The pull of Hull.

'The air had a very strange smell, the kind that one only finds in Hull.'

I was struck by this line from a novel I am currently reading, Gary Dexter's All the Materials for a Midnight Feast. Firstly, because it incited a little chuckle, reminding me of those (not overly frequent I must stress) mornings I would leave the house in Hull, raise my nose to the sky and detect a familiar, somewhat less than pleasant scent. I never did learn what that was. Some suggested the docks, which made sense, others, curiously, dog biscuits. Where the giant dog biscuit factory is along Newland Avenue, I have no idea, but I would love to know if anyone can enlighten me.

More poignantly, however, Dexter's phrase provoked a deeper, much stronger reaction within me by  capturing, in some way, an essence of the unique bond I feel to Hull. That 'strange smell' is for me, an odd, but all consuming air about the place that gripped me from my very first visit.  This, interestingly enough (or perhaps not, I don't really expect you to be interested) was at a University Open day for my sister, some 8 years before I began my first year. The reassuring feeling of the place stayed with me. That first amble I took along Newland Avenue with my Mum on that day, glimpsing higgledy piggledy second hand shops- an image of a single knock-kneed wooden chair in a window is an image that stays with me -sat, hibernating, for a long time as a very comfortable memory.

This pull to Hull I feel quite clearly emerges in my reading of this book. I can unashamedly say the only reason I chose to read it is because I discovered it was a story about a man reminiscing on his time at University in Hull during the 80s. Within it he maps certain familiar geographical spots, reflecting on his meetings, or more precisely, almost-meetings with Larkin. It is this 'almost-ness' about Hull, a land on the cusp of something wonderful, but never really aware of it, which I love the most. Although I cannot say the novel as a whole grips me, everytime I come across something Hull-related,  my eyes light up just slightly, a little crackle of warm familiarity surging through.

I realise this feeling may be diagnosed as merely a longing for the joys of my now-passed University days,  as of course it is University life I most associate with the city. Perhaps it may not be Hull at all I am so drawn to, but the experience itself. Had I studied anywhere, I feel sure I would maintain a certain attachment. Does everyone feel like this? Perhaps. But it cannot just be that.

Hull of course is now quite a different place to the one I spent three years in, now that so many of the people closest to me during that time are no longer there. Although I am profoundly aware it is the people, I of course miss the most, I can confirm it is actually the place I miss too. When I go back now, I relish that first glimpse of the Humber Bridge as I approach on the train, its dominating stance overlooking the flat landscape beneath. The bridge, to me, represents something of the world's outlook on Hull. There stands this overriding and dominating concept many people have of the city, more often than not unfortunately leaning towards the negative, overpowering the appealing realities beneath this misconception. Presumptions are often made about Hull (often deriving from its name's unfortunate rhyming potential) when people have not even visited it. It is the action of crossing the bridge, indeed physically, but equally mentally to overcome any preconceptions, that allows Hull's charm to be felt.

My favourite spot in Hull, and quite possibly of anywhere (grand claim I know!) is at the very tip of the water front. Here I have felt at my happiest, most free, most comfortable, most inspired.  It is the openness of the water in front of me, but also of the city behind which I like. Although I have experienced standing at this spot in the bleakest of conditions, face attacked by the icy wind, shivering madly, my every sense is always directed towards a feeling of bliss I have rarely felt quite so powerfully anywhere else.

I realise this entire spiel will probably be read as a foolish rose-tinted reflection on a place I should really move on from. Perhaps writing about it will be cathartic and finally unleash me from its grip. Yet I am not sure I really wish to be unleashed. Though physically I have moved on, I cannot believe I will ever be able to quite find again somewhere with 'the peculiar charms of Hull.'*




*From Dexter's All the Materials for a Midnight Feast again.

Carpe diem, or something like that anyway.

Today I found myself meandering through unknown territory in Cambridge-land. The combination of appealing autumnal bleakness permeating the air, and the Bon Iver playing in my ears (via headphones I might add- the band's not turned teeny tiny!) propelled me into a pensive mood. It was in this very state that I stumbled across this work of, shall we say, 'penmanship.'

The author's message is surely that of carpe diem, seize the day, live for the moment, and this is an attitude I always tell myself I should adopt. I am happy to say, like many people I am sure, a number of wonderful consequences in my life have sprung from moments of such 'live for the now' intent.

