It’s the Manchester Blog Awards tonight. Judging from today’s Twitter posts it’s shaping up to be a fun event. The venue has changed this year and the festivities will be taking place at the newly rennovated Band on the Wall. It all kicks off at 7 o’clock with music and readings from Manchester bloggers and Jenn Ashworth – winner of last year’s Best Writing on a Blog award and author of A Kind of Intimacy.
I was absolutely thrilled to hear that Lady Levenshulme has been shortlisted for the Best Personal Blog award. Had I not been at work at the time I would have done a little dance. Okay, so I did a little dance. But in the privacy of the ladies’ loo. And then later when I got home.
Do take a look at the shortlist. There are some very talented bloggers on there. And good luck to everyone tonight.
Last week we ’saved’ our Bank Holiday and took it this week instead. It was a complete break from work with no phones, no queries and no schedules. The last time I had a proper weekend off work was back in June when we went to Hay. And given that our next break won’t be for a while we wanted to make this one count.
The thing about time off work when you run a business is that you end up working the day off in advance. So by the time Saturday arrived we were knackered. We had a bit of a slow morning with a late breakfast and then went along to The Whitworth Art Gallery. I’ve only ever visited the gallery as part of an event and have never really taken the time to have a proper look round. It’s a lot bigger than I thought and there’s lots to see. But what I like best about it is that alongside more traditional pieces are modern works by contemporary artists and makers. And it’s not just about art. I particularly enjoyed the textile collection, which gave me lots of ideas.
After the gallery it was home for a quick tea and then off to The Lowry to see Prick up Your Ears. If you get chance, go and see this play. It’s dark, funny and uncomfortably moving.
On Sunday we went for a guided walk around Manchester. This probably sounds a bit odd. I mean I’ve lived here for most of life but there’s so much that I don’t know about the area. For example, did you know that the three lines on the Manchester crest symbolize the three rivers? The Medlock, the Irk and the Irwell. Walking round and listening to a guide makes you see things you might normally overlook or take for granted. And of course I love stories and so the guide had a captive audience. There were only four of us, my husband and me and a couple visiting from Austria.
On Monday we ended up in Haworth. Yes, I admit I saw the recent adaptation and it sparked my interest. I’ve started to reread ‘Wuthering Heights’ and wanted to go back to the moors to see where it all began. I’ve been to Haworth before but I’d never visited the Parsonage. This is where the Brontë family lived from 1820 to 1861. It’s full of interesting artifacts and some of the family’s personal possessions. A brooch made from Charlotte’s hair, her writing box and paints, pictures, letters, diary entries. All absolutely fascinating.
Some of the costumes from the recent ITV adaptation were also on loan and it was interesting to see the inspiration behind them. To be honest I felt that Cathy’s clothes were a bit too modern but it seems that this had been the intention. The costume designer had wanted to move away from traditional garments of the period and introduce a slightly more contemporary look. The strong colours of Cathy’s clothes mirrored the countryside and were later ‘bleached out’ when she went to live with the Lintons, to symbolize the ‘taming’ of her nature. There’s more information on the ITV website.
Later we walked on the moors. The sun came out and it was the perfect end to the long weekend.
And when I got up for work on Tuesday autumn had arrived.
It is 2 o’clock in the morning. I wake with a start and sit bolt upright. I realise that I haven’t got back to a client about a project. For months. The project has been left, discarded, forgotten. My husband shifts besides me and turns over. I start back tracking and going over the project in my mind but it’s slipping away. I can’t recall the details. I’m perched on the edge of the bed, head in heads trying to remember but the more I think about it the more it slips away. Now I cannot remember the client. The client does not exist.
I have these dreams regularly. Sometimes nightly. The strange thing is that I never immediately recognise them as dreams. The mind is a strange place and not always kind. Afterwards I’m restless and sleep fitfully, going through schedules and writing emails in my head. When the alarm clock goes off at six I’m exhausted and feel I like I’ve worked through the night.
My husband hardly ever dreams. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say that he doesn’t recall his dreams. I know that I dream every night because I remember them. Sometimes it’s just a left over feeling and other times the dream is still there when I wake up. In the room with me. In the dark. These dreams are usually accompanied with screams and a frenzied attempt at an exit.
The dreams occur so often that you’d think I’d become aware much quicker. But I don’t. Every time I’m convinced that I’ve forgotten something or that someone or something is in the room. I call them smart dreams. They evolve, finding new ways to deceive and trick the mind.
And then sometimes there’s my dad. He’s in a crowd and he’s laughing. I can see him clearly – his eyes, his hair, his features. I can hear his voice, his Salford vowels. I can see him much clearer than I remember him during the day. But then my mind starts turning and questions come to the surface that I never get chance to ask. I wake up. I don’t feel sad. I feel happy because he’s happy. For these dreams I’m grateful.
On Friday I went along to TEDx Liverpool (#TEDxlp). TED’s slogan is ‘ideas worth spreading’ and this pretty much sums it up. TED stands for ‘technology’, ‘education’ and ‘design’ but the themes covered are much broader. The TEDx events are independently organised and tend to be a mixture of video footage and live talks. Over the years many noteworthy speakers have shared their ideas including Tim Berners-Lee, Bono, Richard Branson, Bill Clinton and a whole raft of others.
The theme of Friday’s event was creativity and it was fascinating. There was everything from future technology, how schools kill creativity, to social journalism and a nifty device called Arduino, which could potentially enable you to track your cat. I have to admit that the next few minutes were lost to me as I weighed up the possibilities of this last suggestion. It was a thought provoking event and a great way to spend a Friday afternoon.
