Alien Visits Coventry

It’s all happening around here, a bit like one of those corny films where the gods set the pieces in motion. The pawns have a sense that things are changing, but are clueless as to how it might all pan out. Will they get washed away in a tsunami or wild sex in a Jacuzzi? Will the tsunami wash them away to a tropical paradise? Will they catch gonorrhoea from their good times?

Luckily, my life is not that exciting. Nick has another job with the Council, but no idea of what the salary will be and little idea of what the job involves. I might be going on holiday at Easter, although I have no passport, money, or beachwear. The volume of work for Uni is multiplying, and I’ve been doing some work towards it, but not really understanding if what I’ve been up to has been any use for the forthcoming exams. My efforts towards the willowpattern embroidery project are looking splendid. That’s the bit of my life that I’m confident about. I’m a bit overwhelmed and still ill with my wheezy chest so my skittish brain is coming up with all sorts of nonsense.

A bit of sunshine makes everything look better. It’s quite a lot to ask it to make my part of Coventry look good though, and the same goes for the citizens of Coventry. We are an exceptional grouping of humanity. It’s as though we style ourselves on our flea ridden feral pigeons. Sorry if I’m offending any of my vast Coventry readership (heaven knows I can’t afford to lose any of you), but come on..you know it’s true.

One afternoon this week, I saw someone who was genuinely beautiful. This never-ever happens in Spon End. A young woman, long-legged and slender, wearing denim shorts that were short but not sleazy was walking in flat pumps towards the subway. Her honey-coloured skin caught the afternoon light, the gloss from her dark hair dazzled, even her elbows were attractive. Down she went, into the urine soaked depths, seeming to float above the debris of takeaway cartons and vomit. I had never seen her before, and that shouldn’t be a surprise in a city of 3.8 million but after a while in one place, you get to know the faces and types. Perhaps she was an alien being, shaped to blend in, who had based her research on the beaches of Miami but crash-landed west of Matalan. Maybe she was a goddess who had the fancy to get down with the mortals but couldn’t face the full garbage feeding disguise.

I feared as I walked behind her that I was having a bizarre middle aged moment of reversed sexuality. Seeking reassurance I looked about me to notice that everyone who  Angel passed turned to look at her once, then twice, and then a shamefaced third time. Some stumbled, some stopped breathing. One, his arm unexpectedly lifeless, dropped his phone. The old ladies with their shopping trolleys, the homeless in their anoraks, the girls pushing buggies with shopping on the back, youths in tracksuits, men in suits, hippie would-bes in unpressed linen, all of us affected. Angel looked neither right nor left, but climbed the steps and went on fast past the nightclubs and hairdressers. I glanced away and then back, but she had gone, probably shimmering before she vanished into a silver orb.

Surely she wasn’t heading for Primark?

Coventry does have an exceptionally good Primark. Is that enough of a draw for a space-alien-angel-goddess though?

Some Days Are Poo

Today is one of those days that people call depressing, and yet have nothing to do with depression. We’ve had some sunny days lately, and the crocus plants are beginning to show so it had been feeling like spring. Today has been dark so that opening the curtains makes little difference, and damp so that it’s impossible to get warm. I woke up from uneasy dreams and the day has felt like a continuation of them.

I wore my trainers into town. They have always been passable but rubbed my feet sore within minutes giving no indication of why they needed my little toe to make a mini blood sacrifice. On the way to uni, I passed a demonstration against the local government cuts. Dave Nellist, much respected local socialist was speaking to a small crowd on the steps of the Council House. I thought of Nick, at that moment going for the first of two redeployment interviews to see if he can stay employed by Coventry City Council or if he really will be made redundant with 500 others. Nellist is a seasoned speaker, but his words seemed to be coming from a former time when such things could inspire people out of acquiescence. Even this partisan crowd – the sellers of left-wing papers outnumbering the bystanders- failed to be moved to more than a smattering of applause.

