when you are out and about. I met one of my much missed colleagues from Archives + for lunch in Central Library. After the meeting I headed for the Manchester Art Gallery. One of the exhibitions is of images of Central Library as a refurbishment work in progress and a sacred space in Manchester. I had great fun running around the historic stacks on behalf of the artists in residence, Dan Dubowitz and Alan Ward, in my last few weeks in the archive. My oldest friend, someone I met on my first day of school at the age of 4, was having an exhibition for one night only, though you can see her work in St Anne's church this month. She paints as Ghislaine Howard, and she works with Christian themes and values in their most human and political forms. Then I headed to Gorilla for Martin Hannett, the Redemption, a celebration of Martin organised by Chris Hewitt. The date becomes significant. Martin died on April 10th, 1991. Twenty three years ago, a significant number in Martin's approach to Life according to William Burroughs. This was no shallow celebration. There was deep history, with long memories, old friends and musical connections that went back to the earliest days of involvement in a Manchester music scene. You can read about it if you google Chris Hewitt's event, or news of his documentary DVD and new book about Martin. You will get the roll call of those involved too, and I am aware that I missed some of them out in my recent rushed review for Louder Than War. From the young man performing John Cooper Clarke songs with the Invisible Girls, who I didn't know, to old friends like Steve Hopkins, Chris Lee and Bob Dickinson up onstage, there were some amazing people there paying tribute. Victor Brox, George Borowski, Paul Burgess, names and faces I recognised, musicians from my own young days. It could have been the Arts Lab as Steve Hopkins said. Alan Wise and Tosh Ryan told stories and shared memories. CP Lee made us laugh and sang a Love song, Alone Again Or. One of my 'funeral' songs , a song that has haunted me from the first time I heard it. Dave Formula of Magazine conjured up the man through Martin's synthesiser programme in one of the most moving and poignant performances of the evening. There were ghosts on film. Martin interviewed by Tony Wilson for Granada. Younger incarnations of those there for the evening, interviewed back in the 1990s. There was a shrine to Martin of his sound equipment, possessions, posters, ephemera, all priceless and preserved by Chris Hewitt. I caught up with friends I expected to see, with friends I hoped to see, and with some very unexpected connections. There were strands running through the day. It was through my artist friend that I first met Tony Wilson as a teenager, as her brother was his close friend at school. It was through the Hopkins family and 355 Wilbraham Road that I met Martin. Sadly our friendship didn't survive his involvement in Factory Records and drugs. I didn't go to his funeral because I couldn't face going to a funeral on the first anniversary of another friend's funeral.I rarely got back to Manchester at the time, as I had young children, and it seemed unbearable that I was only going back for funerals of friends who had died too young. April 18th 1990 was the funeral of a friend who had survived the drugs but died in a climbing accident, leaving a young family. Martin's death had the same mix of life cut short and a family left bereft. The most unexpected reconnection on Thursday night was with a couple who had been great friends through my late teens and early twenties, who had been part of my climbing friend's crowd, and who I hadn't seen since that 1990 funeral. It's at times like this that I wish I could express these connections in some other form. Explaining their impact on me in words seems too long winded. A painting, a soundscape, a piece of music or a length of woven cloth would be better. I was very aware of the absence of Martin too. What might he have achieved if he had lived to be our age.

Cowboy Dreams and Singing Cowboys

There's a fashion for major artists to reconnect with their fans by playing small venues. On Thursday 20th March a singer who can fill concert halls in Scandinavia, who supported Tori Amos on a recent US tour, played a support spot at the Ruby Lounge on Communion's tour. Thomas Dybdahl is a Norwegian singer songwriter. I first came across his music nearly ten years ago when my son came back from New York with a few of his songs on his new I-pod. We knew nothing about the singer then, but those songs became part of the soundtrack to our family life, especially Cowboy Dreams. A few years ago we got to see him in Derby, touring solo, playing small venues, chatting to his audience. My younger son added his songs to his busking repertoire. We saw him with his band on a beautiful sunny afternoon at the Green Man Festival in 2011. So when I saw he was playing the Ruby Lounge, I was thrilled but puzzled. Why such a small venue? A small but very enthusiastic audience of fans gathered, some of them fellow Norwegians. They knew he had sold out the concert hall in Oslo the week before. This was a living room experience of a gig, in the Ruby Lounge. Thomas was genuinely surprised at the warmth of the reception. We knew the songs, we knew the words. He has that ability to connect with his audience that makes a performance memorable long after the event. He is charming and chatty . It became a conversation. He asked for requests, inviting the audience to ask him questions . It was cosy. He gave us the back stories to the songs. Life Here is Gold was written in a hot tub in Bahrain. A Love Story was for a film soundtrack. He sang an old favourite, Cecilia, revealing something of his relationship history in the process. It's about the girl he didn't get. He did an acoustic version of Let's Party Like it's 1929. He finished the set with Love is Here to Stay from his latest album.He had dreamt the first chord of this particular song. He had no merchandise, but he talked to people at the bar, posing for photos and chatting in Norwegian and English. It was a very special night. New friends and favourite music. He gets compared to Jeff Buckley and that would be a starting point if you think you might like him, but he is a very distinctive writer and singer. I had intended to post this review on one of the sites I write for, because I want to spread the word about him, but I have no photos to post with it. Tonight,one of my friends reminded me of Arthur Lee and Love's song ' Singing Cowboy'. When we met Thomas in Derby, he told us our favourite song 'Cowboy Dreams' hadn't been released. How did it find its way onto my son's iPod in New York? The lovely Norwegian girls I met at the Ruby Lounge told me that Thomas' Stavanger dialect is very distinctive, and very different to Oslo - more different than our northern and southern accents and dialects! I had no idea. http://www.thomasdybdahl.com/ Sent from my iPad

