The Post What I Wrote . . .

I walked into Leeds today, as I almost always do, along a busy Dewsbury Road and across a slice of the donut of despair that cuts off Beeston and Holbeck from the town centre. I’d promised to write something – no idea what – for Culture Vultures by the end of the day. All I knew was that I should talk about writing. Apart from that my head was resoundingly empty. I’d given myself an hour, or the length of a Venti, to come up with the goods.

Not long after I set off I noticed the first snowdrops of the year. At least I think that’s what they were. They were definitely white – not a showy snowy white, more a cool pearly reserved kind of white – in a tight clump in the centre of a neighbors spartan lawn. They looked a bit bewildered, like they’d been out on a stag do in a foreign city and had forgotten the way back to the hotel. I wonder how they’d got there.

The other thing I noticed was the litter. Not just in the neighbors garden, menacing the innocent snowdrops, but along the street, down the snicket, and all the way to town as if some postmodern Hansel and Gretel had left a trail of discarded packaging – bottles, crisp packets, sandwich wrappers, coke tins, sweet tubes, cling film, fag boxes – to guide my way to the metropolis. One thing struck me. Litter in LS11 has recently started to speak Polish.

It’s not just human rubbish that accompanies my journey. Piles of dog mess – and it’s only an assumption the culprits were canine – smirch the streets. Occasionally there’s a sign that some unfortunate pedestrian has not looked where they were going, and the mess is distributed liberally in smudgy footprints. Why do so many people consider the public highways and byways their own personal waste bin and dog toilet?

As I pass the Tesco Metro the security guy waves. Bahkt, a Dutch speaking Muslim, has been my guide to the best wine deals for the past couple of years. We’ve had many deep philosophical discussions late at night in the alcohol section. Much as I have ideological issues with Tescos it is the only place you can grab decent provisions after nine, and the staff are a joy.

At the junction of Dewsbury Road before it turns into Meadow Lane there’s the old library building. I always get a pang when I pass here – it was my favourite place as a kid, always warm and welcoming, quiet but convivial. First thing on a morning it was full of old geezers who always seemed to be damp, sitting beside the big brass radiators, flipping through the broadsheets, steaming. There were special newspaper reading desks, wide and inclined with a small ledge at the bottom to prevent the broadsheet from slipping, and the bookshelves were always ten foot tall and made of deeply polished oak. I read my first serious books in there. I still remember the thrill of collecting Ernest Gellner’s Words and Things that I’d ordered from inter library loan . . . I don’t even know what the building is these days, though I caught a whiff of parquet floor as I wandered by.

Crossing the road I bump into an old client. His remaining teeth – both of them – look like chewed liquorice. His face has crumpled and his eyes sunk deeper. He may need a bath but I make sure I don’t get close enough to tell. Fifteen years ago he regularly sold himself for sex, though never very successfully. We’d often have to patch him up on a Sunday morning after an entrepreneurial encounter had turned nasty and he’d collected nothing but a good hiding. He never complained much. Nothing worse than what his dad had done, he’d say. I can’t imagine him in the trade these days.

The bridge over the motorways is slippery and unpleasant to walk across. It seems to have been cobbled together with no thought for beauty, safety or even utility. The first stretch is made of those tin sheets that cover holes in the road, noisy and bouncy underfoot, the other bit seems to be wood coated with bitumen, and is altogether nasty. While I’m crossing, high up with hundreds of cars shooting by in all direction, I notice I’m the only non-vehicular enclosed human being for miles. The sky is brash grey like brillowed aluminium, and I’m having a J G Ballard moment. I slip off the walkway towards Sweet Street.

As I get to the traffic lights near Halfords a couple of guys approach clutching a piece of paper. They are probably African. Not much English. Happens quite a lot around here, I know what they are looking for and am practised in the international language of pointing and waving. I take their map, orient them in the right direction, then wish them good lunch. Everyone smiles.

A young guy passes me, not waiting for the lights to turn green, in a rush to get somewhere. He has a red spotted bandana and back combed, black died hair – and a gaping bald spot! Can’t fool me, I’m six foot five, I tower over him. He seems to be dressed in nothing more than random rags knotted together. Even his Jeans appear to be reclaimed from the scrap bin. It would be good to sit down with him and ask him how he came to choose his self presentation, and if it works for him.

I speed past Bridgwater Place. Half the flag stones are cracked and wobbly. There’s always a rank stench from the beck. The wind near the crossing is unforgiving. Hateful place.

Neville Street Bridge is its usual bustling self. Commuters, plugged into IPods, texting on IPhones, not looking where the hell they are going. I have decided against politeness by proxy these days and make no attempt to evade their onrush. If they want to crash into me and my size fifteen boots then let that be a learning experience. Or get some manners! Have we lost the art of living in cities entirely?

My eye is caught by the large poster advertising the newly refurbished Majestic. It’s an artists impression, and it’s not the weird frieze around the ceiling that’s so compelling – is that a cavalry charge, or am I in need of new specs? and it isn’t that the place is pictured empty – though there are people on the roof nonchalantly phoning (fire brigade? . . . there’s no obvious means of escape) it’s that uncanny bottle of wine in the foreground. I’ve never seen wine that red! Pillar box, lipstick, leather couch, burning embers, it’s incandescent . . . wouldn’t want to drink it. There are two glasses on the table. Suggesting an assignation. If the lady has turned up she’s soon scarpered. Maybe that’s her on the roof, calling the emergency services. I would. You’d be mad to drink that.

Around the corner I look up. The statutes are rude! Leeds is full of Victorian porn in cold grey stone. What were they thinking? Imagine a developer these days going to the council with an idea for a shopping centre and mentioning the decor; “yeah, it’s a total orgy, horses, cherubs, mermaids, you name it!” . . . ha, what was I thinking, this is Leeds!

So, made it for coffee . . . not an independent – not because of the quality of the product or the ambience, simply because I wanted a quiet hour, undisturbed, just me and my laptop, and there’s always someone I know in the nice places. I’m almost done with my hour. And I know I haven’t exactly written anything about writing, or anything even worth reading. My point though was just to show that finding something to write about isn’t hard – there are at least a dozen blog post ideas I bumped into on a short wander into Leeds, subjects that anyone could elaborate on, from horticulture and global warming to town planning, cultural diversity, street fashion, the seamy side of life, and the history of the city. All I needed was attention, observation, memory, a quizzical attitude and a sense of humour.

I wrote this in one go. Writing doesn’t have to take all day, it can fit into the general scheme of things, you just need to disconnect from the social whirl for a stretch and spend some time alone with your own thoughts. You’ll be surprised what you find out about what you think you think once you sit down and write it out.

One more thing, this is deliberately unedited. There’s no attempt to hide the fact that it’s a mess. I could of course have saved my embarrassment and polished my prose, finessed the structure, put right the punctuation – and if anyone wants to have a go be my guest. Me, I’m off for a glass of wine or two.