Yet at the same time, I couldn't help but notice how part of this sentence is scribbed out. Ironic. Revised and edited, the message itself has hardly been delivered in the very 'moment' it was conceived has it? Living for the 'now' is perhaps so intangible a concept- are we ever truly in the present, or merely thinking back over/ anticipating it? Sometimes I am aware that part of me enjoys thinking about wonderful things to come, or nostalgically reminiscing on that which has been, more than I sometimes appreciate the very moment. It worries me. At times, however, the attitude of, I quote, 'if not now, when?'  can be a troublesome one (just look at marmite flavoured chocolate...' if not now, NEVER' would have been more apt... but that's for another time...). 'If not now.. perhaps at a later, more feasible, more considered date' is sometimes the best, most realistic or only option (although admittedly not quite as catchy), as placing the needs of now over everything can have long-term damaging effects.  

Seizing the day is a wonderful concept, and I advocate it strongly to bring us out of our comfort zones at times, but of late I have to recognise its romanticisation. Waiting for something, so that it will turn out well eventually, is often necessary, and can be all the better for it.

Amid my joyful wander of bleakness, I also crossed a rail bridge, and it was in THAT moment I was struck by this image. I don't know if I was looking back or looking forward, but either way I rather liked it.

Culture vulture worries.

As I sat watching 'The Culture Show' the other evening, I found myself thinking about my own attitude to 'culture'. The very name 'The Culture Show' itself seems to place the programme on precarious ground- is it just a platform on which to display cultural goings on.. or is it a form of culture in itself? Its almost too overt title seems to exclaim:  'Red alert: Here are all things cultural. Watch this and you will be officially 'cultured'. We promise.'

By watching Andrew Graham-Dixon talking about a new art gallery in Colchester, or, let's face it, GAWPING at the lovely Alistair Sooke discussing with Frank Stella his new Retrospective ( some very, very, dark paintings, and then, conversely, some very, very bright ones), I can securely say I know a little more about them, am aware of their existence, can nod knowingly at their mention, but do I have any right to  think myself in anyway 'cultured'... whatever that may mean... now? After all, I haven't actually experienced anything have I?

In truth, I am merely exploring a personal hang-up.I so often feel myself to be a cultural fraud, very interested by the world of art, cinema, literature, music but in reality having experienced relatively little, particularly in terms of art. I could perhaps account this partly to having not lived anywhere near London- the centre of 90% of things going on in every 'What to do/see this week' newspaper section I ever read. Yet, for this year, at least, I am living within 50 or so minutes of said cultural land, so I have run out of excuses... but perhaps this will be a turning point. Sometimes I think I am just happy to have 'heard' of things, or content being able to make some very mundane comment probably subconsciousy derived from some review or other I've recently absorbed, never really having much cultural gravitas of my own.

In fact, amid the process of writing this blog post, I am rapidly coming to the realisation that worrying about whether I am ever really 'being cultured' echoes everything I hate about the pretentions frequently surrounding it. The word 'culture' alone is a deliberately broad term, surely counteracting any notions of exclusivity often intimated through its high-brow associations. To 'be cultured' should not be a label, but exactly what it proclaims to be. An act of 'being', an experience, whether that occur contentedly and passively from one's own sofa, or at the Tate Modern, with no pressure to gain anything specifically from it, beyond our own enjoyment. And if Mr Sooke just happens to be involved...bonus.

Stick with A.A Milne, and you can't go far wrong.

Winnie the Pooh and his pals invented one of the greatest and most satisfying sporting competitions known to man. Pooh Sticks.

Of late I seem to have frequently, and fortunately, found myself in idyllic countryside settings complete with quaint bridge and sufficiently flowing stream (the sight of stagnant water to a hopeful Pooh Stick-er is beyond tragic measure), with only one activity in mind. Choosing the correct size and weight stick for the ‘match’ ahead is a skill in itself, whilst the throwing in of said stick, too, requires much attention. Throw it even slightly off target and one can find oneself victim to troublesome rocks or, dare I mention, straggly reeds. Of course, placing all of one’s trust in a gnarled, often (and sometimes amusingly) misshapen twig can feel alien and scary, but equally, it can provide a small, natural thrill, only, to my mind, ever found through nature’s simplicity.