Last night, Nick told me of a story passed on by a former colleague about one of the Council managers. During a break in a meeting with third party representatives, the man had flamboyantly declared that he was getting rid of two hundred people and only regretted the loss of a couple of them. Nick was hurt as the two hundred included him, and he was aware he was not one of the favoured two. Years of service to the people of Coventry, commitment to helping the most deprived, to quality, team work, and hard work have come to this. There seems to be an Alan Sugar-ing of leadership style in recent times, arrogant, short-term, and thoughtless. No wonder women are retreating behind a wall of cupcakes and polkadots. What’s a middle aged man to do but buy a new white shirt and get on his bike?

I picked up my essay. Miserably disappointed with the lacklustre 2:1 result, especially since I think the mark is reasonably fair. There were weaknesses I failed to spot at the time that could have taken 5 minutes to resolve but that probably cost 10%. I have an equal sense of disappointment that I have yet to get my placement grid signed off, in spite of the effort I’ve made. I ate fried food to console myself, and bit the inside of my mouth. A front tooth is beginning to be sensitive from too many years of nipping through threads and nibbling at my nails. Now is not the time for expensive dental treatment (although as though to demonstrate my skewed priorities, I have taken my laptop to be repaired).

Going home, I noticed that the Tin Angel, one of my favourite places in Coventry has been closed down by bailiffs. There was a fluttering of cards tied to the mesh shutters expressing support for the place. It was as though there had been a terrible accident, and perhaps there had been. Let’s call it an accident of Economy. 

Anyway, I'm thinking of Ewan MacColl thinking of his Dad who never worked for the Council. Still though.

Arts and Craftivism

I put up my first craftivist collective mini protest banner. The kids helped me tie it up on the wall outside Oxfam. It says ‘think global act local’. I’m quite proud and hope that the Oxfam staff and customers notice it and are encouraged by it. Sometimes we can only do small things, but small things are good. It was quite a buzz as I was slightly worried I would get arrested for littering, my imagination conjuring scenarios of handcuffs being snapped over my wrists and me shouting ‘But officer, it isn’t illegal to cross stitch’ and the officer replying ‘It‘s legal in private, but not in a public place where children can see it. You disgust me, your sort…’ Luckily, my protest passed off peacefully.


I also got around to sending a bundle of fabric off to the London craftivists who are going to swap me for a handful of mini protest banner kits. Maybe I can get some people together to form a Coventry group.

On our way home, we came across a tree stump wrapped in Christmas paper. Down the road was a wrapped up bench. It was a beautiful thing to see on a gloomy day, and we stood about taking pictures. Along came the group of artists from Coventry University who had been out making the art, we had a lovely chat with them. They have plans for a website, but it isn’t ready yet.

It’s been a lovely few days. Nina came home to do her first research project and we’ve been chatting, lunching, spoiling and being spoilt. Tomorrow, she’s back to Uni, and I’m not going to miss her. Much.

Fat Hippie Recruited

Nick and I made it to town before lunch today, a bit loved up and enjoying the autumn sunshine so warm that we went without coats. Outside of the library, we were approached by a young woman wearing a pink hat, peace symbol on her cheek. She offered me a rose. I was a bit bamboozled. Was she drunk, or manic, or (worse) selling something? She complimented me on my Billy Bragg tee shirt and said I would definitely be into peace and get where she was coming from, she was into ‘food peace’. It was starting to look really bad, and Nick was already edging away with his book bag.

Now, I should tell you that I have a face for salespeople. It combines withdrawn, grumpy and aggressive and I find that if I use it alongside a firm ‘NO’ it puts off the most determined of utilities reps in a millisecond – best for them, and best for me. I was too late to use it this time. I had somehow engaged, and given the stall that she pointed out with the link to the Coventry Peace Festival, I was starting to relax. She asked us if we had weighing scales and asked how we felt about them. I lied and said that we do not (we do, but they go unused). She suggested that we might feel apprehensive, tense, and have low self esteem, but we wouldn’t feel like that about her pink fluffy scales. It was then that Nick abandoned me.

