7/7: His Latest Period of Absence

'It is a decision for you and you alone,' counsel explained, 'we need an answer.' Unyielding, apparently unmoved, the client continued to stare into the oak beams, it dawning on counsel that no decision would - or perhaps could - be forthcoming.
.

6/7: Light at the End of the Estate

Chimneys drawn sharply against the darkening sunset, the sky bade goodnight. Under a flat roof on the edge of town, shift worker and machine bathed in halogen daylight.
.

5/7: Hours after Mam's service

Her parents had moved 200 miles north such that an adoption, 'at their age', could be effected. Now, overlooking a blustery North Sea, she clasped the hand tight - the good man, the one who would not get away, the one who had already decided to leave.
.

4/7: I think, therefore it is

With the utter conviction of one who had never been inclined to reason, the emerald dress leaned forward with an inelegantly raised hand. 'Thing is,' she whispered, 'I happen to know someone who works in a college just like that, and believe me, many of these kids are lost from day one.'
.

3/7: The Giveaway

Barely perceptible, but there, a flicker of something - no doubt about it, the eyes flashed alert. Half-baked hypotheses now queuing to be made sense of, the older man rose, made his excuses, and headed out onto the street.
.

2/7: At 54 m.p.h.

Cutting corners was made easy by the low hedges. Dropping left, eyes darting right, a buzzard perched atop a telegraph pole was the last thing he saw.
.

1/7: White Behind the Hedge

Looking up from his screen, Frank glanced across to the 9-shot CCTV feed - all quiet. Except, the image from Camera 8 had changed.
.

An Exercise in Pairing

General Readerly Scouting - plotter and one-time mentee of Colonel Terjero, led me to a short feature on Dan Rhodes, whereupon I read of his collection, Anthropology - 101 stories, each of 101 words. That, I liked. The playfulness provoked me into scheming a short wordish game. Thus, the precept: two sentences, posted here, each day from tomorrow, for the next week.

The Anatomy of a Week-Long Moment

Just back from a fractured week in Powys and Herefordshire, where Alex and his young cousin playfully broke up the otherwise Proper Grown Up stuff of the Hay Festival, and my breathing in of the lush green hills of Presteigne, in old Radnorshire - home of the very well-groomed (albeit naive) Pristine Christine, the best green teen of Presteigne.

Hay-wise, with my mother in mind (she be a fan), on the first Saturday evening I'd elected to go and listen to Paul O'Grady in conversation with Sandi Toksvig. Sure enough, as he waxed lyrical on the second volume - The Devil Rides Out - of his memoir, his wit, warmth and self-effacement beguiled the thousand-plus audience in the pavilion. On the back of previous Hay experiences (below par interviewers and chairs), Toksvig pitched perfectly.

The following day, I committed only to Javier Cercas' session, intelligently and generously chaired by Jon Gower. I knew little of Cercas, but from listening to his appearance on World Book Club a few months ago, I expected sufficient hooks of interest. The particular quality of his that drew me in, was his appetite for forensically unpacking social and cultural 'moments', or actions - the title of his session, The Anatomy of a Moment, saying as much. The historic thread that ran through much of Cercas' discussion concerned the transition in governance of Spain. At the heart of this was the failed coup d'etat of Colonel Tejero, of 23 February, 1981 - during Spain's shift to a liberal democratic state. And, phew.