I am not afraid to admit that I have suffered some heavy Pooh Stick defeats in my time, but this never deters me from trying again. The excitement of running across a bridge with fellow competitors, each desperate to catch a glimpse of their stick victoriously leading the way, is eternal.

With some research, I am pleased to discover I am not alone in this passion. In March 2011 a 9 year girl old won the World Pooh sticks Championships. It makes me ashamed that at the age of 22 I have achieved so little by comparison. At least I now have something to aim towards I suppose.

My lasting wish is that Eeyore could share in some of this enthusiasm. Lucky enough to live in the homeland of Pooh Sticks, I will never comprehend what he has to be so sad about.

A moment snapped.

Out of the hundreds of photos of university life, there are a particular ones which stick in my mind, this being one of them. Although ones in which everyone rotates their head to the most flattering angle, putting their best smile, or 'I refuse to conform to life's simple joy of smiling so will do my trademark ridiculous expression' (you know who you are) look on, emanate with the suitable level of happiness I will always take away from these times, I sometimes feel they detract from the very moment they are supposed to be conveying. This photo, capturing a particularly memorable and delightful evening, speaks so much more in its authenticity. No staging, only natural expressions, and the crème de la crème, the tesco shopping bag. And let's face it, one of these bad boys is always lurking somewhere near.

This is not to say I do not enjoy all photos in their various forms, and long may the '1,2,3, 'SMILE' days continue, when the moment's right. It's just nice to sometimes view life exactly as I have experienced it, shopping bags an' all.

A child's voice.

‘I say hello

I say goodbye

I say no more

For I am shy.'

I wrote this poem in my little notebook of ramblings many, many years ago. I would say when I was around the age of ten. No great work of art or Homeric epic by any means, but looking back now, I think my ten year old self may have captured something, many of us have, at some point in life, felt.  

I will say no more on the matter. In fact, I have probably already said too much.

Ad-dress-ing the clothing usurpation

Perusing the high street, the number of shops for women compared to those for men is alarming. Although Topshop, with its aptly named sidekick Topman, attempts to tackle the situation, it is fair to say that generally the weighting of the fashion world lies heavily with the female. Of course there is a commercially sound reason for this, yet part of me cannot help but feel sorry for the budding male shoppers in our midst.

Before the 20^th century, the divide between male and female fashion was reasonably distinct. Yet as women increasingly took on the (often factory) jobs of fighting men during WWI, for many, trousers became a necessary garment.  Female clothing then increasingly encroached upon traditional male attire. Coco Chanel designed trousers for women stemming from her enjoyment of wearing her boyfriend’s suits. Diane Keaton’s high-waisted trouser, shirt, tie and jacket combo in Annie Hall has had a lasting influence upon many, including myself. Further still, numerous current fashion icons such as Alexa Chung or Agnes Deyn are known and celebrated for their androgynous image.

This seemingly, therefore, promotes equality between the sexes: ‘Hurrah for feminism!’ Yet in reality, a significant inequality exists. It is men who are limited by their choice of clothing; or rather, there is a choice, but for those who embrace it, in an ‘equal’ society, ridicule is so often the main response. David Beckham’s infamous sarong wearing antics of the mid 90s did not, as he perhaps may have hoped, begin a western revolution. Kilts, yes, are acceptable, but only within a very limited context. Day to day wearing down the local pub would most likely raise eyebrows, no matter how tasteful the tartan choice.

Where I take greatest issue is in the fact this inequality is now being cruelly flaunted before male eyes. A murky underworld of women resorting to wearing their boyfriend or husband’s clothes has long, long existed, yet in the last few years, such theft has been openly advertised to the world. With an influx of ‘boyfriend’ ranges of clothes for women, be they in the form of jeans, cardigans or blazers, it seems we quite literally have a clothing usurpation on our hands. As a female, I thoroughly enjoy such a look, but preferred it when we could authentically wear our boyfriends’ attire, yet remain sneaky about it. Now retailers have cottoned (ahem) on to such goings on and the secret is out.

The day we hear of the ‘girlfriend jumper’ will be a nationwide day of jubilation. (Note: The sinister connotations of the already existing ‘wife beater’ prevented any such celebrations.)  About its potential popularity and commercial success, I do wonder, but having the option would surely be nice? At least we can rest assured it would make a certain Monsieur Beckham a tiny bit smug.