What Romance Really Is; an early ode to February the 14th.

Each year as Valentine's Day edges closer my brain starts to make little anti-valentines lists. How to continue my own tradition of eye-rolling at February 14th in a humorous and simultaneously uplifting way? Which songs could be compiled together into a playlist to best celebrate romance as it actually is? Agonising, awesome, boring, overrated, solitary, 'melt'-inducing, shouty? In previous years I've spoken about the time I went to an alternative Valentine's short film screening with my Mum (in which one of the films turned its attention to incestuous romance) and the inappropriate homemade cards I sent in the internal Valentines postbox in Year 11.

This year I want to write about what romance is to me. Because I'm not anti-Valentine's, and I'm certainly not anti-relationship, but I'm in favour of a Valentine's that celebrates the breadth of romance; the romance that ranges from belly-flutters that you share with people you fancy, to the romance of friendship, and perhaps most importantly (because it's the sort that gets overlooked a lot); the romance of solitude.

This year I'm thinking about sending my 13 year old sister a Valentine's card, because it would be a nice thing to do. But a part of me also wants to write a message in there, that accidentally overdoses on earnestness by telling her "Hey, please ignore this card! I'm telling you that I love you but don't think that if I didn't send it you would be any less loved. Equally, don't let this legitimise you in the eyes of your 13 year old girlfriends, because St Valentine's...whatever" But I also realise this would be sort of like placing a sack of coal under the Christmas tree to warn youngsters of future disappointment and the commercialisation of December. Sometimes you just have to play along.

So once again, I will play along with Valentine's Day, just on my own terms, and that is by writing a lengthly post about romance and what it means to me. I am somebody who is always, mostly single. And because I've always enjoyed my own company, being single is generally my preferred default setting. I often fancy about six people at a time; maybe a bartender or an acquaintance or Cillian Murphy in Broken. Sometimes, like many people I go to bed at night and think, "It would be nice if there was somebody here to lie next to and give a dead arm in the small hours" But mostly I'm really happy to do my own thing. I love getting up on a Saturday morning before anyone else and eating scrambled eggs and hot sauce and reading the papers. I like being able to walk past the cinema on the way back home from work and decide to duck in and watch a film. I enjoy getting into my pyjamas early and reading in bed until I fancy turning the light off.

Last year I read this 'Ask Polly' column which now permanently inhabits a small corner of my brain because it celebrates all of the things that are really great about being single; it celebrates the romance of being alone. Sometimes being alone is crap; but that's the same whether or not you're in a relationship. But being alone and relishing it is one of life's greatest gifts. I loved Polly's response to a perpetual singleton:

"When you're older, you look back on the most "romantic" times in your life—falling in love with this or that dipshit—and they don't seem that romantic at all. But the times when you were single? Those were the truly romantic times! Not when you flirted with this or that stranger or put something in your mouth that didn't belong there. No. When you painted the dining room in your rented apartment that excellent turquoise shade, or when you spent all weekend reading Wallace Stegner's Angle of Repose just because you felt like it, or when you threw a dinner party and invited 10 people who didn't know each other and made lasagna that was delicious and everyone got drunk and played the version of Celebrity where you use less and less words, and your friend Steve pantomiming Dodi Fayed has been emblazoned on your brain ever since."

In honour of February the 14th I want to honour romance in all guises, from the platonic to the sexy with some of my own recent memories, interspersed with the songs that celebrate the Great Variety:

1. My first ever backie from a boy. Diwali, November 2010.
My first ever backie, at the late age of nineteen. It's nighttime and I'm whizzing down the Curry Mile in Manchester, nipping in and out of cars, past the woman who plays the accordion, the smell of charcoal grills smacking me in the face and I'm thinking "Jesus, this is fun" which was just as well because I was also considering "I could die any minute now." I'm sitting on the bike seat, holding onto his hips as he peddles, suspended in mid-air. I'm wearing a leather skirt which has riden up around my waist, and I keep sliding off the seat and I know that the drivers behind have a pretty good view of my tights-as-trousers look but it's exhilarating and I'm in my first year of university and the boy I fancy is giving me a backie and we're on our way to meet new friends at the Diwali celebrations in Platt Fields Park.

