Soaked through

I am fantastically unlucky with shoes and have spent a lifetime trying to work out why this might be. Perhaps it’s because my feet are like Hobbit feet; almost as wide as they are long, and flat as flat can be. Maybe it’s because I walk like a slightly disabled person with a pigeon-toed, low-gravity shuffling gait, that could never be described as elegant. I shuffle. It might be because I can never justify spending top dollar on shoes, because I assume they’ll merely fall apart within seconds? Or perhaps there’s simply a shoe God who wants to punish me.

I suspect it’s a mix of all these things, and maybe myriad reasons I’ve not yet considered. Whatever the case, it’s not much fun. People laugh at my shoes and then look at me, with pity in their eyes. Every time I visit my parents I’m frog-marched to the nearest shoe shop because they feel so ashamed to see their son looking like a tramp. But often the shoes I’m wearing are brand new! I go to the local shoe shop with them – buy another pair  – yet within minutes, something goes spectacularly wrong. The lace snaps, the side splits, or more often than not, the heel mysteriously drops off.

I took my most recent purchase to the new cobbler on our street a couple of weeks ago, and he gave them a lovely new lease of life. Imagine my horror, therefore, in the midst of the traumatic hail storm yesterday, when I discovered that some of the stitching on the top of the boots had disintegrated and was letting in water? I immediately bought myself some superglue to remedy the problem, but had to sit all day with wet socks, no doubt slowly developing trench foot whilst chatting to old ladies.

I went out in Manchester with Ellen last night, an old university friend who recently relocated here after becoming a writer on Coronation Street. She looked fabulous, and we had a tasty Japanese meal in a really cool restaurant with a dark little shop in the basement selling all sorts of weird and wonderful Japanese delicacies. Ellen is very happy up here and it shows in her face. She describes Manchester as having a village-like feel. All her friends are within a much smaller radius, and she loves the fact that it doesn’t take her at least an hour to get anywhere – as it always seems to in London.

We went for a drink on Canal Street, which is the gay district up here, famous for its erstwhile vandalised sign, which had the first two letters of each word painted out, thus spelling “Anal Treet”. It’s also the prettiest road in the centre of Manchester. Wednesdays in Manchester is trannie night. The bars were very quiet, but a large number of the customers were trans-people, which I liked. One lady looked absolutely fabulous; really dignified and willowy, in an arty, very demure sort of way. I was going to compliment her, but decided she might find me somewhat patronising. She was also sitting next to someone wearing a Queen Elizabeth II wig, who looked terrible, and I didn’t want to feel obliged to compliment her!

We’ve been in Hattersley all day, consolidating things and doing in depth interviews with two people I think we want to feature in the film; a lady called Jean, who was one of the first people to move into the estate, and a young photographer who sees Hattersley through very different eyes. “The architecture here is dull” he said, “everything is uniform... except the people – who are the opposite...” Yet again, we were welcomed with open arms into people’s houses, and I now have tea pouring out of my ears.

I’m also soaked through. During the 3-minute walk, from one particular house to the community centre, we could see a weird, and very thick white cloud hanging over the hill in front of us. “I wonder what on earth that is” I said, and 30 seconds later we found out, as torrential rain and wind almost battered us to death. I have never experienced rain like it. It was like a thousand daggers hidden within a million buckets of water. All we could do was laugh hysterically with another woman who was similarly caught out, Back at the community centre we were rewarded with cups of tea and a plate of cheese on toast by a group of lovely ladies. I have never felt such warmth from a community I’ve worked with.

December 8^th, 1661, was a Sunday, and Pepys lay in bed wondering if he wanted to take physique, but it being frosty outside, Elizabeth “would not let him.” It’s a strange remark, which makes me quite convinced that my interpretation of “taking physique” (ie staying within the house all day and mooching around) is incorrect. Perhaps taking physique is actually taking a form of medicine – which Elizabeth would need to prepare on his behalf, or visit some kind of apothecary to purchase. Who knows?

In any case, Pepys didn’t take “physique” and went instead to visit Lady Sandwich at the Wardrobe. They talked about a christening the day before, which had been filled with more pomp and ceremony than anything either of them could ever have imagined.

On the way home from Ludgate Circus, Pepys called in at every church that he passed, one assumes simply to soak up the atmosphere. I don’t know why this diary entry should please me so much – but it does! I assume one of these churches was a pre-fire incarnation of St Mary At Hill. A comforting thought...