I found myself persuaded to get on the scales which read motivational statements where the numbers should have been. For me it was ‘you are perfect’. Then came the rub. Would I like to come to educational classes where I could learn about food, not about slimming but about a new way of enjoying all foods?  It was to be run by a voluntary sector organisation in conjunction with the NHS. My health was being promoted. I took the leaflets and the proffered rose.

 Half an hour later, when I met up with Nick, we talked about it. He had been quite put out by the ‘low self esteem’ bit, but I had been properly outreached in a way that I wouldn’t have been if the same dietician in a blue suit had said ‘you are overweight, stop eating cake’. I had been correctly identified in the street as a fat hippie who never got into eating spinach and beans. I was almost tempted to try out the classes.

Then, we went for fish and chips, and I felt so much better.

The rose looks very nice in my kitchen window though.

Dorothy and the Sunshine Band

I promised not to write about my diet, but I never gave any guarantees I wouldn’t write about trying on clothes. Now I’ve begun to though, I’m having a crisis of confidence, giving serious consideration to abandoning this theme. It’s just way too girly. All my life I’ve hated conversations about diets, clothes and cosmetics, they leave me bored and isolated. It may be because I’m jealous of women who are successful enough slimmers to look good in Miss Sixty jeans and Rimmel. It may also be because these topics aren’t inherently interesting…but then if that is true, why are dozens of magazines published every month on those subjects?


I seem to have lost my summer clothes. The ones I have left are three years old and too worn even for my standards. Also, I have lost some weight. The scales recorded a little milestone. I went browsing.
Although I distance myself from clothes shopping, there are clothes shops that I rely on. This is in as much as I don’t feel like a freak when I pass through their doors, and I can generally find one thing that fits. I learned in my late teens that where you shop says a lot about who you are. That’s not profound, but it came as a surprise to me as a fresher at Leeds. 1980’s Cornwall had no trendy shops, unless you were counting Etam, which one did, but only in that it was a new-to-Truro chain clothes shop that rivalled the ground floor of Littlewoods. It was at college that I was asked where I bought my donkey jacket (the Pannier Market) and was judged by it. All of the girls seemed to shop in Next, or want to shop there. My housemate spent the whole of her first term’s grant on one shopping spree, then strolled unapologetically down to the phone box to call her Dad, from whence more funds were sent. I didn’t envy her the luxury, those Next clothes looked a bit stiff. I had chunky knit acrylic jumpers made by a firm in St Austell. I seduced her brother in one of those, so it wasn’t all bad.

I shop at the chain stores now, and Coventry is the chain store clothing capital of the nation. You would think I’d fit in. New Look has been a long time favourite. Not too expensive, wide range of sizes, middle of the road fashionability, people of my own age shopping there. That has been the case since New Look opened up on the precinct over a decade ago. It was until now. I spent over an hour looking for stuff. No joy. Nothing that I would wear. There were floral flounces in pale pink. There were leggings. I tried some stuff on. Everything fitted. I should have been celebrating my new dress size (if three things are tried on in a particular size and they fit, I believe you are allowed to call that your size, I am an 18). The trouble is, at my size and age, a frilly racer back blouse and leggings combo is an unseemly choice. I exited the changing room with a queasy feeling and a red face to have another look. Before me were young people. This explained it all. I have out-aged New Look. I’m after Older Look.

I walked a bit further, ending up in Dorothy Perkins. This was a tiny bit better because of the music that was playing. Baby Give It Up by KC and the Sunshine Band. Although I find that it was a 70’s, rather than an 80’s track it made me remember better times at college when I did fit in. I remembered Carrie who was beautiful, well dressed, coconut scented, and who predicted the commercial possibilities of a Subway style meal experience. Some time in 1990 we shared a joke on the hilarity of the chances of her shopping at Dot P’s. You had to be there. I wonder if she’s out-ageing her high end boutiques, and if she bought shares in Subway before there was one in every former shoe shop.