At the end of the month me and this guy will start going out and there will be a few more nice romantic moments but mostly it will be four months of moody passive-aggressive silences over breakfast and an uncomfortable meeting of his parents. The backie down The Curry Mile will remain in my memory as the lovely pre-cursor to it all, at a time when the newness of university, the city and the beginnings of friendships was at the centre of everything.

2. A lazy solo Saturday, Autumn 2012.
I'm now in my third year of university. It's a Saturday night and I've just finished dinner at my friends' flat above a bar in Withington, Manchester. The amount of meals we've cooked together have mostly merged together; this could have been any number of things, maybe a sweet potato curry or a mean chicken pie eaten at the big wooden table which has Queens Park Rangers carved into it by a previous tenant. There is talk of going to the pub but I feel like heading home to watch a film. I pass the cornershop to buy an incredibly indulgent tub of ice cream. I bump into Jim and his really good looking friend who has just moved here from Australia and decline their offer to join them at the pub. I pile into bed, crack open the tub, watch The Last Days of Disco, love it to the core and spend the rest of the week listening to Dolce Vita by Ryan Paris.

3. Driving down the 1, May 2012.
Are my 'romantic moments' the ones that involve me enjoying an easy view from the backseat while somebody else drives? Either way, I'm in the backseat. Driving along Route 1 in California. There are jumpers and pillows in the footwells and a pile of sweating avocados and strawberries and Sierra Nevada and Hoegaarden which we picked up on a bountiful pit-stop. Whilst there we shared a crab sandwich and oysters and tried samples of herb-infused honeys; as ever it all about the food. So it's me in the back of a teal Toyota named 'Shandy', with a hulk of gourmet aphrodisiacs at my side. Jim is driving, Charlie has her feet up on the dashboard. It goes without saying that windows are down, hair is flying, the Pacific is right there, look at it and we're alternating between Burt Bacharach, The Velvet Underground and Black Moon. I am a smug person personified, in love with my friends and the view, with my cynicism waiting for me back in England. We camp the night in Pfeiffer National Park and the next day we take acid (my first time) and hang out, playing in the meadows and running on the beach (and I shit you not, playing Pink Floyd from a set of speakers attached to a rucksack- who do we think we are?) We wade through shallow streams feeling hazy and Charlie keeps wanting to stop to rub the sand out of her toes. Occasionally we return to reality, bumping into All-American families on the trails and getting the giggles when we meet their silent expressions, knowing what we must look like to them. I've fashioned a pair of bunny ears out of a wire headband.

(Special mention to the creator of this aesthetically supreme video)

4. The Lady With The Braid by Dory Previn.
Oh, this song, everything about this song. Dory Previn invites her manfriend to stay the night; no, pressure, but it's a long drive and you should stay, and oh, by the way, I papered that wall myself. And I sleep with the window open, is that okay? This is my kind of love song.

5. Being told something nice by somebody who meant it. April 2013.
The steaks we ordered were disappointing but the rest of the evening with my Dad was brilliant; one of those nights we have once a year when we both drink lots of wine and have fulfilling conversation and tell each other dark jokes which toe the line and then sprint beyond it and my cheeks feel nice and hot by the end of the night. My Dad pays the bill and heads back to his hotel and with the right amount of wine in my belly I decide to join two of my guy friends in town; we go to see Mr Scruff at Band on the Wall and we dance and dance and dance. I'm still wearing the same clothes I've been wearing all day, sweat rings appearing on cotton, but it's okay. The crowd at Band on The Wall is always good; a mix of students and flashes of wedding rings; couples who have paid for a babysitter and are having a bloody good time together. Nobody is looking around to pounce on a potential stranger, we're all just dancing and doing our own thing. My two friends are perfect dancing companions; our rounds consist of sharing one can of beer between us at a time. Later on, the right one leans over, somewhat intoxicated but not too much, and tells me how sexy I look. It's not sleazy, he's just telling me how sexy I look dancing; and do you know how good that feels? To be told that you look nice when you're completely in your element and not thinking about looking attractive? I do now, and those few words were all it took to undo the hangups and damage done by the passive aggressive breakfasts that summarised my only real relationship. We continued dancing, to this among other things:

6. Dancing in my living room, last week. 
My housemates are all out. Working in bars and restaurants on a Saturday night, schedules stubbornly clashing with my 9-5. I'm cooking, slicing piles amounts of red cabbage, sloshing them with vinegar. Steamy broccoli fried with garlic is cooling on the side. Bulk lunchbox preparation for my meals in the week ahead. I'm working my way through the Arcade Fire back catalogue and throw myself into dancing enthusiastic and alone in the living room, turning the music up louder like a teenager but without parents to shout from the other room. Maybe dancing without any care (even the concern that someone might actually walk in at any moment) is better after last April. I get particularly sweaty and head-bangy to Empty Room, consider it an anthem to fine, fine, solitude and then wonder if I could just dance like this 5x a week to hit my exercise quota.

People Don't Change Much: Portraits, Self-Portraits and Kitchens

It's very easy to become absorbed by things we view as defining the 'now', and to forget that actually, as with all things in life, things move in cycles. Tastes recycle themselves and come back around almost as quickly as the new weekend. The newspapers use the same language to describe immigrants as they always have, replacing nouns every ten years but the copy staying the same. The selfie- the phenomenon of 2013- picked up where photographer Vivian Maier left off, her self-portraits captured in bathroom mirrors and shop windows from the 1950s onwards. When the film Bill Cunningham New York exposed the Manhattan-based photographer to the rest of the world, we changed the way we talked about street style photography- this fascination with the person on the street wasn't actually the product of the web revolution (though it helped), it was an innate human nosiness that preceded The Sartorialist's Scott Schuman- and even Cunningham himself. What about August Sander and his captivating snapshots of the Weimar Republic in the early 20th century? His portraits show farm labourers, organ grinders, lawyers, blind children, aristocrats and Young National Socialists- his lens was as great a social leveller as that of Bill Cunningham. 

I'm digressing- my point is that when you've spent as much time over the years absorbing personal style blogs or The Selby-style interiors portraits as I have, it's easy to view them as some modern convention that sort of landed on the internet along with Twitter and livestreams of fashion shows. 

My friend Emily pointed me in the direction of Dinanda H. Nooney (via Messy Nessy Chic) who was documenting Brooklyn residents in their homes in the late 1970s. The joy of the New York Public Library online archive means that hundreds of Nooney's photographs are available for the perusal of yourself and I. It makes a refreshing change to look at these photographs without an accompanying interview which is the norm for interiors porn these days. Was this person, standing in their kitchen a graphic designer who decided to live in the area because they wanted to be surrounded by fellow artists? Who knows. Maybe- that isn't an idiosyncrasy of the 2010s. But maybe not, I don't know. It's just nice to scroll through these portraits of strangers in their studies, their bedrooms, their kitchens, while I'm sitting at my own kitchen table. People don't change much. 

 

And the view from here. I'm in my kitchen in Manchester, where I've spent much of today reading the papers, browsing the internet, cooking (potato salad, red cabbage slaw and broccolli and chickpea salad) and summoning blog-spiration, which happened when Emily's recommendation landed in my inbox. David Bowie is streaming through Spotify- I've listened to Ziggy Stardust, Let's Dance and Young Americans in full. I started off drinking coffee, then onto rooibos, and now a vodka tonic is at my elbow, squatly in the glass which is packed to the rafters with lime, mint and ice.

Not Another Nonchalant Gift Guide

Crosley turntable / City cycling guides by Rapha/ 'Badass bitch brooches' (Patsy and Buffy- natch) from Nappy Happy/ Croc loafer heels/ Marvis Cinnamon Mint toothpaste/ Velvet cigarette trousers/ Whowhat whale bag/ Total Exposure by Las Kellies/

Hey! Ready for another slice of nonchalant gift-guiding? It's six days until Christmas. But it's okay, it's okay. Shhh-sh. You don't need to be one of those people that go out on a sweat-filled panic-buy in their lunchbreak. Just buy cinnamon mint toothpaste and city cycling guides and 'badass bitch brooches' online for your loved ones and they'll arrive just in time. Easy.