Monday began with an air of gaiety - which many of the audience (of about 300) may not have expected from 'The Lost City of Stoke-on-Trent' - primarily, a sales pitch for Matthew Rice' book of the same name - an aesthetically pleasing document of the city's industrial cultural heritage, and traces thereof. With his wife, the potter Emma Bridgewater, opening the discussion with an account of her recalling her first experience of Stoke-on-Trent - a wave of mixed emotions and the thought, 'I didn't know that places like this existed', I had a feeling that I was about to be taste-challenged. From 'those who should know better' (the plummy, the well-bred), I struggle to tolerate that kind of socio-environmental ignorance. Gladly though, bottom line interests aside, both speakers turned it around, and chair Tristram Hunt batted well for the city, too. It was especially pleasing to gauge that the vast majority of the audience were not Stokies on sabbatical (or holiday, or parole), but more broadly interested vultures of socio-industrial culture - the end-of-session questions from the floor were, as my sister would say, top-notch. From that, I moved on to listen to Catherine O'Flynn ('The News Where You Are') and Mark Watson ('Eleven') speak of their most recent novels, both of which centre around characters who are on big personal quests, that see them ask gentle philosophical questions. Again, this was well-chaired, by Stephanie Merritt - no cloyingness, just walking the main protagonists through a well-balanced discussion of their works - as separate entities, albeit with big thematic cross-overs.

Otherwhere, culturally-speaking, there's a feature on Lady Gaga, written by Stephen Fry, and published under the FT banner. It's over a week old now, it's fannish but good, and it's here. And I'm really liking In Treatment - the talking therapy drama, from HBO, with Gabriel Byrne and a strong supporting cast - not least of whom, Hope Davis' Mia is spookily well written and acted.

Otherwise, otherwise.
.

nonsensemongering

I'll not bore you with the whys and wherefores of why and wherefore I happened to be reading up on schools in the Bangor (north Wales) area, but let me share my delight in finding some very subtle tweakings to the wikipedia site of one of those schools, here. Note the beginning of paragraph three, and the delicate amendment to the Band Jazz Ysgol Tryfan heading.

I'd heard of wikipedia being open to falsehoods and general nonsensemongering, but I'd never knowingly encountered such suchness before.

Young people - so wonderful, so creative.

Unrelated: It's recently occurred to me that the meaning and function of my blogging has changed enormously, once more. With Alex now being so much more grown up than in the early days of my writing, here, and my confidence in my position in his and Emma's lives growing a lot, this largely safe and supportive space for reflection has become a bit redundant. I'm not saying that I'm done with blogging - I'm not, but things have changed.

Hope this finds you well.

A Post on the Subject of Travel in Sweden

It had been far too long since such a jaunt.

The Oresundsbron, a bridge that connects the Danish capital, Copenhagen, to the west, with the Swedish city of Malmo to the east.

From the train, edging into Malmo.

As one of Malmo's outdoor markets close up, the culture of van decor presents itself.

Saturday morning strolling leads to the fish market, and eels.

And maybe a hint as to where just a few of the local residents got their spectacular good looks from.

And to the Turning Torso, a residential building - the tallest building in Scandinavia - that overlooks the Oresunds strait.


And back to what you know, with the same eye for the unusual, the unlikely, and the oft-unremarked upon.
.

A Post on the Subject of Environmental Psychology, and Formal Education

From my new workspace, I'm overlooking a small gravelly garden, big fir trees, a chaotic bamboo patch, and a dovecote. The birds that are a-twitter at the tops of the firs seem uninterested in the seed-feeders, below - wise, given the number of cats that frequent this area.

There is something really rather pleasing about the swoop and swirl of blue tits.

Just yesterday, I mentioned to a teacher - a bit stressed, she was - that were her school located within an entirely concrete landscape (as so many are), then that pressure that she was feeling would somehow be a fraction more overbearing. Casting a casual glance across the green fields adjacent to the staff room, and to a hill beyond, she murmured.

'Mm. You know you do talk some shit sometimes, but I know what you mean.'

Then I added to her workload.

air

I had some really interesting conversations, this week. To and from Lake Windermere (a day-long meeting plus sleep-over), my journey's sidekick (who I didn't know very well) proved the ideal companion, and reliable navigator (short-cutting it through back-waterest North Staffordshire should never be taken-for-granted). During our journey north, we established that we both identified with the fundamental qualities of The Brunettery. On our south-bound return, we compared mental notes from the previous 24 hours. They seemed to correspond.

