frowny baby

When it comes to exercise, I think I’ll always be a slightly reluctant participant.  Even after being so pleased with myself for running the 10k (okay, I walked a little bit of it), I have been finding it really hard to make myself put my trainers on again since I did it.

It’s still partly because I feel like a fraud.  Like this isn’t really me, and that people are wondering who the hell I’m trying to kid when I stagger past them.  And, I have to say, when you feel that way (and many people who are a bit on the chubby side probably do), it really doesn’t help to go into the kinds of shops that sell sports gear.

A couple of years ago, a friend of mine was incensed after a lunch-time outing to JJB.  One biblical rant later, she revealed that she had asked an assistant to point her in the direction of the yoga pants, only to be told, “sorry, we don’t stock plus sizes.”  She’s a size 14.

I knew how she felt after braving the aisles of a certain Stockport sports store on Sunday afternoon to buy winter running clothes.  Except this size 14 was more inclined to cry than rant when faced with a sign that informed me that I could either buy a size LARGE (12-14), or a size EXTRA LARGE (14-16).   They might as well just label anything over a size 12 ENORMOUS.

I should stick two fingers up at the figure fascists, buy the size that fits regardless of how they want to label me, and continue what I started when I signed up for the 10k.  I should.  But my ENORMOUS trousers and my ENORMOUS top are still sitting where I left them on Sunday - folded neatly on the kitchen table - because whenever I think about putting them on I know that I’m going to have to force my massive self out of the front door in full view of the mocking general public.

The ridiculous thing is that I actually want to run, even with the cold and the dark nights.  Running was starting to make me feel better, and the mental hurdles were being jumped.  So I’m summoning the strength in my arm and preparing to raise it and form my fingers into a V.  And I’m doing it this week.  Because I should.

Do you have things in your life that you never want to change because they’re comfortable and lovely?  I do.  It isn’t a long list - beers at the Knott, popping to the Eighth Day for lunch….and Solfest is most definitely on that list too.

Solfest is a treat, it really is.  Things change a little every year, but I love the fact that I can look forward to the best chai in festival land at Weidigans, doing the Timewarp at the madness of the Weirdstring celidh, magic garlic chick-pea curry and chips, and mentally clapping my hands at the bizarre imaginations on display at the fancy dress night (I think the carton of milk was my favourite this year). It was our 4th Solfest, and it was a delight as always.

Hurricane Bill made his presence very much felt over the weekend and gave us our third mudfest of the summer. “It never gets muddy at Solfest” we told a couple of newcomers this year. “No, it doesn’t matter how much it chucks it down, the soil is really sandy and the rain just drains away.” I was most definitely noshing on those words when my arse found itself hurtling towards a particularly muddy puddle on Sunday night as I was staggering and sliding over to see Miles Hunt and Erica Nockalls (who were bloody brilliant by the way). Having already taken a drunken slide in the brown stuff at Stainsby (after which a friend took one look at me and informed me that I’d just lost a bet I wasn’t aware of), I was none too impressed at finding myself smelling faintly of cow for a second time. But, it didn’t stop me jigging along to Edward II at Stainsby, and it didn’t stop me loving seeing Miles Hunt sing out Solfest.

Every year we wonder whether we should give it a miss next year, but we always leave wondering why the hell should we.  I bloody love it.

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.

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.

Once upon a time BB (Before Beetham), my friend over at Reservoir Mogs pointed out that the new addition to the Manchester skyline was about to ruin one of her favourite views in the city. The view was one of St Ann’s Square & the Church, and it has indeed now been blighted by the worst building in the city - and we have some monstrosities so that’s quite an achievement.

I’ve hated Beetham Tower with spit inducing passion since it was completed. A colleague of mine, when visiting to attend a conference, took one look and described it as looking like “a big mobile phone” and, given Manchester’s predilection for choosing the same architect over and over and over again, I’m living with the horror that more of these Nokia inspired heaps of hideousness will soon be ruining more of Donna’s favourite views.