And if you're somebody that doesn't celebrate 'Christmas' in the christian sense you should just buy yourself a copy of Total Exposure by Las Kellies anyway because it's a pretty good album and you can blast it at home while you potter about doing things that don't involve trying to remember what your distant uncle does for a living.

Season's greetings!

Outfit

It's been a while since I did one of these outfit post things. Me and Rose went on a very successful charity shopping binge in Chorlton the other week. We came back laden with photo frames, some 'work appropriate clothes' for me (a wardrobe 'genre' I'm enjoying getting to grips with) and bric-a-brac for Rose's room which is an Aladdin's cave of cool and strange knick knacks. (A mini tiger-head vase in which to house a cactus? Why not)

This Rockport jacket was amongst the haul and is the jacket I've been wearing during the weekends when I like to pretend that I'm a business man who is 'dressing down for the weekend'. Think a Steve Martin American Dad type who wears casual sports jackets, white trainers and shoots hoops on a Sunday morning.

The dress is from Asos and I picked up the baby pink leather bumbag whilst Christmas shopping. I'm serious about the 'one for you, one for me' Christmas shopping philosophy. Nanon and I had a pleasant afternoon of shopping in the Northern Quarter; it's perfect for stress-free present buying. Record shops, a great Oxfam, places to buy local beer and a chocolate shop with such an outstanding cocoa odour as soon as you walk in that you're half expecting to find Juliette Binoche behind the counter. Interspersed among the shops are bars- and lots of them. Come 5pm I was enjoying the warm glow they were beaming onto the streets and the sight of shoppers inside, hats and gloves on the tables, swaddled between their shopping bags and refuelling with a well-earned beer. Before I knew it myself and Nanon were doing the same at Soup Kitchen, my brother's glow-in-the-dark-stars at my feet and a pint of Aspalls in my hand. 

Friday Moodboard

Hello Weekend, you old chestnut. It's come around quickly once again, hasn't it? This week I've been enjoying reading A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf. I've been coming to terms with not having a mobile phone (what- no instagram?!) after having mine stolen last week. Clue: oddly liberating. I've been eating homemade lentil, red cabbage, kale and bacon soup at lunchtimes and working my way through the Piccadilly Records Top 100 playlist, which is stellar.

Now I'll do that thing when I finally tackle the overzealous collection of tabs cluttering my screen and compile them into a snazzy moodboard. Have a wonderful weekend, all.

Hand-rolled cigarette russes with sparkling neon sprinkles- are these not the kittens of the baking world? So small, so pretty, so coo-inducing. I haven't baked for blooming ages (I get more out of cooking these days but that's also because this usually happens when I go down the sweet route..) but these, nestled in a pretty tissue-papered box would a brilliant Christmas present make. Via Smitten Kitchen (you know the drill- only click on that link if you have a full stomach and a spare hour)

Cocktail Boyfriend Jeans The other day my colleague Polly asked "If you could take up a whole new look without any judgement from the outside world, how would you dress?" We pondered everything from promiscuous thigh-high boots to 1920s flappers dresses. Now that I've had the time to reflect I'm kicking myself- of course it would be 'Miami Beach Divorcee', no questions asked. All manicured nails and tassles and big sunglasses and cocktail print flares. House of Holland understands this quasi-trashy aesthetic which my brain likes to revisit. Woah mama.

Like many people, before the obligation of regular homework and the distraction of The Sims and MSN and MySpace I used to spend all my time drawing. I'd draw babies, teenagers, families, groups of best friends; experimenting with how realistic or cartoonish I could make the eyes and realising the more varied a group of people was in size and shape, the most interesting they were. I'd write little bios next to these imagined people and then create stories about them. 'Erin, 14, best friends with Claire, supports Liverpool FC, favourite colour; yellow, likes to eat pasta and hang out with her sisters.' I can't remember how long I did this for but I'm fairly sure it was a matter of years, stopping around the time I went to secondary school. One of the best things about this pastime was that I was completely unselfconscious about having a pen in my hand. now whenever I draw I'm often pausing to decide if it looks 'good'. Later on at A-Level I studied graphic art and got the same pleasure from redesigning the album art for a Beirut album, scanning the insides of envelopes and photographs of my Mum as a teenager, ripping pages from National Geographic and bringing everything together on photoshop. I miss spending so much time cutting and sticking and making but most of all I miss feeling unselfconscious. I'm trying to be better at leaving my laptop at work in the evenings to allow myself time to revisit my pens in the evening. A spate of illustrators websites have been sitting in my tabs recently which has only increased the urge. In particular I've been enjoying Sam Brewster's drawings, which remind me of 1950s children's books and old matchbox illustrations.