Farewell, farewell

Yesterday was my last day as an Opening Up Archives trainee with the Greater Manchester Record Office. I saw the advert for this National Archive sponsored scheme in the Guardian over Christmas 2012. I had a full time job in a beautiful place, Haddon Hall in Derbyshire, literally on my doorstep. But I knew if I didn't apply for this one year post in archives, in Manchester, I would regret it for ever. So I threw caution and my fate to the winds and filled in the application. In February I was invited for interview and was offered the job. The Marshall Street location, on the scruffier shore of the Northern Quarter and Ancoats, couldn't have been further from my working surroundings at Haddon. What would it be like to step out of that door on a dark winter's evening? Could I hack a return to Manchester? These concerns became insignificant when snow fell at the end of March 2013, just as I was about to start. Buxton, where I had intended to catch the train, was cut off for days. Snow was still piled high in drifts created by the snow ploughs at the beginning of April. I arranged to travel over to Manchester the day before I started work to be sure of arriving on time. Things settled into a pattern. The commute to work using the Hope Valley line introduced me to old and new friends. The archive collection introduced me to familiar material I had brought into a different archive in the early 1980s. It also allowed me to explore stories from the archives I will never forget.Old friends appeared at every turn. New friends and colleagues added to the enjoyment.Then I got the offer of a base in Manchester for the winter, in a 1930s apartment block I had fantasised about living in for years. New opportunities opened up at every turn. Great connections with Melanie Smith of Mudkiss, leading to writing music reviews . Wonderful rekindled friendships at Hardy's Well. Finally, in the last few weeks, I was caught up in the reopening of Central Library, a building that represents so much that is good about Manchester and means so much to so many generations of people who have called Manchester their home. More on that in another post. Yesterday one aspect of my homecoming came to an end. Tomorrow I will leave the lovely studio flat that has been my second home for the last six months. It has been wonderful to come home to Manchester, to feel so stimulated and yet so relaxed in the city that always had great significance for me in the past. I wasn't sure how we would fit together again this time last year. Now I know that we will never be apart! I don't know what the future will bring, but I'll never doubt my identity as a Mancunian. This mysterious little staircase in Central Library seems to symbolise my mood. I'm not sure where I'm heading, but thanks to my year in Manchester, I know it's going to be intriguing.

Kurt's Karass

Kurt Vonnegut is one of my favourite writers. I like his style. I like his thoughts and ideas. He also gave a name to something I recognise in my own life, the concept of karass. Coincidentally it was someone I have now reconnected with in Manchester who first introduced me to karass back when I was a teenager. Karass is defined as a group of people linked in a cosmically significant manner, even when superficial links are not evident. As a teenager who had been cut off from family and childhood friends when I was sent away from Manchester to boarding school, this was a word that helped give a name to the significant friendships and connections I made as I created my new family of friends to replace the family life I had lost. Coming back to Manchester has made me acutely aware of those connections, some lost in the past, but more than I could have imagined have returned to my present. I was invited to a birthday party this week by Melanie Smith of Mudkiss Photography. We have been doing music reviews together for a couple of months. She takes amazing photos and she had been asked to go and take some party photos. The party was for someone I thought I had no connection with. Aziz Ibrahim was part of The Stone Roses and that era of Manchester's music history isn't mine. I'd moved out of town and was bringing up my family. Then I realised that he'd been part of Simply Red and Asia. Simply Red as a band were good friends and even helped me move house once upon a time. They had a van and needed the money. Geoff Downes of Asia, and the Bugles, was part of my group of friends at university. A couple of us were out for a catch up drink with him the night Bugles went to number one. Listening to Aziz talk about his friends,his schooldays, his family of relatives and musicians, his support and connections, his homecoming to Manchester, I was reminded of the concept of karass. A fiftieth birthday is a good time to reflect on where you come from and where you're going. His support for young musicians was obvious. He gave them a chance to showcase their talents to his guests. He's now part of their karass. I used to live and work in Longsight in the late 1970s. It occurred to me that Aziz might have been one of the teenagers I used to pass on my way to work or the market. I started the evening feeling a bit of a gatecrasher. By the end of the evening I felt like one of the family.