Where does the average mumsy 42 year old shop these days? If you’re out there Carrie, give me a clue. You were so right about the donkey jacket. It was hard wearing though.

Friday 17.7.09

Thanks to Nick's job, I sometimes feel that I'm married to Coventry City Council and therefore know all of the new corporate projects. Not so, it appears. I've been thinking of getting a gym membership again. When I had one, I used it plenty and it was good for my fitness. It's expensive though, so I've been shopping around.

I went on a little trip out today to check out xcel leisure centre, which I found on the internet. It's brand new and next door to Nina's former school, but I hadn't heard of it. Neither have many other people it seemed, when I arrived there this afternoon. There were more staff than customers in the huge centre that seems to be larger than the leisure centres at Nuneaton and Rugby and serve whole towns. Its shiny edifice rises above the social housing of Canley, the tarmac of the car-park a smooth comparison to the rough streets. Inside, the grout between the tiles sparkles white, locker doors fit flush, and the cafe serves latte. I regretted not bringing my gym kit to try it out. I think it may be the place for me so, just as well, the membership is about half the price of the place I used to go frequent.

I had worn my rain jacket all afternoon as the skies steadily darkened. Eventually, the rain began. I watched wearers of sandals looking surprised as the got wet. By this evening felt like autumn. I was restless in my head and got no writing done. I found a paper and started reading it, it turned out to be The Star which I would never pick up on purpose. It read the same as any of the red tops. I'm not sure that I see much political bias in the red tops in either direction, although in terms of received opinion that makes me extremely naive. I glance over the stories as I would a comic, or perhaps as I would watch Eastenders. The characters aren't real, the scenarios predictable. Is this what it is to be de-sensitised?

This evening we all went out to see the Harry Potter latest. Before the film, there was an advert. Children were walking on a rain-soaked beach. They looked more and more miserable. 'I'm bored', one child said and picking up a stone, threw it into the clouds. The stone went up and up, piercing the clouds and letting a shaft of sunlight through. It was beautiful right up until it all turned out to be an advert for ITV. Anyway, my point is, that advert was better than the film.

As Nina said on the way home, "Yeah, but you'll still get the DVD won't you?". Yes. I will get the DVD. Only when it goes cheap mind you though.

Thursday 16.7.09

At last a day of feeling like my better self. It's been a long time coming.

I got out of the house at lunchtime and sat in McDonalds to do some writing. I did have a twinge of guilt as I was eating the fatty, meaty food. It felt like a betrayal of all my commitments to support Nina with the veggie/weight loss endeavour. I didn't even enjoy the food all that much after the first few bites. I did enjoy watching the teenagers at the table opposite who were being slightly too loud and sharing one drink between six. One boy got hold of a helium-filled balloon and was showing off the effects of breathing in the gas. The girls were giggling, and other boys began to fetch more balloons. The last boy went for his but came back looking crestfallen. "I got told off", he said. Poor lad. There's no rewards in life for missing your opportunities. He had missed out on the adulation of the girls and scooped the indignity of censure from the adult world for an act he never got to perform.

Thankfully, I settled down and got some writing done. I had to start a new notebook. I use A4 lined hardbacked Red&Black, and this is my third one for this project. It has come a long way over the last year and although it will probably never be read by anyone, I am proud of the achievement so far. I haven't written for a few weeks, but got back into it quite easily and was reluctant to stop and get to the supermarket, but Nick had been promised meat for tea so off I went.

At about 11pm, Darcy and I went for a walk. I don't usually go out after dark on my own, but it doesn't frighten me. It was interesting that in the absence of daylight the familiar streets were renewed. I became aware of the tracery of telegraph wires highlighted by the orange streetlights. Bikes were chained to lamp-posts, infinitesimally decaying under their raindrop coating. There was a cluster of snails hanging out on a small stretch of pavement. No kids were drinking on street corners. When I stooped to pick up after Darcy, a police car slowed at the junction, lights flashing leisurely. Just checking out a fat middle-aged woman picking up dog mess in the moonlight.