YMC brushed wool jumper Goes together with Christmas evening like turkey and cranberry sauce.

Igor Termenon has his fingers in lots of pies. He's the editor of photography zines Girls on Film and Boys on Film and is part of the team behind Future Positive. I've been enjoying going through his personal site, in particular his photographs of Glasgow. For me, Glasgow is the mistress. If I was to leave Manchester for anywhere else in the UK, it would be Glasgow, and Termenon reaffirms why.

Atelier Bingo

 

I've the serious joneses for these screenprint designs by French illustrator/design team Atelier Bingo (aka Maxime Prou and Adele Favreau)

You can check out their site here.

Here's their Etsy shop if you feel like treating yourself to something.

Read an interview with Prou and Favreau over at FuturePositive.com.

Gift Giving: The Reading List

The seasonal gift guide continues with books. It is universally known that one of the greatest pleasures that comes with Christmas/Winter festivals is reading. To me the sign of shared familial love and understanding is the lull of silence that descends over the sitting room on the afternoon of the 25th, bar for the occasional cracking of the fire or interruption of rustling wrappers and the question "Quality Street?" Simple pleasures. 

I've mentioned before that myself, Mum and Step-Dad have a 'book and a bottle' rule each Christmas. Sometimes my Stepdad will play a wildcard and buy me a pair of slippers but this rule makes everything hassle-free in the gift shopping department. I can spend an afternoon lazily perusing the shelves at Waterstones and still be A Good Person. These are some of my picks for the best books to give to friends, relatives and lovers this December:

1 The Monocle Guide to Better Living: Whoa mama. I picked this up recently in Magma and suddenly found myself all 'pro-coffee table books' again. After a period of seeing them as a frivolity (seriously, when was the last time you leafed through all of those £40 fashion tomes you bought as a teenager?) the substance of this guide won me over again. This book is full of recommendations on locations, products and ideas that inspire better living across the globe. Cue gorgeous shots of people taking morning swims in open air pools and looking like they're having the best time ever in cities from Beirut to Berlin. 

2. Eames by Gloria Koenig and Peter Gossel: This book is a comprehensive guide to the careers of Ray and Charles Eames. Crammed with interiors-porn it's also a great 'new relationship' litmus test. Just leave it self-consciously lying open when you have a new friend or lover in the house and see if they take the bate!

3. Powers of Ten: A Flip-book: "More of the Eameses?" I hear you ask. This is Eames in bitesize; their Power of Ten film is even more seductive in flip-book form. Perfect for influencing the small children in your life with big ideas! (One of those presents for them that's really for you..)

4. Autobiography by Morrissey: Come on, of course you're going to buy this for someone this Christmas. If everybody and their uncle read Fifty Shades of Grey then the unofficial national bookclub should give this a go too. I did spend the first couple of pages chortling under my breath when I picked this up in a bookshop. But to be honest that may have been from all the pressure to have a visible public reaction in a Manchester bookshop. 

5. The Pop-Up Kama Sutra by Sir Richard Burton and F. F. Vatsyayana: No, not that Richard Burton. My Mum once bought this for Aunty Megan, the matriarch of our family who passed away this year just before her 102nd birthday. I was affected as a thirteen year old by how brave and awesome this act of gift-giving was. 

6. Tokyo: A Very Brief Introduction by Herb Lester I love Herb Lester guidebooks. You love Herb Lester guidebooks. Let's all put ourselves out of our misery this Christmas and buy someone a goddamn Herb Lester guidebook. 

7. Girls Are Not Chicks colouring book by Jacinta Bunnell: "We have had enough of books that make girls think that they are not any good. Girls are not chicks. Girls are thinkers, creators, fighters, healers and superheroes." *Clicks 'Add to Basket'*

And while we're on the subject, Bluestockings Magazine wrote this great post on the Top 7 Colouring Books for Feminists. 