What it's all about

Yesterday I spent the day in Manchester.I don't usually spend Saturdays here, but I had tickets to go and see the Tord Gustaven Ensemble at the Royal Northern College of Music in the evening. I planned to head for the Old Parsonage in Didsbury to see an exhibition and performance by Sarah Coggrave in the afternoon. Before I set off for Withington and Didsbury I went in search of the Nico Ditch in Platt Fields. When I started this new blog, I intended it to be about those things that are close by, still waiting to be discovered. An Anglo Saxon earthwork in Fallowfield is one of them. Later, walking through Withington I recalled the squat where I lived for a short time in the summer of 1973 and met my first husband. Ghost Busters at the Scala cinema with its late night films and audience participation. Hanging out at The Red Lion as a teenager. The Victoria pub, with its amazing elderly lady pianist who could play any tune with Mrs Mills flair. A favourite Italian restaurant where I ate farfalle al salmone for the first time, now a regular home cooked dish. Walking on, I passed the Bridge Club that Omar Sharif was rumoured to visit when he was in town. Houses where friends used to live. Places where I think they still live. My first experience of babysitting. A sudden memory of where an old boyfriend had lived. Bedsit manoeuvres and flats with windows open, Grateful Dead on the air. I took a photograph of the house on Central Rd where my two older children were born, the eldest to the sounds of Vini Reilly's guitar, drifting through from the next door room. On and on. Along Burton Rd, past long vanished shops where I had worked, where I met my second husband. Ghosts and presences. The old Midland Hotel, the new tram stop. The Ape House,Village Green, Northen Grove, Rabid Records. Back and forth across the years. My own stories attached to places I didn't expect to see again. Taller tales told of bombs under drug squad Jaguars. A dog that used to shop lift tins of food from the delicatessen. Ceremonies in the cellar of a green grocers to get rid of the bad luck attached to the shop next door. Vintage clothes and fair isle jumpers. Walking down Barlow Moor Rd, I recalled yoga classes where baby came too at Fielden Park. The Cheese Hamlet is still going strong. Is there a hologram of Carol and Trevor's old shop there behind a new facade? There were houses I recognised and houses I had never noticed before. Edwardian villas, and Victorian cottages, Arts and Crafts family homes and flat conversions. Were they hidden behind hedges, or did I walk round with my eyes closed ? By the time I got to the Old Parsonage I was somewhere else in time and space. Fletcher Moss was where we walked our new dog, our first shared responsibility before children came along. I sat there one sunny Saturday, trying to come to terms with the implications of winning enough money on the pools to continue the homoeopathy course I'd started and thought I couldn't afford to finish. My own sense of history was overwhelming, but I was also curious to know more about the places I hadn't remembered and recognised. Perfect timing for Sarah's exhibition, A House in Didsbury. We had met when she came to the archive where I work to do some research on the owners of the house where she lives. The name of the house led her back into the story of the Armenian community in Manchester, and her exhibition and performance was in response to that. I had no idea how rich my own sense of my past would be in that small area of a South Manchester suburb. Where the Tord Gustavsen concert took me later will have to wait for another day. One last thing. I travelled back to Manchester today from Bakewell on the transpeak bus. There were roadworks and hold ups in Hazel Grove. While we were waiting, I got talking to the couple behind me. He was brought up in Withington, and as he talked about the area, he told me that his elderly mother had played piano at the Victoria pub back in the day, back in my day.

Women's Day

Today, March 8th, is International Women's Day. I have shared, posted and tweeted about it on my work social media platforms. I have also commented on a couple of posts on my personal Facebook pages. This may turn out to be the most personal blog post I have ever written. Even though it may appear that I share some very personal information, I always write with awareness of what I am prepared to make public. I am also very careful not to be critical of people I know. As some of you know, I have three wonderful children. All three were born at home, two in Manchester and the youngest in Bakewell. My second husband is the father of my older two, and that marriage broke up when I met the father of my youngest, who also claimed to have had a vasectomy. I was incredibly fortunate to be able to arrange home births for all three, with fantastic care on the NHS. The midwives who looked after me before, during and after those births were thrilled and excited to be involved. Not everyone wants a home birth, but it was really important to me. I was especially lucky because I was considered an older mother at 30 when I had my first. I officially became a single parent just before my youngest child's third birthday. A few alarm bells, but no real warning signs. My oldest was just about to start secondary school. I had a part time job and worked as a homoeopath and reflexologist on a self employed basis. I had some child care arranged for my youngest, but not enough to cover my work commitments. I had to drop weekend and evening appointments, give up a practice room. I can remember feeling almost hysterical as he drove off, in my car, into the distance. It lasted about ten minutes and then I had to work things out. I know I cried a lot over the next couple of weeks, but that was the shock. My next door neighbour, a very good friend and my mother came and helped, taking it in turns to cover my part time working week. When I read criticism of single parents on benefits, or read about government schemes to get women back to work, I wish they knew what it was like to juggle home, work, children and the rest. It only takes one of the family to be ill or off colour and the whole careful balancing act tumbles. And then there are the school holidays. I found myself helping out friends in the holidays or after school because I had no choice but to be organised for all eventualities. Then my parents moved to Bakewell. Halcyon days. The older two got older. They were an enormous help. Then my parents got older. New worries and concerns. As the years went by I shifted what I did and how I did it to fit round my family commitments. I even did a part time MA. My younger sister took my youngest on holiday with her to give me a long weekend to write up my thesis. That's all it takes sometimes. Last month I went for an interview for a one year, lowly paid post. The interviewer,a woman, asked me if my varied CV indicated a lack of focus. I was too shocked by the question to respond as I would now. I started to explain about the shifts in child care and responsibilities that had taken me from part time and flexible self employed work, to full time but unsocial hours, back to part time and then full time again. What I should have said is that it showed that I was fully focused on balancing my responsibilities to my family and myself. I have had help from unexpected sources and a complete lack of support from some I would have expected it from. I never dreamt in my wildest nightmares that I would bring up a family in this way, with such single minded responsibility. It is a credit to my children that they made it the rewarding and fulfilling experience it has been. The friends and family who have helped along the way have also been a huge part of that. Like the fridge magnet says ' you can't scare me, I have children'.

