So I’m sitting in a coffee house in Manchester, looking at Oasis fans, wander past outside. How do I know they’re here for Oasis? their stripes are immaculate, their bucket hats unbent and they look thrilled at the weather – because it is pissing it down. They are getting the proper Manc, not the knock off ‘could-be Coachella in this weather’ blazing heat and unbroken sunshine experience that greeted them over the weekend. They’ve been upgraded. I’m pleased for them – it is not often that I see adults emote glee at something as simple and tedious as rain. And I’m pleased for the rain, because it doesn’t often get such adulation. Everyone is winning. Let them stand and marvel outside the Arndale. Life is good.
And what am I doing? I’m having a think. I’m thinking about:
The Withy Grove Safe Store – one of the most fascinating buildings in Manchester, one which I almost wished I hadn’t found out the history of straightaway, because it would have been good to speculate for a while. But the internet told me, straight off the bat, and its story is just as intriguing as anything that I could come up with.
I’m also thinking about the woman I saw on Market Street who was wearing a T shirt bearing the legend ‘Certified Scuba Diving Instructor’. Wear what you like, truly, that isn’t my question – my question is – are you? Something about the double insistence, the writing of it on a T-shirt and the word ‘certified’ feels like maybe you aren’t really a scuba diving instructor – and what if that was only discovered too late? That would be a horrible climb down for you. Or is it ironic? Like sporting a cap that declares you a ‘professional beer taster’ or ‘boob inspector’ or ‘bullshit detector’? I will never know. I saw you for a moment outside of TK Maxx and you were gone. I love your T shirt if you are reading this.
And I’m also thinking about what I have just done. Which is to officially change my name to my married name with my bank, a process which took longer than my wedding ceremony (and reception and honeymoon). 15 years later, it is done.
I always liked my given name – primarily because it sounds like a Vegas Showgirl name if you say it in a particular voice. But my knees hurt all the time and I have a weird pain in my thumb and my chin is melting into my neck so I have to admit that my chances of getting a gig on the strip are no longer THAT great (and Siegfried and Roy are dead so who cares anymore?) So I am trying to adjust to a new name and a Mrs status and feeling positive that I see this as liberating.
My old name was not serving me so well. It’s a good time for a cosmetic change in the hopes that it will galvanise a deeper change. Maybe not. I’m open to it.
I look over the road, over the junction and there’s a man in a window in a cream cap looking in my direction. Is he looking at me – no, he’s looking at a brochure of tap fittings. I hope he finds the one he wants, the one that brings him the same joy as an Oasis fan experiences in the rain, and as I feel with my new name.
Stef Is Writing 