Whilst in Windermere, or nearabouts, I had the pleasure of a longish walk-and-talk with another Don't-Really-Know-This-Person. This was good for some of the finer detail - how and through whom the conversation came about, the speed with which we seemed to establish trust, the fact that we recognised this and spoke it out loud, and the subject matter that - through our handling of it - further conveyed this trust (what poor phrasing... I'm slapping myself, for you). Skimming over talk of overseas property and what it is about time away or time in the sun that enables a person to relax, we got to discuss how we met our respective partners and with that, somewhat more taboo matters. Throughout, questions and answers were reasonably frank. And all the while, we enjoyed the back-drop of low-flying swans, gambolling pied wagtails, driftwood under foot, and the lapping of water. Quite, quite right - so much more preferable than the staid surrounds of the conference room.

Regular doses of that leg-stretching, mind-uplifting outdoor thing are absolutely vital to the task of breaking up the week, so it was good to share in this in a rarefied fashion.

Back in blighty, The Boy and I made use of the heavy downpours we've been having. Fully braced for a drenching, Wednesday evening saw us head out on the bikes to our favourite local woodland. Exiting the wood furthest from our house, we spotted a lapwing as we darted through a field into the Barlaston Park area, then down past the Wedgwood facilities - including cricket club and fishing ponds. Stopping to look at one of the ponds, we both gasped as our immediate sighting was of a kingfisher rising out of the water with its small catch. And then on to the Trent and Mersey canal path, and back home. A bracing circuit, with good rapport and observations all the way.

This weekend, Emma and Alex are in London, and I'm left to face workish loose ends that have been loose too long.

Yet the call of Anglesey, of White Beach (west of Penmon Point), and of the Menai Straits (west of the Britannia Bridge), is reaching me. The beachcaster rod stands in the hallway, suggesting that it's there and ready for me to reel in tea (not that I have any experience of actually catching anything - such a novice as I am). But I can't possibly listen to the rod... a week from now I'll be on the Yorkshire coast, with plenty of chances for staring at the sea.

And so harrumph and harrumph. All cooped up, with no excuses for not doing what I'm meant to.

Living for the weekend? I think not.

dane

Monday to Wednesday, I was in Manchester, on a course that I enjoyed thoroughly - fellow participants exceeding my expectations around humour, deep thinking, and scope for creating intrigue.

Monday morning, during a break, I am walking down a wide looping staircase with a fellow participant, The Dane. She is 30ish, she is tidily casual, and we've already spoken of various cultural interests.

The Dane has mentioned that she 'manages a small design team'. With this, I hear urban. I hear urbane. I hear cutting edge. I hear technology. I hear city centre. I hear cosmpolitan. I hear Frappuccino. Descending the stairs, The Swede makes a remark about being very hard-pressed, financially.

Shane: What did you say you did?

Dane: I manage a small design team.

Shane: But, minimum wage?

Dane: Well, less than, actually.

Shane: How?

Dane: Well, the thing is, we're trying to run it in an ethical manner.

Shane: (Here, there is much to unpack - much that we don't have time to unpack. I sense that The Dane knows that whatever is being referred to as 'ethical manner' is unsustainable.) Mm.

Dane: (sighs) Mm.

Shane: Y' know, maybe what you need to do, is abandon the whole ethical approach - unethical is the new ethical, kind of thing. Then you'll be fine!

Dane: (frowns, looks me over - a bit puzzled)

Shane: Ah! Don't worry. Free consultation. I'm just here to help.

Swede: (briefly puzzles) (smiles)

I move on, confident that I have much to contribute over the next few days.

passions

We've been back in blighty for a week, having spent a few days at the festival in Hay-on-Wye. The week of down-time left space for several longish local walks - woodland, meadows, canal - all with Alex several counties away (he returned well, he returned happy, he returned yesterday). The following notes are late reflections on what I - we - sat in on (and missed), whilst in Hay.

