Greater Manchester

I am still reeling from the news of the events at the Arena last night. The softest of soft targets, teenagers with their friends and parents, mostly girls and women. Violent death and injury is unbearable in any circumstances but the effects of this attack will be part of people's lives for generations to come. Last week I was at my aunt's funeral with my mother. She still talks about the Manchester blitz. She was only a child then, and noone knew if her older sister was alive or dead until she walked back through the door the next day. Some of my friends on facebook are counsellors and trauma therapists. They are offering their services. Others are sharing contact numbers and photos, offers of help. Manchester is where I'm from, where many of my friends live and work, where I went through the rites of passage of going to concerts and gigs with friends as a young teenager. Years later I took my children to events and concerts there, sharing the experience, bonding over the music. I have worked on the door at clubs including the Hacienda. Many of my friends have connections to the music business in the city and beyond. I have been that parent waiting outside the venue. I have been that parent inside the venue with them. I have been that parent waiting for them to come home with someone else's. The media circus that takes over when an event of this enormity happens is harrowing. but in among the eye witness accounts and the heartbreaking stories is the strong message that this is greater Manchester. People are coming together, rather than being divided. For many reasons I am proud to say I come from Manchester and today is one of them.

Any Port in a Storm

A couple of months ago I was travelling to the West Country by train. I had a lot on my mind and I knew reading a book wasn't going to be enough to distract me. I'd seen a short story competition on the Gifford's Circus Facebook page and I thought I'd have a go. Only 500 words on the theme of this year's show, Any Port in a Storm. I had a couple of ideas. As I travelled towards Devon, I recalled my brief time at Exeter University. In 1972 I spent a term there. Homesick for my friends in the North I was back by Christmas. There were some interesting times though and one involved going to the Tar Barrel Festival in Ottery St Mary around Bonfire Night. There was a fair in town that was straight out of a Thomas Hardy novel. Sideshows included a two headed calf and a five legged lamb. There was even a mermaid sitting in a glass tank. Somehow she found her way into my story. Last week I was thrilled to learn that I have won the competition. I get tickets to the circus, but what's even more exciting is that my tale is printed in the circus programme. When I go to the show Tweedy the clown will read my story out loud! I'm so thrilled to be part of the circus.

Manannan's Cloak

There's a tradition in the Isle of Man. When the Island needs to hide or keep a low profile, Manannan Mac Lir, the Celtic sea god, throws his cloak over it. He did just that on Friday morning. I was booked on the morning flight from Manchester to make a flying visit to see my aunt, my godmother, in hospital. My mother and one of my cousins were with me. They had managed to book on the early evening flight back, but I could only get a return seat on the late afternoon one. When we got to the Departure Lounge we realised just how uncertain our outward journey was. Cloud over the Island was preventing all flights from leaving or departing. Realising how tight time was going to be, I nearly relinquished my bookings. I had found out how to exit Departures if I couldn't leave on a plane, something you need to consider nowadays with airport security. I was quite philosophical, joking that I'd had a day out at the Airport. I would not have been quite so accepting if I had realised that my aunt had had the Last Rites the day before. I thought I was making an overdue hospital visit. Suddenly the departure time pulled back by 20 minutes. Given a fair wind and another cousin's car, I could just about make it to the hospital for a twenty minute visit. Thank goodness Ronaldsway Airport and Nobles Hospital are built on a human scale, taking minutes to negotiate. Going back to the Island and saying goodbye to my aunt was an intensely emotional experience. I was so glad I had been able to get there. Travelling to the Island aged three was my first trip on a plane. In my teens long haul flights were a way of life, and the memory of that island hop was a comfort when I felt nervous. I had two aunts and a great aunt and uncle on the Island. Their friends introduced me to folklore and local history in a way that has inspired and informed my interest and study of both subjects throughout my life.I had never experienced the immediacy of the past and of legend in that way before. There have been so many family holidays, through several generations,including trips to the TT in my motorcycling days. It's a magical and much loved place for me. Often we would travel by ferry from Liverpool's Pier Head, from that wonderful historic Embarkation Hall that no longer exists except in memory. Sometimes I travelled alone, for school holidays, choosing to stay on deck, curled up on a huge coil of rope with a good book. Friday's flying visit is one of the most significant, though the good news this morning is that my aunt has rallied over the weekend. I am prepared for other flying visits to the Island in the days and weeks to come. I hope Manannan is on my side.

Regrets, I've had a few

I am a regular listener to Radio 3's Late Junction. I like the different presenters' individual approaches to the music they feature. I always enjoy Max Reinhardt's choices and this week has been amazing. I often fall asleep to the sound of something new to me, and I am very grateful for the programme's website. Recordings of Pharoah Sanders playing with Gnawa musicians in Essouira has been a particular pleasure. I try not to do regret, but back in 1981 I was spending a few days in Essouira before I returned to England after a year's teaching English in Morocco. I was travelling with two girl friends. One evening there was a knock on our hotel door. A new Moroccan friend had come to invite us to listen to some traditional music. Not all of us wanted to go, and we had an agreement that we would stick together. We were a little uncertain of what was on offer. I realise now that this was an invitation to listen to Gnawa music, and it is one of the regrets of my life that we didn't take a chance. Who knows what we missed. Listening to Late Junction this week has made me wonder.