A City Speaks

' A City Speaks' is the title of a film made in 1947, described as Manchester's Civic Film. Commissioned during the Second World War,it celebrates the achievements and the ambitions for the redevelopment of the city. Housing, health, leisure and culture are all represented. Documentary film maker Paul Rotha took over the production in 1944 and the film premiered at the Odeon in 1947. Every time I travel round Manchester, especially on the bus down through the Oxford Road corridor, past the Universities, or when I wait for the transpeak bus at Chorlton Street coach station, I am both thrilled and amazed at the diversity of the languages I hear. I try and identify the language from snatches of vocabulary. I can manage Italian, Spanish, Polish, German, Japanese, Chinese and of course French. Then there's Urdu and Arabic. I listen out for North African French because it reminds me of living in Morocco. I found myself following an excitable conversation in French last week and then realised that my satisfaction in being able to recognise what they were talking about meant that I was eavesdropping! There's such a mix of nationalities in the city. Some are passing through,students and post graduates.Others are born and brought up here, with Manchester accents and the ability to speak a family language fluently. I don't know why I worry about eavesdropping. People don't usually talk to one another on the bus, but they will have phone conversations about the most personal topics and seem oblivious to the fact that they are sharing those thoughts and feelings with a bus full of strangers! It's a great insight into what the city says.

Let's go crazy

Some readers of this blog will have realised that I got to see Prince at the weekend. Some of my friends hadn't realised that I had such respect for Prince as an artist. Back in 1992, when he had already been around for some years, I was cleaning a shop that we had just rented in Sheffield. Radio One was on and there was a Paul Gambaccini special about Prince and his music. I'd always liked his songs, but I didn't really get where he had come from and what he was doing. It was a revelation. I never expected to see him. I certainly never imagined seeing him in a small venue in Manchester. I was quite content with my plan to see the Strypes with Mel Smith. When we left Academy 2 there was a new queue outside in the rain. There was the chance of getting in to Prince's late show, or at least to see part of the performance underway. Mel had her bank card. Neither of us had any cash. When we got to the ticket desk we were told cash only. Massive disappointment. Then the couple behind us said they'd lend us the cash and we could meet them and pay them back after the show. Such excitement, such goodwill. We got into a packed Academy One to hear Raspberry Beret. There were four or five further songs in the encore, and then they left the stage. No one knew what was going on, not even the security men, who we knew were booked to work till 3.30am because one who had chosen to work on the Strypes concert told us. Usually the Academy is cleared within minutes of the house lights going up. We must have hung around for over an hour. There was a queue round the building. Word had gone out on twitter that the late show was happening. But it didn't. We managed to find the generous couple, who had put in a complaint before leaving. There was talk of refunds if we got in touch with the box office on Saturday morning. By Saturday morning the Manchester Evening News was announcing that tickets for the late show would be honoured for Saturday night. I went down to the students' union box office to check and it still wasn't official. Eventually it was confirmed. Plans were changed and plans were made. About 150 of us had bought late show tickets for half price. We were invited to join our own special queue. Very welcome as the other queues snaked round the block in both directions. People had been there since early morning, both ticket holders and hopefuls. It was amazing. He was incredible and his band were fantastic. I also got to write a review for Louder Than War which you can read on the LTW website. There are a few more things I'd like to say about the whole experience. I realise that when I review I am interested in how the music and performance makes me feel, what memories and associations it sparks. I'm no good at set lists and the technical stuff. When we were waiting in our exclusive queue a woman commented that everyone there would be over 40, as that was his era. She was wrong. There were people of all ages there. She had missed the point that Prince is still current, still creating, still influencing a young generation of artists who are playing with their creative output and their image and persona.This wasn't about nostalgia, in spite of the youngsters dressed in Purple Rain fashions and in spite of the fact that we all knew the lyrics well enough to sing along, testify, play a part. I would never have wanted to go and see him in an arena. To be up near the stage, so close that you felt that you could catch his eye, or kid yourself he had caught yours, was perfect. He reminds me of those who have gone. Michael Jackson who worked that soulful falsetto. Jimi Hendrix who played rock guitar. Shades of Funkadelic, Norman Whitfield's production, the Undisputed Truth. I'd love to hear him and 3rdeyegirl do 'Smiling Faces'. He can be mocked and misunderstood. His Purpleness, his diminutive size. Size really doesn't matter. He's both sexy and androgynous, a Jehovah's witness who writes sexually charged lyrics in the best tradition of the blues and rock'n'roll. He connects and shares. He's a trickster and a tease, flirting outrageously with the crowd. I have a theory that musicians are our shamans. Not just the Princes and the Patti Smiths, but even the commercially manipulated girl or boy bands who play such a part in rites of passage in our society. Was Saturday night's shared experience physical or spiritual, sex or communion ? It was like the best kind of one night stand. You know it will never happen again but it's everything you desire at the time. And I got to be there twice!