Henning Mankell (Saturday 29 May, morning): cancelled. Explained here (Mankell was aboard one of the flotilla boats that sought to break the blockade of Gaza).

Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall and Ruth Rogers, in conversation with Jim Naughtie (Saturday 29 May, early afternoon): The River Cottage and River Cafe chefs and food writers spoke in memory of Rose Gray (co-founder of the River Cafe). Whilst Rogers extolled the virtues of Italy and its sun-drenched produce, Hugh F-W's bent was differently located. Throughout, there was a quiet distinction in that the ethics and politics of food were much more to the fore in F-W's general message. Key word: sustainability. Jim Naughtie left enough space for the foodies to speak for themselves, and was a beacon of how best to facilitate engaging and occasionally challenging discussion.

Small Space (by Jane Nash and Dan Milne) (Saturday 29 May, early evening): We met by the town's clock tower. And were then guided towards this piece of theatre - a one hour two-hander, performed in the kitchen-diner of a nearby cottage, to a sell-out audience of 20. Themes of intimacy and honesty were charted through the fragmented story of a couple's meeting, marriage, and learning to live with one another. It's rare that theatre gets to be so intimate that you really are looking into the whites of the actors' eyes, and they your's, but more importantly - it's rare that theatre is so tightly written and sharply executed. A great production, that made me want to return to New York, stand up from my uncomfortably high stool and applaud loudly, then quickly push on with my own writing pursuits.

Richard Layard, Geoff Mulgan and Anthony Seldon discussing the Movement for Happiness (Sunday 30 May, early evening): We attended this for a mix of professional and personal interest reasons - as if those things could so easily be separated. It was reference to what this movement's aims might yield - in terms of an approach to education - that drew us in. In short, the movement - as it is being referred to - seeks to provoke people into thinking and acting their way into living in both more personally fulfilling, and socially conscientious ways. Discussion of this raised enormous questions regarding the political, economic and psychological affiliates to what initially sound like radical changes to how we live - or rather why we live how we live. Many questions were discussed, rather than answered - and herein lies the central challenge to the happiness movers (and to many other fantastically worthwhile and creative intellectual endeavours). Translating big thinking into coherent, digestible, points for practicable action is not always so straight forward - although Seldon did articulate a 5-point list that I didn't make a note of. We'll be watching and listening and making some contribution to the furtherance of ideas that were presented, as we work on through 2010 and beyond.

One more point on the above session: Rosie Boycott, entirely open in her manner and (stand-in) chairing of this discussion, made interjections which seemed to naively lay bare the kinds of personal dissonance and social discord that will occur when a critical mass of individuals pursue lifestyles that are largely, if not entirely, self-serving. In suggesting that our domestic economy and broad social behaviour would become 'just a little boring' were they to more closely resemble those of, say, Denmark, the example of the individual chasing down 'some hot-shit media job' and all of the prizes that go with that (read personal wealth, reward, and an enhanced sense of self... self self), Boycott provoked a murmur of disapproval and a more glaring sense of cultural disunity within the room. Anthony Seldon seemed to observe that it was exactly such a profoundly self-oriented caricature (as was perhaps chairing the discussion) that was anathema to what the Movement for Happiness sought to inspire. Whilst not righting off personal ambition, the suggestion was that this might be most socially progressive were it wedded to (what I read as) an Adlerian sense of gemeinschaftsgefuhl - simply put, a sense of community, or social interest. That said, perhaps the entirely self-oriented individual will read their own progress as absolutely a matter of broad social interest. And so it goes.

