Tag: Shrewsbury (page 1 of 2)

Little pieces scattered around – with some left to spare

I have just four days left to live. At least, that is, to live in Shrewsbury. I’ve lived here for over eight years. I’m really quite very sad to be leaving. I have just returned from a trip around town, buying parting gifts and paying in cheques and other such errands. As I was walking around, after a lovely coffee in my current favourite coffee shop, I felt that sudden, yet familiar pang of melancholy that comes with endings. My weird thought is related to that feeling (a feeling I have had before). It seems that every where I have lived, I have left a tiny piece of myself behind. That piece of me can be imagined as a big ball of emotions and memories (as opposed to, say, an arm or a leg). Most of that piece will of course remain in me but some of that will stay in the place I am leaving behind. It feels almost as if I am leaving it there so that I must return to check it is still there and it is ok.

The coffee I have just drunk

The coffee I have just drunk

This means that there is a little bit of me in Stafford (probably lurking around Walton High School or the swings on Weeping Cross). There is also a tiny piece of me in Exeter (in the Lemon Grove drinking a Diamond White – note, not in the library or in the lecture theatre in the Amory Building). And another piece of me lives in Japan (this piece is most definitely in the staff room at Iwatsuki High School eating Hershey’s kisses). Yet another lives in Oxford and another in the lovely village of Charlbury, where I lived before coming to Shrewsbury. And now I must leave another piece of me here in Shrewsbury. What remains of me, will have to travel to Muxton and then on to Newport after that. Will I need to make sure I have more pieces after that for future moves? I don’t know.

My favourite street in Shrewsbury

My favourite street in Shrewsbury

But as I say goodbye to my Shrewsbury piece, I will do so with a heavy heart. The good thing is that I won’t be too far away. I know I will be back to visit myself many, many times from this weekend onwards. I need to check that my Shrewsbury ball of emotions and memories is doing ok. I’m sure it will be.

How fast you walk depends upon where you are

This weird thought came to me a couple of Sundays ago while watching New Victoria on ITV. Victoria, and a chap (could have been Lord Melbourne) were strolling through a park. I commented at the time that people in Victorian times seemed to walk very slowly. They were walking really slowly.

Fast forward a week and I am now in Munich, walking through the English Gardens. We had been walking at a good pace through the city of Munich, until we entered the English Gardens, and then we slowed down. This was an unconscious change (until I noticed it, that is). I questioned this. What had made us slow down? Then I remembered that scene in New Victoria. It wasn’t the era that made people walk slow, or the blood type (blue), but the environment. We had slowed down to a stroll, because we’d entered a well-manicured and relaxing garden.

Victorian people walking slowly through a garden

Victorian people walking slowly through a garden

I then thought back to my last trip to New York. New York is a city where strolling is not only frowned upon, it is trampled upon. The citizens of New York speed walk. They almost run. They have this amazing ability to run while walking. They speed past each other, never colliding, with their phones to their ears and coffee in their hands. Even preoccupied in two other activities (talking and drinking coffee), New Yorkers walk faster than me.

Shinjuku - where nobody ever crashes into another person

Shinjuku – where nobody ever crashes into another person

Two days later I was back in Shrewsbury and cycling with my children to school and I came across another slow-walking environment – Going To School. Parents and their children walk incredibly slowly to school. Even when my children and I walk to school, we don’t generally walk slowly (but that might have more to do timing than purpose).

So then I decided to create a list of places where people walk fast and people walk slowly, starting with the fastest (New York) to the slowest (Victorian park):

  • New York
  • Tokyo
  • London
  • Any airport
  • Any train station
  • Anywhere except the above, in the rain (although not much rain in an airport)
  • UK town centre
  • European city that is not London or Scandinavia
  • Scandinavia
  • Route to a primary school
  • Route to an infant school
  • Route to a secondary school (unless late)
  • Route to a nursery
  • Park in the 21st century
  • Park in the 19th century

That’s it. I’m quite pleased with this particular Weird Thought. But wouldn’t it be fun to speed walk through the park and stroll through London during rush hour? Tempting.