Rock Royalty

The Manchester Histories twitter feed reminded me that earlier this week was the anniversary of Wings' appearance at Salford University. In 1972 the entourage and band turned up at Manchester University's student union building offering to play for free. The social secretary turned them down, so they headed across the border to Salford. My friends and I used to drink in the Cross Keys in Eccles. Someone came in and told us they were playing, so we jumped in my friend's mini and headed over there. The fact that it was a free concert was neither here nor there, as in those days I got in free to most venues as one of Allan Prior's hippy dance troupe. My childish crush on Paul Macartney had waned with the Beatles, but I liked Wings and it was a great show. How strange that this week brings another member of rock royalty to Manchester. There were rumours and counter rumours earlier in the week about the venue and ticket prices for Prince. In the end it came down to two nights at the Academy next to the Students' Union building, at £77 a ticket. Both Friday and Saturday nights sold out in minutes. Fans were already queuing outside when I went past on my way to work at 8.30am. Word of mouth for Wings, twitter and social media frenzy for Prince. Free of charge for Wings. A hefty ticket price by any standards for Prince. I'm sure it will be worth every penny if you are there. I'll be next door reviewing a young Irish R and B band called the Strypes. It's going to be great. Perhaps they'll put Prince on their guest list. Somewhere in their pasts are the same musical influences.

Bus stop, wet day

My weekday commute to work takes me on a bus along what is now known as the Oxford Road corridor. It's the route the students use to come into the universities. I get on at Platt Fields, just opposite where I am living during the week. There's usually a choice of buses,all vying for passengers. It's a familiar journey into the city centre. Something strange happens every morning when the bus gets to All Saints. My unconscious mind says ' this is where I get off'. There's a lurch of recognition, a kind of muscle memory, maybe a kind of this life regression. Then I relax and remember that I don't work at 8th Day or Manchester Studies any more. It's not a journey I did for more than a couple of years when I was working at either of those two places. It's not as if it's been a lifetime habit. I loved both jobs, they were emotionally intense times in terms of relationships and friendships and I did a lot of growing up when I was there. All Saints will always be part of my emotional landscape but it's thirty years since I was based there. Strong links.

Reviewing the Kaiser Chiefs

I have just written my first review for Louder Than War, thanks to Mel Smith of Mudkiss Photography. She was one of the founders of the wonderful Mudkiss website,and has recently stepped away from that to concentrate on photography. She's talented, motivated, keeps up a demanding day job and passionate about what she does.An essential combination in the world of the music business. The snow fell for the first time this winter in Manchester last night. Just when we thought spring was on its way. I had to walk from Fallowfield into the city centre as an accident had disrupted bus services. Plenty of time to think about what I was expecting from the gig. The Kaiser Chiefs at Gorilla. My attitude to the Kaiser Chiefs has been ambivalent until now. I came across them at about the same time as Franz Ferdinand came on the scene. All that First World War association. A lot of history. A lot to live up to. I couldn't quite reconcile the Kaiser Chiefs pop persona with their political lyrics. Ricky Wilson looked like a naughty schoolboy, an impression reinforced by the fact that one of my friends had been at school with him in Leeds. Then Ricky Wilson turned up as a coach on the Voice. Looking slimmer, very confident, holding his own with very experienced fellow coaches. When I knew I would be reviewing this gig, I did some homework. The Kaiser Chiefs have been around a surprisingly long time. They have built a strong following. They have survived being dropped by their first record label. They have coped with one of the founder members leaving. Most of the band have known one another since school. That's a long time and a lot of growing up together. Ricky Wilson's decision to do the Voice could have been seen as a career move on a par with going on some celebrity reality show. And then the venue. In Manchester at Gorilla. Gorilla is probably the closest to a stripped down old style club you could find. Underneath the arches of Oxford Road station, it has a great atmosphere. It's set me off analysing words. The band's lyrics - take alook at their album titles and songs. It's all fighting talk, referencing war, disaffection and conflict without being unpleasantly aggressive . So we have Gorilla with its link to Guerilla. A sold out gig - there are two meanings there. Over the top can be taken two ways. Even their new album Education, Education, Education and War references Tony Blair's 2005 speech. Angry Mob, I Predict a Riot, Cannons, Coming Home, ' we the people created equal'. There are some powerful messages there. They played old favourites and new songs. The audience were there to have a great time - a golden ticket for a fan. A band full of confidence and experience playing a small venue. Someone on the bus remarked that it was a step down from arenas. Quite the reverse. It was a chance to break down the barricades. Ricky Wilson worked the room, moving through the crowd to climb the scaffolding to the balcony, sharing beer and phone photos.He's a fantastic front man. I have never seen a band apologise for getting too comfortable. He talked about getting the hunger back. He certainly has a lean and hungry look nowadays and it suits him. Even the security man was impressed. I am working with stories from the First World War every day at the moment. I had a vision of them as a band of Pals, surviving and thriving, looking out for one another, taking their inspiration from past conflicts and present tensions. I'm a new fan. And it seems fitting that my first review for Louder Than War is this band. Music as instrument for change. http://louderthanwar.com/ http://www.mudkissphotography.co.uk/#/ http://www.mudkiss.com/ http://www.kaiserchiefs.com/