Audrey Niffenegger in conversation with Lisa Allardice (Monday 31 May, morning): The author of The Time Traveller's Wife, and Her Fearful Symmetry, proved to be an elegant, engaging, and wry discussant of her motivations, passions and working practices. This was most in evidence as the hour-long session was opened up to questions from the floor. For the 25 minutes up to this point, I was reminded of how good an interviewer Jim Naughtie had been on Saturday afternoon. Whilst Allardice' editorship of the Guardian Review is no doubt high office, it probably demands a different set of qualities than does the task of being a stimulating literary interrogator. At times, Niffenegger appeared justifiably bored by the fawningly fannish initial questioning.

And that, was that.

witness

Emma and I take our seats in the theatre, for illusionist and mentalist Derren Brown's 'Enigma' show. All about us, there is an adrenal air of anticipation. Behind us, a young couple take their seats. With thoughts towards the seeds of likely tricks, the young man speculates to his irony-free companion.

Man: Back there, in the foyer - I bet there were loads o' subliminal messages an' that.

Woman: I didn't see any.

I smile to myself.

The show turns out to be excellent - as much for Brown's mastery of the stage, as for the mental mechanics of the acts that we witness. We were sworn to secrecy, so I'll say no more than that.

decisions

There is a definite buzz about Thursday's general election, the suggestion - a whiff in the air - that something quite unusual - historic, even - might be about to unfold. With the many and varied social media platforms awash with soundbite proclamations of political support (and apathy) and the mainstream media peddling slightly fattened versions of much the same, I will add a side note to the political aligning that is quite reasonably au fait.

On the back of the expenses scandal (in my view, the scandal being the light touch with which party leader/s were handled, and the throw-away 'we've all had our problems over expenses' euphemism), I remember raising an eyebrow at talk of one or two famous folk lining up to contest parliamentary seats. In particular, Esther Rantzen standing in Luton South seemed to get a lot of coverage. A radio programme (possibly BBC Radio 4's PM, or BBC Five Live's Drive-Time) invited discussion of the pros and cons of this kind of independents-in move. Clare Short MP, whilst acknowledging the well-meaningness of many likely candidates and the understandable public anger at the expenses furore, was not supportive of the independents' rising star/s. In short, her challenge was that independents - whilst not being aligned to any major party - could not be readily associated with a set of core principles and values, beliefs or policy intentions. On the surface, a fair criticism, it seemed - so the public would have to ask questions, or read a little deeper into independents. A problem? I didn't think so. But Clare Short's comments stayed with me, they seemed to be premised on a flawed set of assumptions.

When it comes to distinguishing between the mainstream parties we can refer to history (recent and not so recent), we can look out for specific policy pledges, and we might ask what is the fuel (political, economic, moral) that drives Party X's agenda. All sound so far. But where does this take us? We are still resting on the hopes and assumptions of candidates sticking to what they've promised, to understanding what they've promised, and to 'filling in the gaps' positively for us. I don't believe that there are many voters who would deeply believe their election choices to amount to a 'Me versus Society' play-off, even though part of my occasionally reactionary way of thinking would tell me that that is how I hear some politicians. My point - getting back to Clare Short's assumptions regarding the oblique presentation of independent candidates: the biggest variable upon which people will make their voting decisions is trust. Plain and simple. And what this does, is it somewhat undermines the need for detailed policy presentation and party affiliation. It is for this reason that we have would-be prime ministers being analysed (by 'serious political commentators') for whether they looked into a television camera, or whether they made reference to the names of people who've asked questions. It's light, it's superficial, it's ephemeral. It seems that we are next door to - if not entirely in the land of - talk of 'gameplans', and mass readings of body language. And on these terms - the terms with which ordinary punters, such as we are, come to distinguish between political leaders - independent candidates are no different from those who carry higher profiles. We will analyse them - should they get as far as the starting line - in terms of how far we might trust them to do the right thing, whilst in office.