Move on up

An article about Curtis Mayfield popped up on Facebook today. Singing his praises for the role he played in the Civil Rights movement, singing his praises for his beautiful voice and inspirational lyrics. Last week I was enjoying a coffee and chat in the wonderful Cafe #9. Move on Up came on over the speakers. It's a song that always stops me in my tracks. It has on occasion made me cry in public. It was released as I was going through a dreadful time in my late teens, and it became a personal anthem. Curtis Mayfield's lyrics both comforted and encouraged me. ' Hush now child, and don't you cry, your folks might understand you by and by'. But the line that always leaps out is 'Take nothing less than the second best.' A light hearted but serious discussion broke out in the cafe. My friend revealed that he had interpreted this as the ultimate compromise. The song and the singer had disappointed him as a result and it had lost its meaning for him. For me, at the age of seventeen, these words were realistically comforting . Curtis seemed to be saying that you could get where you wanted to be in steps and stages. Keep expectations and dreams manageable and you won't be let down or disappointed. In time I realised that he was writing about the Civil Rights movement as much as he was writing something relevant to my teenage dilemmas. In the week when the world's attention has been focussed on America, and history seems in danger of moving into reverse gear, Curtis Mayfield's music has never seemed more relevant.

Wood for the trees

Today I have been on a demonstration. Organised by STAG, the Sheffield Trees Action Group, we encircled Sheffield Town Hall with yellow ribbons to raise awareness of the plight of Sheffield's trees. If you have been following the tale of the trees in Sheffield you'll know that a dawn raid to cut down trees on Rustlings Rd made the world news a couple of months ago. If you are familiar with Sheffield as a city, you will also know that its leafy suburbs and urban woodlands, combined with a setting flanked by hills and defined by river valleys, snaking out to the Peak District, all make Sheffield one of the greenest and most attractive cities in the country. Sadly the local council doesn't seem to be able to see the wood for the trees, and have committed to a contract that involves felling healthy mature trees in order to do work on pavements and utilities. When the news broke about Rustlings Rd I was reminded that my late father in law was born there. As we wait for the arrival of the second baby in our family to be Sheffield born, I have thought about the city he was born into. Did he hear the leaves rustling outside his bedroom window? He didn't live here for long. We all thought he was from Widnes! It was only when we moved to Sheffield in the early 1990s that he revealed it was his birthplace. Listening to Radio 4 this morning, I heard an item on the problems and dangers of city pollution. Trees and green spaces are one of the answers to minimising its harmful effects, improving health and the quality of life as urban sprawl spreads. Ironically much of Sheffield's urban woodland is a legacy from its early days as an industrial centre. Smelting required charcoal, also known as white coal. Woodland was managed to provide the fuel needed. Nowadays this same woodland is a rich resource, both environmentally and ecologically. Tree lined roads help balance traffic pollution. Sheffield is streets ahead, and other cities should be green with envy at what Sheffield residents take for granted and the local council seems unable to appreciate. Looking back at the woodland heritage of the area, management was key. It is obvious that opportunities for managing the rich resource of Sheffield's trees have been badly handled, as has the public relations disaster of recent felling. As we circled the town hall with yellow ribbons, wearing yellow coats, jumpers, hats and scarves, whatever we had got to make a splash of colour, there was a real sense of celebration and purpose. Once upon a time we might have been dismissed and disparaged as tree huggers, but environmental science and town planning is on the side of the trees now. From fuel for the furnaces to safe air to breathe, we have so much to thank them for.

Christmas present

I read another blogpost from an old friend today. Like me, she hadn't posted for a while, and like me she has had a big year of changes on a personal and family level. We both grew up politically through the sixties and seventies, and like me, she is struggling to make sense of what is happening as we move towards a new year and what seem to be turbulent times. The dark days of winter are symbolic of many things. A time for growth, underground and unseen, ready to burst forth in Spring. A time of hibernation and dreamimg, as we prepare for the challenges of the new year. And because we don't hibernate like the lucky bears and tortoises, the butterflies and the dormice, it's a time when we can surround ourselves with those we love. If they can't be there in person, they are there in spirit. My own run up to Christmas has been a strange one. Working in an environment that makes a commercial business out of people's desire to get into the Christmas spirit, the pressure to fulfill visitors'expectations has been exhausting and relentless since early November. Work colleagues have been a great support, and there have been some magical moments scattered like fairy dust, but serving up the Christmas experience is very different from enjoying it. Inevitably at this time of year, I have a sense of Christmas past. Childhood memories of waiting for Father Christmas, the first Christmas when my dad was working abroad, the first Christmas when both parents were abroad and we travelled on our own, three young sisters, from a miserable boarding school in Derbyshire to the exotic jungles of Borneo to join them. A Christmas in Casablanca and Tenerife. A Christmas when I dropped out of University. A Christmas waiting for a January baby, just as my daughter is doing now. Christmas with and without my children, as we took it in turns as parents after my marriage broke up. If I put my mind to it, I can probably recall where I was and how I felt for most years since childhood. This Christmas present has been about helping my daughter and son in law turn their first house into lovely home for them and their imminent first baby. It's about having my children with me for our first Christmas in my new home. It's also about the relief of knowing my mother has managed a successful move to a new flat at the age of 87, thanks to help from other members of the family, who pulled out all the stops when I couldn't. This Christmas present is also about the pride I feel for my three children and their achievements this year. Christmas future is about having a grandchild to join us all next year.