Tales of the Unexpected

In the last couple of weeks I have reconnected with a few old friends. Much of the experience of returning to Manchester has involved friendships old and new, as those of you have followed my blog posts will know. As the weeks fly by, accelerating to the end of my one year contract, I had thought that the coincidences and connections were tailing off. However at a birthday celebration I met someone who was a friend of mine when I was in my late teens.She and her beautiful children came to my first wedding. We stayed in touch for a while, but life intervened and we lost touch. It was wonderful to meet up so unexpectedly after nearly forty years! The following week another friend came to visit, passing through Manchester. We were friends in our teens, wrote to one another from our respective boarding schools, and I was devastated to be told he had died of an overdose when he was about 18. Except he hadn't. About six years ago my sister was wondering if his brother was related to one of the parents at her son's school. They shared an unusual surname. I googled the brothers and found my late lamented friend, alive and well, with a work email address! Our parents worked in the Far East and through him I have been in touch with others from those far off Sarawak days. The strange thing is that our paths had crossed but we hadn't met. We'd even been at the same concerts. I just never expected to see him. Would I have thought he was a ghost? Last weekend I went to a one day course on folk song in England at Sheffield University, organised by the English Folk Dance and Song Society. I had booked my place last August. There were a few familiar faces there. One of my lecturers from my MA, ten years ago now. A friend from the commuter train and somenone else from the singing class I used to go to. At the lunch break a woman who had looked familiar, but who I couldn't place, called me by name. Amazingly she is another friend from our teenage years, with links to 8th Day. We have kept in touch recently on Facebook, thanks to a significant 8th Day anniversary a few years ago, but neither of us had announced our weekend plans for the course in Sheffield on social media. It was fantastic to see her. One of my friends reminded me of the saying ' Friends for a season. Friends for a reason. Friends for life.' Some of these connections are so deeply embedded in my past, it's difficult to take in these reconnections. It's a magical experience, a fairy tale.

Strangers on a train

Travelling to Manchester

For the first few months of working in Manchester I was commuting by car and train. I drove from Bakewell to Grindleford, where I picked up the slow train from Sheffield to Manchester. This journey through the Hope Valley has to be one of the most spectacular in the country. Snow was piled high on the hills when I started at the beginning of April, but as the snow disappeared, the lambs emerged. Early morning starts never came naturally to me, but the ticket collectors on the train were cheerful and the birds in the woodland surrounding Grindleford station were full of happy songs. Gradually I came to recognise fellow travellers and some new friendships were established. I also had some remarkable encounters with old friends and connections. On my first early morning journey the person sitting beside me recognised my voice from my 8th Day days. I commuted to university back in the day, on the train from Todmorden to Leeds. Again I made friends and forged connections that became a significant part of my life. A train journey has to be a liminal space, a linear link between departure and destination. The track itself is a place where anything can happen, a boundary, literally a line in the landscape. Things happen for me when I travel. On one level it's because I talk to strangers, and I can't remember a time when I didn't, even as a child. It's about the opportunities that come from being on public transport too. Now my journey to work is on a busy bus, along the Oxford Road corridor. More buses than you can shake a stick at. Passengers mostly ignore one another, but share intimate details of their lives in loud phone conversations. There can be half a dozen different languages being spoken around me. It's fascinating but there aren't the connections I have experienced with train travel. My children bought me a senior railcard for my birthday last week, at my request. I am hoping to make good use of it in the coming months. I am a passenger.