I do not need to know what every policy initiative would look like - that would be an unreasonable ask. What I want to believe, is that under whichever administration is formed over the coming days, that those who are most vulnerable in society will be best looked after. I want government to be big enough to be paternalistic, to be strong enough to be interventionist, and to be responsible enough to not simply allow the 'natural forces of the market' to steer us to wherever. At the level of the individual candidate, there are individuals from all major parties, and several minor parties, who convince me of their goodness of thought and spirit, that would inspire my trust in them. And sadly, there are individuals who might be aligned to broad political churches with which I am comfortable, who fail to inspire such feelings.

At risk of completely losing my thread, I will round off. On Thursday, I will vote. I won't feel any strong sense of what the next four or five years might have in store for any of us, but I will vote. And the thing that will determine who gets my 'X', will simply be that bloke (for they are all blokes) who I most believe could be relied upon to approach problems from a sound social and moral standpoint. It's not religious, it's not borne of any profound economic or even political ideology, it's just simple, human and humane.

I hope that anyone who glances over this missive will be voting too, regardless of where their X may land.

See you on the other side, perhaps for a collective sigh. Perhaps.

seven survey*

Having listened to his appearance on BBC Radio 4's Book Club, with James Naughtie, I've been reading Alexander McCall Smith's 44 Scotland Street.

It's been a while since I experienced such a thing, but I think I've been struck by a case of Man Love. And from this (below), I think it should be easy to understand why:



Good day.

* references the Chapter Seven title of 44 Scotland Street: The Survey.

six movements

Friday evening:

'Did I tell y' about the doctors' surgery?' asks mother.

'No', says I.

Soon after, I'm looking at this:



...And my sister and I are laughing at the very twenty-first century apology, from So So Sorry, of Spennymoor, that appeared on the local newspaper's website. (It was his kid wot dun it, apparently - burned the doctors' surgery down.) Confirming the gravitas of the blaze, mother grimly adds, 'They had to close Asda'.

On Saturday, my mother laid some flowers in the walled remembrance garden at the crematorium, in Durham. It was a bittersweet moment. She cried, I patted her back.

Later, in Durham, sister and I were on a Day-Before-Mothers-Day mission.

'Do we need wrapping paper?' I ask.

Sister locates the wrapping paper in Waterstones, swears, and re-directs us. 'Haway. Indoor market'll be cheaper.' A daughter's love, a daughter's economy.

Later still on Saturday, I recognise some things about mother's life in the small town that I'd previously undervalued. As she's describing the trials and tribulations that various friends and faces have been dealing with, I ask where she gets all of this information from. Seems that a walk through town is sufficient. People on the street. Tiny details, good for the soul.

Sunday, we went out for lunch, prior to my drive back. In the family restaurant, it seemed like tattoos were en vogue. But then I notice that many of said tattoos have that slightly blurred - stretched - quality. And I listen to how some of the fellow diners are speaking. 'More on rogue, than en vogue', I decide, admiring the line, but choosing not to share it. Wouldn't want to offend, see. Or get beaten up.

I get back to Stoke-on-Trent at around 6:45pm, and Emma gives me the lowdown on her weekend. 'I missed you', she adds. Fifteen minutes later, The Boy - returned by his Dad - steps in, throws his arms open and around me for a big hug, and says, 'We didn't win the talent show, but everyone laughed when we mixed the cat food into the rice pudding. And Miss Stokes asked who wrote our script. She wants you to help her with something, I think.'

And not to miss out on this lo-fi reunion, the cat wanders in, heads for the fireplace, and starts to bite the tulip stems.

Kettle on.

five star

Early 2010 featured far too much death and distraction for me to commit to being anything more than a punter at the second Stoke-on-Trent Pecha Kucha event. Pecha Kucha: Japanese for chit-chat. Here, taking the form of a presentation, over 20 slides/images, each given 20 seconds - total presentation time: 6 minutes and 40 seconds.

The Fat Cat Cafe Bar, on the edge (the best bit) of Hanley, was a very good venue - its subterranea being sufficiently lounge-like and ill-lit, to foster a warm, relaxed atmosphere.