 

 

 

 

I have an incurable disease

This is something I realised last week as my sister and her family flew off to New York for a few days. To say I was envious of their travels is an understatement. I was more than envious. I was very green. I was green to the point of sulkiness. I wanted to go to New York. No, I didn’t want to go to New York, I wanted to live in New York. In fact, I concluded that morning that my life would be perfect if only I could persuade my family to pack their belongings and head off to New York for EVER!

To console my feeling of woe as I imagined my sister excitedly awaiting her flight at Heathrow, I went into town to have a cup of coffee in a coffee shop that might remind me of New York. I wanted to pretend I was there for half an hour. I thought that might make me feel better.

My all time favourite city EVER

My all time favourite city EVER

I chose a cafe in town I like called Chez Sophie. This was a bad choice. It is a French coffee shop where they serve amazing milk shakes, crepes and they play French radio in the background. This didn’t make me feel as if I was in New York at all. Rather, it made me feel as if I was in Paris. As soon as I settled down with my Americano and art magazine I thought: ‘wouldn’t it be marvelous to live in Paris?’ If only we lived in Paris, I mused. Then I’d be among the artists and free thinkers of this world. I’d be able to have coffee every day in wobbly Parisian cafes. I would be instantly attractive and well-dressed. I’d have deeper thoughts than I do in Shrewsbury. I could be the original flâneur with my sketch pad and observant eye.

I could live here.

I could live here.

As I sat sipping my coffee dreaming of an arty French life, I perused Facebook and saw that a couple of friends were planning an impromptu trip to London the following day. And the green monster lured up again. I wanted to go to London. No, I wanted to live in London. If we lived in London I’d be able to have coffee at the Tate or the National Gallery, I concluded. How amazing would that be? I’d lead this fabulous cultured life and I’d be able to shop on Carnaby Street and sip wine in Covent Garden. I could go to a well-known art college and become famous too. Yes, that would definitely happen if we lived in Lonodn.

Cycling home after this morning of woe I realised that I have a disease and it’s not a good disease to have. I have ‘grass is always greener’ disease. I live in a state of continuous envy of other places to live. Whenever my husband and I go abroad I try too persuade him that we could live there. We’ve imagined life in Amsterdam, Prague, Berlin as well as New York over the last few years. This also happens on UK holidays to Devon, Somerset, and even Borth. I have gone as far as browsing property for sale in Borth.

I love Borth

I love Borth

This is nuts because Shrewsbury is a lovely place to live. It is a very lively and cultured town which is steeped in history. It has all sorts of coffee shops which I frequent (some of which remind me of Paris, obviously that would be Chez Sophie; some of London, such as Ginger & Co.; and some of New York, for example Starbucks). I can cycle into town. I can go from front room to Waterstones in ten minutes if the wind is blowing in the right direction. How lucky am I? So it isn’t New York, Paris, Borth or London but it’s not that far off. I need to pinch myself sometimes and tell myself that I am jolly lucky to live where I live.

Having said that, we are planning to move as soon as we can convince someone else of how lovely Shrewsbury is, and in particular, how lovely our house is. I suspect that after we moved I will mourn for the Shrewsbury life I will be leaving behind.

It is an incurable disease.

We look but we don’t see

This is my weird thought of last week, inspired by what happened on a walk home from my sons’ school. One morning last week, as I was making my way home from the school run with two friends, talking about random stuff, I had the following revelation: we look but we don’t see. Or at least, I don’t.

As we were walking, one of my friends side-stepped on the pavement. I didn’t notice. (I never walk in a straight line so why should it be strange when someone else doesn’t?) The other friend did notice (I suspect she must like straight lines). She laughed. I queried what she was laughing at.

‘Oh she does it all the time,’ second friend explained.

‘She does what?’ I asked.

‘Oh you must have seen her do it!’ Second friend added.

‘Do what?’ I asked.

‘Oh I’ve always done it,’ first friend responded with embarrassment.

‘Do what? I asked again, exasperated.

‘You know those BT things,’ second friend explained.

‘What BT things?’ I asked.

‘Those concrete things. She’, second friend said pointing to first friend, ‘walks around them if there are three of them. Look behind you!’ I did as I was bid.