Over the last 24 hours I've watched an everyday miracle. A young woman I knew at B&Q went into labour and gave birth to her baby son. Along with several other people, I read the updates with increasing excitement. Congratulations to S and her family. Baby H is beautiful.

Wednesday 3.6.09

Coventry had more strangers on the streets today, almost as odd as yesterday's Wanker Woman - 'strangerers' that is, there's always plenty of strangers to me.

I went to buy Nick a watch today. He pointed it out last weekend as being something he liked. It's so rare that he ever does this that I wanted to buy it for him. He didn't get much for his birthday, just the Richard Herring tickets which was more for me than him, so I had a good excuse. I bought it from a little shop, Aspell's, on Spon Street. One of my problems with Coventry is that there are very few independent shops here, we are so much a chain store city. I like to use small shops where I can, so I was glad to be buying from here rather than HSamuels or wherever. The man in the shop was very kind and knowledgeable, he gave me a couple of freebies which was nice although what Nick will do with an espresso cup and saucer I don't know. He had samples of rings there and you can choose the metal and stones used to make them up. I would love to be able to do that. I've never replaced my original wedding and engagement rings since they were stolen in 1994, not with anything good anyway (cheap gold band, and platinum coated silver & zircon from QVC). It's not very important to me, but I would quite like to have good ones in the way that some people dream of a nice car. It's a shop with loads of nice things anyway.

Just as we were finishing up in the shop, a kerfuffle was starting up over the road. A young woman in the street was shouting up to another woman four storeys up, in a parody of Romeo and Juliet. Their argument got louder and people began to put their heads out of the windows of the building, some of them joining in with the argument. Passers by began to gather on the street below, some laughing, some concerned. The young woman in the street began to stamp her feet, waving her arms and jumping. It was all audible to me in the shop, but not sufficiently to hear the words. Add some facepaint and maybe some costumes, it would have been brilliant street theatre.

The shopkeeper was unimpressed. "Sorry about this", he said laconically "If it's not them over the road its the Tin practicing their music". Spon Street tries to market itself as a street of smart independent shops, but over the years this has been eroded what with the nightclubs on the end, the fast food shops, the link to the cinema and Ikea, it is a more than mixed environment. At least this is in the true Medieval style, reflecting Spon Street's architecture.

Nick loved the watch. I love him. He loves me. Perfect.

Sickening isn't it, sorry kids.

Aspell's http://www.sponstreetcoventry.co.uk/trader_information.asp?tid=5

Friday 8.5.09

Nina is doing some work for Oxfam Books and Music (http://www.oxfam.org.uk/) setting up in-store music, poetry, and children's days. To support her in the search for artists willing to perform for free, Nick and I went along with her and some mates to Ditch the TV at its new home at the Maudesley (http://www.ditchthetv.co.uk/). On the bill: Malc Evans, Shaugnessy, and Crowded Out. £3.50, doors at 8pm.

Upstairs at the Maudesley speaks of former grandeur. An expansive carpeted room with gilded ceiling and two ornate ceiling roses for chandeliers long since decommissioned. It was easy to imagine the tea dances held here between the wars. The seating arrangements had been retained; small tables, lit by tealights. They stretched lengthwise from the unplatformed mics, backed by a white sheet, a long way back. The compere was clearly passionate about the project, and it had a loyal and vociferous band of followers, majority age range 40-60, intent on having a good night.

We caught the end of Malk's act (he was also compering). This was a well rehearsed blues set that seemed a little out of place basking in the atmosphere generated by the desperate to be cheerful. The crowd were better pleased with Shaugnessy, down from Liverpool, CD in the offing. They started by complaining that the equipment was primitive. One of us remarked,"He thinks he's Noel Gallagher". The music was a good attempt at American style soft rock, nice singing voice, tunes that although they were original, you thought you might have heard. The asides between songs continued arrogant, engagingly football based, and at one point distastefully homophobic. The crowd seemed not to mind, heckling back at them, and cheering loud. At the end of the set, a woman called out to ask if they would play at her wedding. Later, it was made known that she and her intended had left before firming up arrangements with the band.

