Jesse's off to his conference and I'm left to decide my own fate. To quote Jack: I just don't know what to do with myself. DUM DUM.After an hour's web hunting, I was no closer to deciding my destination. But Mr. Thorpe came to the rescue and -- after a rush to the station -- I find myself watching Sheffield roll away behind me. Working class countryside: Litter. Scrab-shingled homes. Scrub trees. Stores and orange jackets. 45 minutes to scrutinize.
..and overhear the locals. (Between vocab shifts and different stress, they are sometimes unintelligible!)
When we emerge from tunnels, the sun is hot on my face. Outside, antique cottages mingle with extravagantly rundown shacks; spray-painted sheep with their dung; streams with marshy mud. A lady, 40-something, hunches over, digging through laundry. In this damp cold she still hangs them out to dry. Why? Tradition? Economy? Lack of dryer?
. . .
A fine and friendly visit with Mr. Christian Thorpe. Christian appeared at the Manchester station, in black leather trench coat and voluminous face scruff, when called. For hours we walked and spoke. His desire to let me lead the conversation forced me to conjure memories and opinions. He dearly reminds me of myself when I was a decade younger.
Highlights include: lighthearted sushi; conversations on terror and gender performance in Urbis; not buying a hat; cheesecake, chai, cocoa & coming out stories in Cafe Nero; and a hug just before the train.
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