frowny baby

Richmal, you said that you wanted us to remember you as you were and not how you ended. Here’s what I remember.

I remember a wicked laugh, a mischievous smile, and masses of curly brown hair that made you look like a little girl.

I remember chatting for hours over copious amounts of beer, and the time that we forgot to eat and feasted on a dinner of cheese and onion crisps.

I remember that torturous conference dinner where you reappeared after nipping out for a fag saying, “I’ve met this fantastic woman outside - she’s just like Joanna Lumley and she wants to know if we want to go salsa dancing.” I wish that you could come to every conference dinner I have to go to.

I remember you running away from the horny Canada goose that had taken a fancy to you and held you hostage at work. See, even the goose knew you’d be nice to him.

I remember how funny you were and how much fun you were to be with. At your funeral, Andy said that you always knew when you’d been Richmaled and he was right.

I remember how kind you were to everyone, especially the people that everyone else thought was mad but you saw the best side of. Remember the woman we met in that Glasgow pub who had woken up after an accident with no memory of her life, or the pissed Mancunian who was curious to know “what’s your favourite number”? You chatted to both of them as easily as you chatted to your mates. I loved the way you could do that, the way you made people feel welcome.

I remember how much you loved Andy, and Erin and Toby, even though you never thought that you were the marriage and kids type.

I remember how cool your outlook was and how you never let anything get you down. Whenever I start to get worked up about trivial things, I see your face and hear your voice saying, “it’s only money”, or “it’s just a job” and I know you’re right. You told me that the only important things are to be happy and for the people you love to be happy too. I think I’ll always hear your voice reminding me of that.

I remember how pleased I always was to hear from you, and I can’t believe that I never will again.

You were lovely, and you were too young. Ta ra Rich, we’ll miss you x

Okay, so I didn’t exactly manage to write something every day did I? Well there’s a reason for that - a scumbag spammer shaped reason. After discovering that the content of some of my posts was mysteriously disappearing, D checked the SQL database and discovered masses of spam. I was confused because I have Aksimet installed, and I’d cleared my spam recently. But no - the scumbag spammers had infiltrated the code and overridden my posts with hidden spam messages.

So, Wordpress duly updated and code spring cleaned, I am now waiting to make sure that the spammers do not return.

And then I shall resume my experiment.

Bastards.

Okay, so it might be a bit Radio 2 (and what’s wrong with that anyway?), but I’m really enjoying the new stuff from Lisa Hannigan.

And her album cover is distinctly knitty.  I’m sold.

I spent yesterday with Andy.  Andy is the only one of my friends that has stuck around since school and, sadly, one of the few close friends that still lives close by.

We chatted a lot about friendships yesterday.  It’s strange how you meet people and almost seem to know immediately that this person is going to be making you laugh and listening to your ramblings for many years to come.  I can remember meeting Andy very clearly - back in the days when I had a dubious 60s hippy wardrobe and he lived in shorts and trainers (even in January) - and we hit it off immediately despite the fat that we were (and still are) as different as chalk and cheese.  It never seems to happen anymore, that instant spark and immediate bond. Maybe it’s just something that happens when you’re in your overly emotional late teens and early 20s? But how on earth do you meet new people and find that spark when you’re 34?  Wish it was easier.

I’ve been missing Loo massively recently.  It makes me so sad that I can’t just pop over for a cup of tea and a chat anymore. She’s coming back over to Manchester next weekend and I can’t wait to see her I really can’t. I’m also hoping to see Emma on Tuesday on a working trip to London, so this week is shaping up nicely. If only they were closer.

I haven’t posted anything to this blog since January!  Even by my standards that’s pretty poor.

So. An experiement. I’m going to see if I can manage to post something to this blog every day this week.  Even if it’s only a couple of words I’ll do it. You watch me.

One of the things that incenses me more than anything else on my daily walk across Manchester is the sight of a group of girls weighed down by Primark bags.  It’s never just one bag, and they are never small bags. Nobody seems to buy just one item from this place and, lets face it, they’re not encouraged to keep the number of purchases to a minimum.  Ever since the store took over the old Lewis’s building, I’ve had a couple of problems with Primark.  Firstly, it has always seemed obvious to me that that selling a t-shirt for two quid equals slave labour somewhere along the line, despite their very public ethical policy. Secondly, I hate the disposable nature of everything they sell.  They’re speaking to ‘more more more’ mentalities and a generation accustomed to excess; eager to add more more more cheap (who cares if it’s shoddy?) clothes to their wardrobes.

So, I can’t say it came as a big surprise to find out that Primark have been found out.

What did come as a surprise was finding out that all this was happening on my doorstep.  Exploitation is still exploitation whether it is happening in Manchester or Mumbai,  but if there’s one factory in Ancoats paying its workforce peanuts so that teenagers can have 12 t-shirts of the same style, but in different colours, then there’ll be more.  And if there are more, how many other retailers are claiming to be ethical by hiding behind a ‘made in Britain’ banner?