With Anna Francis' cool hosting, presentations began with local photographer, Mark Brereton, on responses to the Haitian earthquake. With this, there were related historical references to architecture and global network-based fund-raising efforts. A gentle opener.

Taking on the baton, was Nottingham-based Andy Clark, whose disarming moustache-fronted opening paved the way for a wry discussion around men's health. The timing, content and all-round intelligence of this presentation justified the rapturous response that the speaker received. Personal trials with prostate cancer were the background to what was effectively a health education message that the crowd actually wanted to listen to. Of course, self being self, I had to later daydream about the vast monies that are spent on getting such messages out, but with nothing like the appeal or flair that this self-effacing speaker achieved. Andy's happening to have the family in tow for the evening, was a warm detail that wasn't lost to me. I spotted his wife say, 'Proud of you', following his post-presentation kiss. Lip-reading, eh, whatever next.

From this, Gemma Thomas shifted us towards 'Collaboration'. Ultimately, a workish presentation, that was a little light on the trials of working in collaboration, or in partnership. Here, I have to acknowledge that whilst the desire and optimism attached to the 'Wouldn't things be better if we could all work together' sentiment, is attractive, I've known far too many collaborations and partnerships - in-depth - to know that the detail of such working arrangements, can create a lot of additional work in and of itself. A point that was oblique, here.

In discussing folk memories of the city (Stoke-on-Trent), Darren Washington (another local photographer), drew upon his own archive of images, along with spoken word recordings made around the Potteries. The pacing of this presentation, and its meandering content, was sufficient for many of the crowd to appreciate the humour in lo-fi everyday reflecting.

During a break in proceedings, throughout which local electronic musicians bITjAM provided the background music - agreeably non-disturbing, I talked with a fellow north-east exile about his recent move south, and about the university course that he's now leading.

Perhaps the most surprisingly entertaining talk came next. Anwyl Cooper-Willis, visiting from Bristol, provided a most elegant account of the grand architecture attached to the electricity sub-stations of Stoke-on-Trent. To many, this might herald a 'Y' wha'?!' response, but this was really about paying attention to and seeing the merits of those details of our everyday backdrops that we don't always see. I would fail to do justice to Anwyl and the sub-stations, were I to try to say more.

The one technical glitch of the evening occurred next. One speaker's presentation images were lost to the stomach of a laptop and so he had to stand down. I hope he returns, next time there's a Pecha Kucha event. Hearing reference to this SpeakerWhoWouldHaveBeen being from my part of the city, I was quietly excited - hoping that he was about to add a dimension to this most local of locales, that would have undermined some of my dearest prejudices. He looked like a decent sort.

From that hiccough, to Nantes, and Celine Siani-Djiakoua's reflection on the semiotics of her former home ('Where are you from?') city. In the imagery, advertising hoardings and text about the streets of Nantes, Celine discussed the traces of the city's historically pivotal role in sustaining the slave trade. Altogether, the narrative was fragmented, but such a patchwork quilt of talk was strong enough in its detail to hold interest.

And finally, they'd been spotted about the building earlier, Denim and Leather were to play 'Live!'. Stepping up to the microphone, the duo's manager, Hugo Nowhere, presented a 6-minute 40-second introduction. Recounting his boys' past tours, their achievements, and the underlying philosophy of these most fashionably unfashionable ne'er-do-wells, 'Rock is a three letter word', we all knew which S-word he was talking about. But lo, but behold. Due to their rockish excess, Denim and Leather failed to make it to the stage. Images suggested that their non-specified binges had led to unpleasantness in the toilets. The crowd were disappointed, if taken aback at such antics - on a Thursday. One suspects that they'll rock on, to make a difference at other performance events. Nowhere struck me as a man not to be trusted, though. Debauched.

By 11pm, I was back at the ranch, and settling self down for some really odd dreamsleep. I blame Hugo Nowhere.