Life Goes Full Circle

My amazing year of working in Manchester has connected me with old friends as well as new ones. I have looked at photos I brought into the Documentary Phtographic Archive back in 1982. I have listened to my interviews on a reel to reel Uher tape player. I have walked down streets and sat in restaurants that have particular significance for me. I have revisited some of the places that are still part of my dream life. Last Friday was my birthday. I am looking for the next job and I had been invited for an interview in Leeds. Not only did I have to find my way around the university buildings where I used to study, but I was also a baby's cry away from where I was born, at Hyde Terrace. Family legend has it that my dad had to cut the cable on the BSA Scout to free the frozen brakes and drive my mother from Wakefield to Leeds. It was the end of January after all. Leeds railway station is also part of my dream landscape, but not as it is, or ever was. Some things looked so familiar, others completely unrecognisable. There were university buildings I had never seen or ventured into, some of them really architecturally beautiful. The English Department held lectures in theatres allegedly used for the filming of Clockwork Orange. I thought I would come to the end of the coincidences and connections as my year in Manchester draws to a close,just because I felt there had to be a limit. But last Wednesday I went to a birthday celebration meal for some old friends, newly rediscovered. Among their friends was a someone I knew from 40 years ago, who came to my first wedding.It was so lovely to see her and to hear about her family. And then home for a lovely weekend with my family. Many happy returns.

About a Boy

Whenever I travel through Stockport I am reminded of someone I used to know. My journey home takes me along the Stockport Road on the Trans Peak bus to Bakewell. This retraces the route my sisters and I took back to boarding school in Matlock, a road that produced a sick and sinking feeling for many years after I had left school. I am over it now, and have been for some time. The bus route out of Manchester's city centre goes through Longsight and Levenshulme, where I once lived and worked. Those associations are for another day. There's an abandoned church on the left as the bus drops down the hill into Mersey Square. It's just a facade. That's where my friend first hugged a tree. He was an unlikely nature boy. He had gone to boarding school too, one where the boys were encouraged to do outward bound activities. He could live off the land. He knew how to rough camp, how to tickle a trout and gut a rabbit. He had been brought up in Northumberland, where his father was a doctor. He was only 15 when his father died. He left his school on the Lancashire coast and headed for the beaches of Morocco. Now I would call him an adrenaline junkie. Back then he was simply a junkie. By the time our paths crossed he had been addicted to heroin and speed. He had been to Borstal. He and his girlfriend had a baby son, named after him, but put up for adoption. His mother was a psychiatric social worker, and she needed to be. He never gave her a minute's peace. Stockport was one of his stamping grounds. There was talk of a gun, hidden behind a piece of street furniture in Mersey Square, but I never saw it. There was a mysterious left luggage locker key, once thrown out of the window of Stockport police station, to avoid confiscation and detection. It took some finding after the event. He and his friends were on trial at the Old Bailey, framed by the drug squad. Their barrister was fresh from the success of the Oz trial. Could he have been John Mortimer? I don't know and there's no one to ask. Alexis Korner wrote a character statement for one of the accused. They were acquitted, when the barrister proved that the police had fabricated evidence, though they were not innocent in any true sense of the word. His totem animal was a wolf. He once turned up at my parents' house in the early hours of a summer morning, claiming to be on the run. Luckily he threw stones at the right bedroom window. He disappeared from view. I heard he had sought sanctuary at a monastery in the Kielder Forest. His favourite book was Arthur Waley's translation of the Tao te Ching, The Way and its Power. Next I heard he was in prison for manslaughter. He had sold someone battery acid as heroin. He married his girlfriend from his prison. I don't know what happened next. Perhaps they will turn up on Long Lost Family one day. Each time I go through Stockport, I remember a bit more of his story. I share this much of it here just to show how much stranger truth is than fiction.

Hippy Gipsy Mother

A few years ago my youngest son started college in Sheffield, instead of staying on for sixth form at school. The director was telling him off and said 'You don't want to turn out like your hippy, gipsy mother'. My son nearly walked out there and then. I got a desperate call at work, and I managed to speak to one of his other tutors. I didn't want him to leave the course. He had only been there a couple of months. The situation calmed down. It wasn't meant as a compliment and it was also a strange assessment of me in the circumstances, as we had only met once. Rather than take it any further, I made a decision then to make light of it, to transform it into a kind of compliment. So when I saw this lovely Clare Leighton print in a local charity shop, I bought it, framed it and it hangs on our kitchen wall. I am reminded of my 'hippy gipsy' nature as I send off CVs and job applications. My archive traineeship comes to an end in March. I haven't had to face up to unemployment since I came back from Morocco in 1981. I have had a wealth of experience in some fascinating jobs - though the wealth hasn't been monetary. I'm hoping my adaptability and ability to cope with change will get me through the next couple of months. Sadly I can't read my own palm nor do I have a crystal ball. But I will carry this image with me in my search.