One of the things that bothered me more than anything though was that, when I read this story on the MEN website, they were running a poll to ask readers whether they would now think twice about shopping at Primark.  Needless to say, the no vote was miles ahead.  Coupled with the fact that Primark were one of the few retailers to report huge profits in the Christmas period, I’m dismayed that people care more about buying disposable, poorly made clothes than they do about the lives of their fellow human beings.

It was with this in mind that I started looking around the internet for courses in dressmaking.  I’ve thoroughly enjoyed rediscovering the knitting bug since I picked up the habit again last year, and I would absolutely love to turn my attention to mastering a sewing machine this year. I feel less and less inclined to be a part of this consumerism, and learning to make clothes is something that has appealed for a while. Let this be one of my reluctant resolutions.

Making resolutions in the new year always seems a little bit artificial (why can’t we decide to do things in any other month of the year?), and I’ve never really been one to decide on specific goals when the clock chimes.  One thing I have realised recently though, is that I should think about my future a little bit more rather than just leaving everything to fate.  I did an exercise recently, where I was asked to sit down with my felt-tip pens and draw where I’d like to be in five years.  I initially thought I had absolutely no idea, but when I started to doodle, I filled an A1 sheet in no time.  So maybe I should start thinking about how to achieve some of it?  Mind you, if you mention the words “five year plan” to me you won’t see me for dust.

2008 wasn’t exactly an ideal year (then again, how many are?) with financial worries and such, and I ended the year on a bit of a low point despite efforts to deal with my anxiety.  My outlook now is a little more positive though, and I can see good things for 2009.  It should be the year in which Mr D and I finally take the plunge and move in together properly, and the early months will definitely see a new job for me (albeit in the same office!). It might be the year to embark on that M.A. that I keep harping on about, or to learn something new and buy that guitar or that loom.  One thing I can be sure about is that I probably won’t do half of the things I’d like to do unless I give myself some goals.  I can’t bring myself to actually write a list, but they’re in my head and that will have to do for now!

There are times in my life when I wish I was a child again.  Not because I enjoyed being a child.   I just wish I could get away with being grumpy, crying at will, throwing my arms around, whimpering, whinging and whining.   Because that’s how I feel at the moment.

On the plus side, I’m going to see James Yorkston tonight and I think he’s a pretty good match for my mood.   In a good way.

Sitting on a train heading for Heaton Chapel last night, I found myself inexplicably and unreasonably irritated by the haircut of a woman I had never met.

I’m not sure why.  I think I just needed someone to hate. Why?

I had spent the afternoon enjoying the efficiency of the British rail system.  After being turfed from my comfortable train at Crewe and being told to join the train in front, watching the train in front close its doors and leave without me or any of the other people it was meant to convey to Manchester, running across the station to join another train and realising just as it set off that it did not stop at Stockport, and then having to stand in the carriage with the toilet, I was not in the best of moods. Pissed off was I.  So much so that I composed a sternly worded letter of complaint to Arriva Trains Wales in my head. It ended something like this:

Having recently returned from a holiday in Eastern Europe I can inform you, with confidence, that your service is only marginally worse than that of Bosnia.  You may or may not be proud of this fact.  The choice is yours.

I thought about it, and conceded that I would have been unlikely to send Arriva a letter to congratulate them on having a service comparable with that of Italy if my train had been on time.  So I directed my grumpiness elsewhere.

It was a particularly annoying haircut.

I just spent a really lovely weekend in Lancaster with my old housemate.  I’ve only been back to Lancaster a handful of times since I left in 1996, but every time I visit I feel like I’m coming home.  Strange how it feels more like home than Wigan does, and I grew up there.  Lancaster feels so familiar, and walking around the old haunts this weekend felt like falling back into a comfortable routine - almost as though I’d just been home for the vac.

One thing we certainly didn’t do though is visit our old college.  Lancaster is run on a collegiate system.  Listen in on two Lancaster graduates chatting about their uni days, and within the first five minutes you’re bound to hear the question, “so which college were you in?”  We’re all sentimentally and proudly attached to our old colleges, and mine and L’s was Grizedale.  So it was a shock, last year, to hear (from another ex-Lancs person who had just asked the inevitable question) that it’d been demolished and replaced with a whole new and improved Grizedale.  It was really saddening to walk around the bit of Campus where our rooms (B139 and B138) used to stand.  B139, gone.  The bar, gone.  The porter’s lodge, gone.  The quad, gone. Even Depravo the Rat (undoubtedly THE best university college mascot ever), gone!  I don’t mind admitting there were tears in my eyes.

It’s all very swish now.  Nothing like in our day…..oooooh, no!  I remember being shown to my room on my first day by a third year.  “This is you” he said, opening the door to reveal a tiny room with bare brick walls, “it’s not legally big enough to keep pigs in.”  Seeing the look of disbelief on my face, he followed up with, “it’s not.  Honestly, look it up!”  I never did look it up, but do you know what, I believe him.

And do you know what else?  It might say Grizedale on those signs, but Grizedale it ain’t, and Grizedale it never shall be.  It might have been a dump….but it was OUR dump….and a glorious one at that!

*This was the slogan from my old Depravo the Rat college t-shirt - now a very comfy nightie.