Sound. Touch. Smell. Taste. Why do people love print? Real print, I mean, letterpress print. I was pondering that question last Saturday as I milled around with youngsters, oldsters and in-betweenies enjoying some welcome spring sunshine – and the latest open day at Rufford Printing Company in Mawdesley, Lancashire. My thoughts returned to the question […]
This post for my other site ‘Memoirs of a Husk’ took so long to write (I was jetlagged too) that I have cheated and simply re-published it here rather than writing a purpose-made post for Maid in Britain. Do persevere till you get to the singing dog 😉 There was rain and wind and troubled […]
What does it take to turn an idea into a poem? Into a story, a polemic or a play? That, I’m afraid, I can’t answer fully, though time, skill, experience – and imagination – are obvious prerequisites. But what does it take to turn those poems, stories, plays and polemics – or a long forgotten […]
I had a slight case of textile mill overkill earlier in the spring. But after a few weekends spent stressing out over the weekend papers, the lure of the loom proved too much. Burnley’s Queen Street Mill was calling. I’d no idea what to expect. I knew it was a working mill museum. I knew […]
Whenever major industrial enterprises are threatened with closure – like the British steel industry, as I write – we all wring our hands. Well, those of us who care about the fate of ‘deselected’ workers do. There’s not much else we can do. There are only so many online petitions you can sign. And the […]
Originally posted on MEMOIRS OF A HUSK:
James Bond likes his shrimps potted. It’s the bizarre kind of fact a journalist finds useful for livening up a dull article. I once worked on a magazine in Park Lane, London. At Christmas the printers used to take my boss to a well-known restaurant, Scott’s of Mayfair.…
Originally posted on MEMOIRS OF A HUSK:
Is it a peculiarly British thing? There’s trainspotting, which I could understand when there were gleaming Thomas-style tank engines huffing and puffing and spitting out sparks. It’s harder to see the fascination in a dirty diesel with a serial number. But still they stand, men and boys (mostly),…