I took a lot of ideas away with me but one thing has haunted me all weekend. Take a look at the video above. Have you watched it? I do this. Not to this extent of course. Not the kiss and the riding precariously on a motorbike but other things. I check my phone almost obsessively. And I don’t even like mobile phones. I never have. I have a landline at work and one at home. If you can’t get me on those then I’m out. Leave me a message and I’ll phone you later. Less than a dozen people have my mobile phone number and that’s just fine with me. No, what I’m doing when I’m ‘checking’ my phone is reading email, my Twitter feed and blog posts.
Sometimes in the evenings I look up and Lord Levy has been staring at his phone and I have been staring at mine. Or one or both of us have laptops out. Just sometimes I think, “Hello, I’m really here you know. Why don’t we have a real conversation?”
The other night we were talking about going on holiday later in the year. I wasn’t thinking about the view from the balcony or all the new places we could discover. No. I was thinking, “I wonder whether they have wireless access so I can take my laptop and blog and upload pictures.” I was wondering whether my iPhone would work in Italy.
I’m not one of those people who has to share their life online. I’m really not. In fact, I’m quite a private person. What is shared here is only selective information. I think about writing a lot. Wherever I am, I think about how I can blog this experience or how it would fit into a story. But I do worry that at times it goes a little bit too far. I wonder whether other bloggers feel this? Is our enjoyment now felt through publishing the event, rather than through experiencing the event itself? Being in the moment and conveying immediacy is one thing but are we contriving situations to try and tailor them to our writing? If so, isn’t it all a bit fake?
Wordsworth described his writing as ‘emotion recollected in tranquility’. This suggests that whatever event triggered his inspiration was written later when he had the chance to do it justice. It also suggests (I hope) that he enjoyed the daffodils and the subjects of his poetry. Perhaps it is truly experiencing something that brings about good writing.
So tonight I’m switching the devices off. The phones, the computers, the laptops. But only after I’ve tweeted this post.
We went along to the Book Market on Saturday. I have to say that at first glance I was a bit disappointed. It was tiny. There were only a few independent publishers and a couple of magazine stalls. Two stalls were taken up with fast food. Not the greatest choice next to books and art. Can’t say I would’ve been too pleased to have my stock smelling of hot dogs. All in all I felt it was a bit of a wasted opportunity.
That said, the stalls that were there were excellent and true to form we came back with books, magazines and, unexpectedly, two library memberships. The stall holders were friendly and obviously knew their stuff. I managed to snag a copy of the new Corridor 8 magazine and a copy of Transmission. Oh and a book of short stories called Ideas Above Our Station from Route. It was worth going just for those.
It got me thinking about a festival or exhibition for Manchester bloggers. Not quite sure how that would work. Hmmmm . . . .
The allotment has come on a treat. What was once a mass of brambles, nettles and weeds, has been hoed, raked, dibbed and dug into rows of neat, raised beds. And in those beds things are growing. I realise of course that all plants grow from the soil in this way. But when you see it for yourself, when you plant the seeds and the shoots appear and then within a few weeks they’re chest high, it’s like magic.
I can’t take credit for the allotment. Well, I did help to move a tonne of Fairfield Compost and several barrow loads of manure and chicken poo. But apart from that I haven’t been down there very much. The allotment is Lord Levy’s thing and he does it well.
Last week we had our very first meal with home grown produce. Freshly picked sugar snap peas. (I don’t count last year’s potatoes.) And they were lovely. Every bit as good as I’d thought they’d be. Fresh, sweet and I’d like to say crunchy but unfortunately I was cooking that night and just slightly overdid it with the steamer. But this did not detract from the taste.
The steamer is godsend by the way. It’s one of those electric ones that you just switch on and it does the job for you. You just have to work out the timings . . . .
The best gifts are unexpected. The sunflowers are a gift from my mother, for my new office. She thought they’d remind me of France. They do. The office isn’t quite ready yet and so for now they’re cheering up the dining room at home.
And then there are those gifts that come from the past. This mini gardening set belonged to my grandmother. She used the watering can for her house plants, of which she had many. The tools she kept in her bag, for those occasions when she saw a plant she liked and ‘took a cutting’. This included public parks and other people’s gardens. I was very little at the time and I’d stand behind the garden wall, half laughing and half terrified we’d be discovered. The mini gardening kit was always in her bag, along with her Polo mints and assorted bags of cuttings. I’m so pleased that they’ve come to me. Though I won’t be using them in quite the same way.
One of the unexpected things about writing this blog is the emails I receive. I’ve met (in the virtual sense) lots of interesting people since I started, from people who used to live in the area to people looking to relocate. This morning I received a message from a woman in Canada. Her family name is Levenshulme and she’s looking into the origins of the name. Her husband’s grandfather was from England but she doesn’t know exactly where.
Does anyone know anything about the origins of Levenshulme? Could you point me in the right direction? Any insights greatly appreciated.
For the record – Lord Levy is a very patient man. Last night we went to IKEA. Again. For the second consecutive Saturday night. This time it was to look for furniture for my new office. He didn’t moan once. He didn’t moan when I spent half an hour looking for an armchair. He didn’t moan when I couldn’t decide which patterned magazine holders to buy. He didn’t moan when he had to go back into the store to find the correct light bulbs for my new desk lamp. Nor did he moan when we had to take quite a lot of of gardening equipment out of the car to get the furniture in.
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