‘At what?’ I asked.

‘Those square concrete things, the BT things,’ first friend added. I looked again. I squinted. I did indeed see three grey concrete squares in the pavement, a short way behind us, slowly moving into the distance.

‘There’s another there,’ second friend said pointing ahead of us. I looked and saw by my feet two squares of concrete with ‘BT’ on a small metal plate at the top of them.

‘What are they?’ I asked.

‘Oh you’re kidding me!’ Second friend exclaimed. ‘She,’ she added, pointing back at first friend, ‘won’t step on anything that comes in threes and that includes these’.

‘I’ve done it since I was young,’ first friend explained. ‘If my daughter walks on them then I have to cross my fingers’.

‘Wow!’ I replied. My astonishment wasn’t related to her behaviour (we all have our quirks), but at something else. Before that moment, I had never noticed these big squares of concrete in the pavement. I had walked this route to and from school hundreds of times (approx. 400 per year) yet I had never noticed the grey slabs of concrete on the pavement.

The strange BT things in the ground

The strange BT things in the ground

The conversation moved on to other things and we soon parted. I continued my journey into town. I had been shown something I didn’t know existed and to me that was hugely important. As I made my way to town, it felt as if over the previous night someone had splattered my route with grey concrete squares, with a metal plate reading ‘BT’, without warning me. These grey squares seemed to be everywhere. I was sure they hadn’t been there before. They lay in groups of either two or three. Some were to the left of centre, some to the right of centre. In my mind, they definitely hadn’t been there the last time I’d walked to town. Some where bigger than others. Most were straight. Some where more pleasant to look at than others.

Shrewsbury is an old medieval town and many of the streets are cobbled. Walking through town I studied the BT squares with interest. They appeared to have been designed to fit the style of the road they were on. This fact, I found worthy of consideration. The ‘BT squares’ on the main streets were much more utilitarian and simple (cheap). The ones on the cobbled roads were more subtle, and generally smaller. But they were everywhere. That morning, it felt as if I couldn’t walk more than ten steps without finding another couple. I asked myself: how on earth had I survived 44 years without noticing these trap doors into the ground (assuming my ‘placed over night’ theory was wrong)? More importantly, where do they lead to? I think that is another blog entry.

This realisation shocked me. I always thought I was quite an observant person. I’m an art student, after all. It is part of the job description: ‘Artist needed, must be able to see things that others don’t.’ I began to doubt my abilities as an artist that day. I had always prided myself on being good at noticing the teeny tiny details of life. Perhaps I am wrong to think this about myself. Perhaps I should revise my career ambitions. I am also a book editor: another job that requires attention to detail.

I think I need to open my eyes.

Are grownups getting younger?

This is a weird thought I had today while scooting back from town this morning on my scooter. I’m 44 years old yet I mostly travel by scooter. I love my scooter. It gets me around quickly, it is fantastic exercise (I can almost scoot up Wye Cop and my thighs could crush nuts), and it is portable (I take my scooter on the train). I travel by Micro Scooter so it is top of the range (these things aren’t cheap but they are worth every penny). I’ve had it for 18 months and it has started to show signs of wear and tear. This is because I use it every day. I use it to get to Wolverhampton, to get around town, to take the children to school and to pick them up. I use it more than I use my bike.

My trusty, yet battered, steed

My trusty, yet battered, steed

But should a 44 year old be allowed to travel by scooter? Surely scooters are for children, and at a push, fit men in their early 20s? Am I too old for a scooter? While scooting back from town today, I tried to imagine my mum as a 44 year old (so when I was about 12 years old, in 1985) travelling around Stafford on a scooter and the image in my head was hilarious. It was almost unimaginable. I’m not saying she wouldn’t be able to have scooted. I’m saying she just wouldn’t have done it. I don’t think she would have wanted to scoot and even if she did, I don’t think she would have actually got on a scooter and scooted.