Want to scroll through the sickening amount of gift guides I've compiled in previous years? Here, here, here, here and heere. 

And this is a picture of Edmund from The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, which is exactly how i'll look on Christmas Day as I work my way through a pile of books. Like a greedy little bugger with a mouthful of turkish delight.

Tis The Season of (gift) guidance

Contrast jumper, Chinti and Parker/ Horn comb, Hornvarefabrikken/ Dream River by Bill Callahan/ 'Ocean's Sweaty Face' 100 McSweeney's Postcards/ The ever-faithful Sriracha Hot Chili Sauce/ Delirium Tremens ale/ Dead Sea conditioner/ Table Tennis Set/

I can't fault gift guides. They're as ubiquitous as mince pies and each December I overdose on both and don't even care. Ah yes, gift guides. I love finding them tucked away in the weekend papers whilst I'm eating my eggs and hot sauce but I like making them even more. They're loaded with all of the pleasure of the Christmas lists we wrote as children* except thinly veiled as an attempt to guide others, because tis the season of goodwill. The season of heartwarming advice like "your Aunty will just love this £300 jumper."

I'm on a pretty tight budget this year and trying to be creative when it comes to handmade gifts that actually mean something. I've spent much of my Saturday night teaching myself 'The Lambton Worm' which is a Northumbrian folk song my Dad used to sing to me when I was younger. He still performs it as his party trick every now and then when he's drunk. My Dad doesn't really like present giving- his response to gifts is a consistently grateful but unbothered so this year I hope to whip this out (after a few glasses of dutch courage) and watch him shed salty tears of joy. Dazzled by his eldest daughter's commitment to learning a tricky Northumbrian dialect all in the name of miserliness. I'll let you know how it goes..

Want to scroll through the sickening amount of gift guides I've compiled in previous years? Here, here, here, here and heere.

*This is my own Christmas list, written around aged 6. Displaying an early and acute awareness of the relationship between wine and bribery. 

Moodboard: My Week

1. 'Start a Revolution'; neon light piece by Tim Etchells via his notebook. 2. A fried egg badge that I really dig via minimal needs. 3. Photograph by Philip-Lorca DiCorcia whose work I have only just come across after reading about his upcoming exhibition at the Hepworth Wakefield.

This weekend passed without much fanfare. But in a nice way. It was one of those grey weekends when it feels like the sky is sitting very low and you just sort of plod along, doing things as half-speed. One of those weekends when spending time in the pub in the company of friends but not even talking that much is a good solution. 

I've been indulging quite a lot in winter laziness recently, when a sort of semi-hibernation feels necessary in the evenings. Hot, comfort food and piling into bed earlier than is perhaps acceptable with a few squares of salted toffee chocolate from the Co-op. Having my bed suited and booted for the cold months with a new thick duck feather duvet has done nothing to discourage my hermitage, but for now I'm okay with it. 

These are some of the things that have been inhabiting my brain (and my computer tabs) over the past few days:

I'm a new Bill Callahan fan. I've been getting so much enjoyment from his latest album Dream River ('The Sing' and 'Small Plane' are my current favourites, particularly this line in the latter: "Sometimes you sleep while I take us home, that's how I know we really have a home") I really liked this Bill Callahan profile on Spin.com which joins him hanging out at home in Austin with his partner, jamming in his shed and jumping from high spots at the springs. 

While I've been sort of obsessed with hearing about other peoples routines for a while, my interest is starting to dissipate. Mostly because I recognise that this interest in other peoples way of doing things stems from procrastination and escapism. Maybe it's also because I feel less of a need for the 'guidance' of others as a way of validating my own way of doing things. There are only so many times you can read about Franklin's time management schemes. Despite all of this, I did enjoy reading about Molly Young's Sunday Routine. I've read Molly's blog on and off since 2010 and when I was 17 I thought she was the coolest person ever, so it was nice revisiting her world. 

Tim Adams' interview with Jon Hamm. I don't often have the patience to read a celebrity profile in the papers, but this Jon Hamm profile is great. "People tell me they look up to Don, like they look up to Tony Soprano or Walter White. People have these weird fascinations with people who in reality you would not want to be for a second."