Headliners, Crowded Out, had quite a hard act to follow and started soft and slow which may have been a mistake given the crowd's exuberance. They didn't attempt to be a stars in their eyes facsimile of Crowded House, sang and played well given that they were missing the drummer, most importantly, they gave us all of the old favorites. I was reminded of how many hits Crowded House had, and that Nick and I had one of their CD's that we used to be able to agree upon listening to in the car. This says something about universal appeal, as our musical tastes are usually poles apart.

The problem though, is that there is something terribly lame about tribute acts. The evening reeked of reduced expectations. A middle aged audience making the best of a cheap night out in Coventry, remembering a band most of them never got to see, listening to a group of competent musicians who never made it. The musicians lacking in the talent or maybe the confidence to write and perform their own stuff, and the audience lacking the interest in keeping up with new music happy to indulge in nostalgia for a mainstream, un-challenging body of work. Nick and I (the kids long since gone on to the bars in town) leaned on each other and whispered and joked about it all quietly, tapping our feet none the less. I'm not looking down on it, but I don't want to get that old, and I won't go again.

Next day, Nick said that I didn't like it because that crowd were my crowd of unstylish Coventry forty-somethings. Now, I'm of an age where being able to get a seat has become appealing, but even so.......We fell out.

http://www.myspace.com/crowdedout

http://www.myspace.com/terryshaughnessy

http://www.myspace.com/malcevansmusic

Good Friday 10.4.09

Walking back from Coventry Colosseum (a small scruffy nightclub not built by the Romans), I passed Swanswell (not a well, but a big pond). It was dark, but there was enough light to watch the swans by. They looked quite angelic out on the dark water. About a third of them were paddling about, feeding and parading like swans do in the daytime. The rest were sleeping as they floated, with heads tucked under their wings. I wondered if they had a rota system going so that they were sleeping in shifts, and if so, how they decided who was on lates (always a tricky one as any shift worker knows).

Initially, I thought that maybe some of them stayed awake for protection, so that they could alert the others in case of danger. After all, a lot of security personnel work nights, its good money. Then I thought; but what creature would attack a swan? I can see that the cygnets are vulnerable, but an adult swan is a big, fierce creature as I know from personal experience. A couple of years ago, I was walking with a group along a canal towpath. There were two swans with a brood of cygnets. They wouldn't even let us get close. The hissing, the power of the wings, the serpent shaped heads, it was scary. We had to retrace our steps. I can't think of what the natural predator of the swan might be. Foxes and badgers would think better of it. No self respecting hawk would try it. Maybe this is the reason swans mate for life, they don't expect their mate to be bumped off.

Now I'm sitting up in bed, I have remembered the natural enemy of the swan. It is, of course, the fishing line.

Tuesday 7.4.09

There comes a time in a girl's life when she has to face her problems, get out in the community, take responsibility. Today, I had to collect the car from the MOT place, TPS Autos, about two miles away. I could have taken a taxi, or the bus. I considered driving our spare car, parking it on a street outside of TPS and taking Nick up there later to collect it. I thought this might have been considered a bit lazy though. It was a sunny day, so in the event Darcy and I walked.

As we walked alongside the ring road through the sea of crisp packets breathing in the traffic fumes, I reflected on our plans to move out of Coventry in a few years time. I wondered how I might eventually feel about saying goodbye to these commonplace things about the city I came to twenty-two years ago. The route to TPS took us along a main road through the area of Foleshill. When first I saw it, I was impressed with its glamour. Here was a place where the women wore colours that were brighter, where almost everybody had a tan, and where the architecture was different in places.