So the question is, is this because we are different people and I have a much more don’t-care attitude about other people’s impressions of me? Is it because she was much more of a grown-up than I am at that age? I still wear clothes from Top Shop and she used to buy her clothes from much more sophisticated shops at this age. Is it because I have an immature personality in comparison? Or is it a sign of the times? In other words, are grownups getting younger? A 44 year old in 1985 may not have scooted around town, but a 44 year old in 2016 perhaps would. I have heard the phrase ’40 is the new 30′ banded about a few times but what I am asking here is whether ’40 is the new 18, 50 is the new 18 and perhaps soon 60 will be the new 18′. Am I from a generation who refuses to grow up? And how about the generations that follow me? Will those people currently in their 30s, 20s and teens overtake me in maturity or be just as willing to scoot in their 40s as I am?

I’m not sure about the answer here. I seem to be the only grown-up who scoots around Shrewsbury. I haven’t seen any others. Two adult friends of mine have scooters but I’ve rarely seen them out and about on them. I seem to get quite a few stares and comments (mostly positive but occasionally negative such as the young lady of school age who said ‘I’m not bein’ funny or nothin’ but why are you on a scooter?’). Is Shrewsbury perhaps not the most hip ‘n’ happenin’ town in the Midlands meaning that adults scooting here is a rare sight? Maybe there are more adults scooting in Birmingham or Cannock. Is it because I simply don’t care what people think and my fellow Salopians do that means I am the lone adult scooter in Shrewsbury? Should I just jolly well grow up and walk like normal 44 year olds? I think my children would prefer it. They might not be willing to admit it but I think they would prefer me to blend in with everyone else and act my age. Oh well. Sucks to be you, kiddies!

 

Moving again…

This isn’t a weird thought. Instead, this is therapy for me. So please indulge me. This is me pouring out all the thoughts in my head at the moment in the hope that it will make me feel better. I’ve had a hard few days and I need to share. First, the background.

We’ve been grumbling and rumbling about moving house for just over a year now. When our eldest found out he had a place at a grammar school 40 minutes away we first seriously talked about the prospect of a move. We had casually talked about it before when he decided to take the exam for the grammar school. But once he had a place, the conversation went up a level. When we did have that first serious conversation, my reaction was to burst into tears (this was last March). I was happy for our son but upset about the prospect of moving. I didn’t want to move. In my mind, it was imminent. I wasn’t even close to being mentally or emotionally ready. I had only just about stopped grieving for our move from Charlbury to Shrewsbury (and that took me five years to accept fully!). But then time passed. I returned to that happy place of denial. We got on with life. A whole year has now passed. We have spent this last year making the house a little prettier, partly for ourselves and partly for a ‘future’ move that didn’t ever seem to appear. It was just that, a ‘future’ move. It was transparent. It wasn’t set in stone.

We lived in the left-hand cottage

We lived in the left-hand cottage before moving to Shrewsbury

The problem I have now is that that ‘future’ has now arrived. Last weekend we all realised that there is nothing now to stop us moving. The house is as pretty as it is likely to get. So last week, after a couple of days of realisation, we decided that it was time to contact The Estate Agents. The ‘future’ was just about still at that point the ‘future’. In many ways, even last week I was still in denial. However, yesterday those Estate Agents came round. They appeared in their suits and with their leather brief cases. They sashayed into the house with their shiny shoes and ‘ooh lovely original features’. They had come into the house, invited, looked around, and made judgements. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like them. How dare they?

We want to sell your house

We want to sell your house

My reaction to these visitors? I was a mess. I was an emotional wreck all day. I cried four times in total. Why? Because although my head sees the need to move, my heels are struggling to dig themselves out of the ground. For my children, I accept the need to move. But for me, I love my life here. I love it. I really do. I am happy. Content is me. I have friends. I have purpose. I am busy. I just love it. I’m a school governor, I’m the publicity stroke marketing guru for the school PTA (or Friends of Crowmoor as they are called). I have lots of friends whom I am extremely fond of. I may only see them twice a day and often we only exchange vague pleasantries but they mean the world to me. I go to Zumba once a week. (And yes, I shed a tear at Zumba last night but thankfully nobody noticed.) I love Zumba. It defines my Mondays. I love Shrewsbury. I love the fact I can zip into town on my scooter and get myself a coffee within ten minutes of leaving the house and be in Waterstones shortly after. I love the atmosphere here. I’ve met so many weird and wacky, normal and kind, amazing and wonderful people. I love the fact that our cat is called ‘dirty bit of grit on the floor’ in Salopian. I love the cobbly streets, the quirky shops, the weird-sounding Meole Brace which I still call Melrose Brace. And I just feel at home here. This is my home. It’s taken me eight years, but it is firmly my home.