Dmitry Gudkov's blog #BikeNYC Project is great but what I really liked were these photographs of Lance Jacobs which led me to his fantastic blog The Virtuous Cyclist. It's full of tips and illustrations for riding safely in New York. Which is perfect for when I'm cycling there in my dreams. My confidence on the roads has really improved in the last year, particularly after cycling to Paris and I feel much safer and in control but I'm still tediously conscious of my own mortality when I'm on my bike. Of course everyone is aware of their own mortality but there is nothing like zipping past buses and avoiding drivers who can't use their indicators to make you ponder death. Lance's blog makes an interesting read, especially in relation to taking responsibility but also taking charge as a cyclist. One of his tips which has stayed with me: make eye contact with motorists. 

A special thanks goes out to my fabulous Granny and long-time no. 1 blog fan who mailed me some cashmere gloves as a surprise after reading my last post. I'm now back to wearing socks strictly on my feet and not my hands and cycling is so much better because of it. 

My Morning Route

It's November. When I go to bed I climb under four blankets and my duvet and I'm wearing the fluorescent striped socks my Great Granny knitted me for me when I was fourteen. After spending much of the past fortnight lying in bed in the evenings, under the layers, watching Mad Men (through my own breath) because it was too cold to do much else, Rose gently suggested that we put the heating on this week. She had tried to send a text but she couldn't feel her own fingers so she came into my room and said 'Stevie. The time has come'. So, it's November and the beginnings of Winter proper. 

Despite all of this there is a clan of stubborn sunflowers on Santiago Road and they're standing in the face of the first frost. They're planted in a small unofficial allotment at the side of the road which is my favourite part of the route I take when I cycle into work each morning. On Thursday the sky was bright and the air was bitter and I was that person who is wearing socks on their hands instead of gloves because 'buy gloves' remains at the end of my to-do list that never gets scribbled off. 

After roads and roads of potholes I turn onto Santiago Street where the surface is smoother and everything is a bit quieter. Sometimes there might be a van parked at junction with men unloading hanging meat to take into the nearby shop. (I took a photo of them sometime last year) There'll be some kids walking to school, sometimes by themselves and sometimes trailing after a parent. And there is the man who stands outside of his house on Newark Avenue, the front of which is filled with potted plants which spill right up to his neighbours' front doors too. He stands out on the street dragging on a cigarette intensely, starring off somewhere. This always makes me think of my own Dad. Whenever I visit him at home in Bristol he'll usually be in the back garden, sitting in his wooden chair, rolling a cigarette with liquorice paper and then sitting back with deep relief to smoke it. His smaller children are safely on the other side of the sliding doors, the glass stopping noise from entering his little zone and I wonder how it is that he still has children under the age of seven, but I won't say anything because he just gives me a look that says "I know". The man on Newark Avenue has the same endearing look of distance on his face, but I like to think that he stands outside not just to escape but to admire and guard his prized plants, too. 

I'll pass the allotment and the sunflowers. On Thursday there was a small pile of discarded DVDs next to the plants. One of them was Secretary. Then there is the basketball court which is always brightly lit by the sun at that time in the morning and next the 'Hans Knitwear' factory which is now an Islamic Centre and sometimes has groups of men standing and talking outside. 

I continue onto Deramore Street. If I time it right I pass as the 'Biker Grove' man is there. He's in his sixties and wears a high-vis jacket and shouts 'Yeah! Biker Grove!' in a patois accent at passing cyclists and the familiar pun always makes me laugh. Midway down the street on the right is the old woman who is always, always sitting on her sofa surrounded by books. There are books everywhere and her blinds are always drawn so you can really get a good look in. Shelves full of them and then piles on every table surface and one open in her lap so that it looks like she has a project on the go, except that she is always leaning to watch the television. This woman in her sitting room is my very favourite part of this stretch because she is always there whether I pass in the morning or the evening. There is nothing sad about the sight and something about the blinds being thrust open means I never feel that I'm intruding on her by peeking into her space. I always just think that it looks like a nice cosy set-up and I bet she has a pretty enviable biscuit tin.