So why the tirade against the mobile phone? Well, after we left the theatre, Damon and I took ourselves off to the Knott Bar for a ginger ale or two. The Knott is a fab little place with one downside - it has a ‘perfect’ view of Beetham Tower from its balcony. So, whilst sitting on said balcony with a ginger ale, we found our space invaded by a group of very loud Londoners. Despite doing my best to tune them out (not easy), I couldn’t help but overhear some of their conversation and they were being somewhat derogatory about a certain building. Yes, slagging off the mobile phone they were. Aye lass.

If spoken in dulcet northern tones, I would have heartily agreed with them. I may have joined in. However, the sound of southern accents deriding the Deansgate dwelling made my eyes narrow and my lips purse. I found myself defending the bloody thing in my head! It may be a shit building, but it’s OUR shit building!

I think I may need to get this north/south stuff into perspective ;-).

I am, indeed, frowny at the moment. Houses that need DIY skills that I don’t have, neighbours from shitsville, a dwindling bank balance and a complete lack of career direction, are building up my stress levels to uncomfortable levels. I need to feel like I’m back in control because, right now, I’m not even sure where to start. I did think that I needed a holiday, but as soon as I started looking for possible places to stay, it just made the head muddle worse.

In six months, things will be looking better….or at least easier….I hope.

Update: On the other hand, things could get worse. However, recent events have put my moans into perspective, and I’ve at least got a more pragmatic outlook.  If anyone has any surplus good luck that they’d like to throw in our direction….

There are some new barriers at Oxford Road train station. You pop your ticket in, it pops out, you pick it up and walk through. Simple eh?

Well.

You’d think so wouldn’t you?

Last Friday evening, D and I spent a fascinating three hours exploring the Body Worlds exhibition at the Museum of Science and Industry. The exhibition has had its critics, including the Bishop of Manchester who declared it to be “a little shop of horrors” and who was terrified for the spiritual welfare of Mancunian children. It was anything but horrific. The bodies in the exhibition are actually very beautiful and amazingly intricate.  I found myself looking at the complexity of the muscles and nerves and blood vessels that make us what we are, and marvelling at how amazing the human body really is. It’s hard to imagine that everything you’re looking is functioning within you and making you work while you stand there.

It’s a brilliant piece of work - both educational and beautiful - and if you haven’t seen it yet, I’d urge you not to miss it. It made me confront my own mortality in a way that I haven’t done since we visited the Sedlec Ossuary (pictured above) in the Czech Republic. There’s nothing like being confronted by corpses and skeletons to remind you that, one day, you’re going to breathe your last, but it isn’t a macabre or morbid experience.  František Rint, the woodcarver responsible for the skeletal chandelier at Sedlec, said that his creation was a celebration of the lives of the people whose bones now adorn the church. Gunther von Hagens’ bodies also seem to celebrate life by giving us a glimpse of how astonishing we are. In my book, that isn’t horrific.

When I lived in Lancaster, one of my favourite things to do was to hop on the train to Carnforth and spend an hour or two exploring the nooks and crannies of the fabulous second-hand bookshop. The shop, along with the opportunity to pretend to be Celia Johnson, was the only reason to visit Carnforth, but every book loving Lancaster student made the journey at some point.

One of the best things (for me) about this book shop was its collection of Penguin Classics, and I loved browsing through the orange covers and finding a gem. So, when Penguin launched the Celebrations range, I coveted them from the second I saw their blue, green, orange, pink, and purple covers.

But, I have made a pledge to buy no books until I’ve read some of the ones languishing on my bookshelves haven’t I? Why, yes I have.

But these are so beautiful that they must be mine! I want one in every colour. So I compromised and hot-footed it across the road to Blackwell’s in my lunch hour and bought ‘The Shadow of the Sun’. I read the first page in the shop, and there was no way it was finding its way back onto the shelf. It looks brilliant, and it’s gorgeous in all its lovely pinkness.