In my i-player phase yesterday, I caught up with the excellent Stuart Lee's Comedy Vehicle. He was working on the theme of political correctness, and did it well, being both thought provoking and funny. Having had a career in social care, I'm extremely shy of attempting to address the topic of race. I'm woefully ill-equipped, liable to show my ignorance, and to unintentionally offend. I'm truly sorry. If you're reading on, please read for the intent, and I'll be doing what I can with the effect.

Foleshill feels different. Walk up the Foleshill Road past the big Halfords (which also impressed me as a nineteen year old), and you start to see lots of people whose parents, grand parents, great grandparents, and some of whom themselves came from India or Pakistan. Its an area that's cheap to live so lately there is a bit of an eastern European population too. This doesn't mean its a ghetto. The area used to be the centre for ribbon making and loads of proud Coventry Kids of English lines live there too.

What struck me first today, was that the recession seems not to have hit Foleshill Road. All of the shops were bustling, there weren't many vacant units. Since I was last there there are some shiny new businesses, and the established ones remain. This is in contrast to the centre of Coventry which is very closed down at the moment. We walked past a business where they do car washes by hand. It seems a big operation with several young men working shirts off in production line style cleaning the cars, the gaffer shouting across the forecourt. The spray from the hoses cooled the air on the pavement as I walked.

We slowed down at the Sikh temple. A former cinema, its a prominent building, its bus stop always busy. I was conscious that there were quite a few people , more women than men, who were anxious to avoid Darcy. This made me sad, because although he is only a dog, I love him, and he did sort of save my life. I want other people to love him too. Anyway, I kept his lead short and tried to make room for people. I was told a long time ago that Asian people don't like dogs. I have seen this to be true on occasion, but I don't know if it is because of culture, custom or religion. Its certainly not universal. Our neighbours are very ken to pet Darcy, although they won't touch his food because they are vegan Hindus, they told me this.

I was invited into that temple once. I had been doing a bus count for some student money and was lent a scarf and given dhal and bread on a tray, seated on the floor of a room of women who smiled but did not speak to me. It was a very happy place. One of the male elders spoke to me about how everyone brought something to contribute to the temple and that the food was shared free to anyone who came. The next day, to say thankyou, I brought a punnet of mushrooms and was shown how to offer them. It was a good experience. I thought of the kindness of the people from the temple following the 9/11 tragedy when it was reported that the building had been attacked.

We went on then, past the sari shops, the grocers selling net sacks of onions and thought of my neighbour who taught me what the stranger ingredients were and how they could be cooked. One time, I had to make roti for forty for Diwali. She took pity on me when it became clear that, in spite of her patient instruction, this might take me as many days, and made them for me. Tahim's Drapers is still there. They still sell fabric by the yard. Pure silk chiffon that might be £20 a metre in John Lewis' is £5. The sewer in me loves to visit. I don't know why I'm the only white woman I've ever seen there, I've always felt like any other customer.

I was thinking of all of these things, and other times I've hit good moments and sticky patches with people who have a different skin colour, a different religion. I thought of Nick's dad at our last visit reading an article about the Councillers for Cornwall County Council. "They're all foreigners", he said. Nick and I looked up a bit shocked. Would we challenge it. "This one comes from Bedfordshire". We laughed, it wasn't racism, just xenophobia, like from the Gavin and Stacey programme I'm fond of. I found myself at Longford Park. I had taken a wrong turn and had walked two miles out of my way.

Cursing, I caught a bus back along the way we came. The bus driver, white, my age, Coventry accent said, "One pound fifty. Its fifty p for the dog" I put my £1.50 in the tray. He raised his eyebrows and repeated. Did he mean two pounds then?, "Sorry", I said, "How much all together?" He sighed and repeated himself for the third time. I put an extra 50p in the tray. Getting off, I stood up and we made eye contact. He slowed the bus to the stop. As the doors opened he said, "If I hadn't have seen you, I wouldn't have stopped" Well, he had seen me, we both knew that, otherwise I might have found the bell. Did he expect a blow job for his pains? I said thanks and stepped away.

So there it was, a mini adventure in Coventry. Go outside your own front door, and whoever you meet, its like another country.