Harry Potter, hero myth

I'm back in Manchester, living next to the Nico Ditch, ready to start work again tomorrow after the longest break from working routine I have had since I went to India for a fortnight in 2005. It has been a lovely Christmas, back in Bakewell with family and friends. We sat about and watched lots of stuff on television, fire roaring in the grate, cosy and grateful that it was only wind and rain outside, not the -15 temperatures of a few years ago. The phone got fixed in time for Christmas and the fan on the central heating boiler turned out to need WD40 rather than a replacement.I even managed a couple of walks. We watched the Harry Potter films, including the last two, the end of the series. When the books were first published I had an ambivalent relationship with them. My older children grew up with them, aging as Harry and his friends did. Because of my own feelings about boarding school education and absent parents, I didn't feel comfortable with the Enid Blyton depiction of boarding school life. I discovered Philip Pullman's Northern Lights at the same time and found there was no comparison. With hindsight, I guess there was never meant to be. I had the same feeling about Star Wars and Close Encounters of a Third Kind back in 1977. I stopped reading the Harry Potter books with the Half Blood Prince. My friend Joyce had been a huge fan. She died of a brain tumour just as it was published and we put a copy in her coffin, her grave goods. I never had the heart to read it. A few years later I was studying for a masters in folklore. Harry Potter's story was being interpreted as a hero myth in folklore circles. I suspect there are a few theses out there exploring this. It was intriguing to see how J K Rowling had made use of Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. In fact her own story had mythic qualities in her rags to riches success. In 2005 I was working in my local library. Young children were entranced by the early Harry Potter stories and films and couldn't understand why the later much darker books and films weren't suitable for them. It was an aspect of the success of the books that no-one seemed to have anticipated. J K Rowling wanted her characters to grow into adulthood, but she had developed a new audience who hadn't aged with them. I found the Deathly Hallows films uncomfortable viewing. All that danger, darkness, death and destruction. A real sense of evil and deception. I couldn't help thinking of recent news items of death and destruction, whether from wars or natural disasters, affecting the lives of so many, but especially children and teenagers. I didn't want to wallow in a fictionalised account, masquerading as entertainment. But then I wondered if this fictional version could actually help those experiencing the reality to accept and cope with the death and destruction around them. Love and friendships help those characters survive and win the day. There is a future. We see them sending their own young children off to Hogwarts. I know the books and films were translated into many languages and became a global phenomenon. Perhaps that recognition of the terrible times they went through and survived might just help. I have always believed in the redemptive power of literature. I just hadn't connected it with Harry Potter until now.

It's a new year, a new day

Somewhere in my many boxes of photos are just two photos of my wedding. Graham and I posed in front of this fireplace, signing the register. When I started work at the Greater Manchester County Record Office back in April 2013, I went to a meeting in this room. At that meeting was one of the partners for Archives+, the partnership I am working with, Marion Hewitt of the North West Film Archive. She was one of the witnesses at that wedding back in June 1984.The only other guest and witness was the often missed Maryann Gomez. I really felt that my life had turned the full circle of a spiral, and that twisting, turning ,spiralling feeling has stayed with me through 2013. Now we have arrived at 2014. The year I turn 60. The year I have to start job hunting again, after the lovely gap year of the traineeship in Manchester. I have five more years to do before I can retire. By retire, I mean when I might have time to be able do the things I want to do, so it's important that I continue to chase the paid work that answers some of those interests. Last night my son was playing at one of the pubs in Bakewell. He's the singer with a covers band called the Vipers. I hadn't seen them play since the summer, so decided to go to the first set. I then headed round to my mum's to see the new year in with her. My dad died in the early hours of new year's day in 2010, so it's a strange time. He loved a good new year's eve do and we often had gatherings at our house in Eccles.He was a great host and a good cook. After he went to work in the far east the style of our celebrations changed. Last night set me thinking about some of the New Year's Eves I have known. As a teenager I spent one hallucinating - not on drugs but with some sort of tropical fever. As 1971 became 1972 I rang the bells in a private chapel at East Down Manor outside Barnstaple. I was there with 8th Day friends, Mike and Jenny Slaughter, Brian Livingstone and Ross. We were invited to spend New Year with the Edgar Broughton Band and their friends and families. They were there recording a new album in a country pile. We went to the local pub. The local landed gentry had the unlikely name of Pyne Coffin.it was a magical end to a nightmarish few months and a meaningful new start to a new year. I was in Casablanca ten years later, listening to the ships in the port hoot the new year in. Ten years on from that, and new year plans were upset by a poorly daughter. Almost ten years on from there and it was millennium year. Lots of teenagers with us, walking home from a big family party in Over Haddon in the frosty early hours. One year I was home alone with a new baby. A couple of times I had impromptu parties for those of us who couldn't find or afford babysitters, with children welcome. Ten years on and my dad reached the end of his life in the early hours of New Year's Day, holding my mother's hand to the end. It was a full moon that night, a perfect New Year's Eve for a family get together, with memories of other times he had been the host. Back to last night. I didn't expect to hear Charlie's voice ringing over Bakewell as I walked home from my mum's but it made me feel that 2014 is one to look forward to.