But we have to move. I fully accept that. And a good chunk of me is excited about it. New house. New roots. New environment. And I have every confidence that we will find a nice new place to live, a house just as lovely as this one. I am sure I will meet more lovely people who will become friends. I accept that I will form new bonds and have new experiences.

I can’t expect my son to commute for seven years, leaving at 7.15am and back at 5.30pm (that’s on days he doesn’t have a club). The boy is exhausted. If the next boy goes to the same school (which he would like to) then living here is even less sensible. But emotions and common sense are not good bed fellows. My life is governed by my heart, not my head. So I am struggling at the moment.

He won't have to commute so far soon

He won’t have to commute so far soon

This is only the first stage in the process. Tomorrow we are going to tell one of the chappies with shiny shoes ‘yes, you can try to sell our house’. So the sign will go up. But the end isn’t quite here yet. The last time we decided to move house it took two years (hindered slightly by a flood). So watch this space. But, dear Shrewsbury friends, if I suddenly burst into tears for no apparent reason over the next few weeks, this blog explains why. When the times comes to leave, miss you all, I will. Back to visit? Oh yes. That is, if you will have me.

It’s not just any old cats trying to take over the world, it is Welsh cats!

Disclaimer: I have nothing against Wales or the people who hale from it. I’m married to one. I’m not so sure about the cats from that part of the world though…

The idea of Welsh cats taking over the world is the weird thought I had yesterday when I found a balloon trapped under a police car at Shrewsbury train station. In my current art project, I am seeking out all of the lost and abandoned balloons of Britain and so when I find one, I take a photo of it. Yesterday I found this one:

The lost balloon caught by the police

The lost balloon caught by the police

I am sure you are wondering what this all has to do with cats taking over the world. There isn’t even a cat in this picture. Or indeed sign of feline intervention (cats don’t like balloons, everybody knows that). Let me ask you this: do you notice anything particularly Welsh about this police car? I imagine that the bright among you will have spotted the word Heddlu on the side of the police car. Heddlu is Welsh for police. Bilingual police cars are not an usual sight in Shrewsbury. In fact, they are the norm. As are bilingual bank machines, Ambulances and a few other random official objects are also floating around this town sporting instruction in two languages. However, the very bright among you will know that Shrewsbury is not in Wales (at least not at the moment). But it is very close to Wales and there is a Welshness about it in many ways. A lot of people travel from rural Wales to Shrewsbury to go shopping (particularly on a Wednesday I am told by my friend who used to work in a shop in town). There is a slight Welsh tinge to the accent (imagine Welsh plus West Midlands with a sprinkling of countryside and you have the Shrewsbury accent). It is surrounded by hills. It is probably one of the Welshest English towns I have been to (other contenders might be Hereford, Hay-on-Wye and Chester). Until yesterday, this wasn’t of any concern to me at all. In fact, I liked it.

Interestingly, you also will find Welsh as an option for bank machines in the further-inland town of Telford. The trains that run to and from Shrewsbury to Birmingham are bilingual. I now have my suspicions that these bilingual facilities are not for the benefit of the odd person from Wales who’s first language is Welsh who suddenly finds him- or herself strapped for cash in Telford or in need of an ambulance. I think this is for the cats. Or more specifically, the Welsh cats. They need bilingual bank machines so that they can get money out in Telford and they need to know who to run away from when they see a car with the word Heddlu on the side coming towards them when they are TAKING OVER THE WORLD!

An army marches on its stomach

An army marches on its stomach

I’m not sure how they have engineered this part of their plot. I need to do some further research.But when I find out, I will write about it here. I think it is more than just opposable thumbs that is the cause of this. So watch out, it isn’t just any old cats coming to get you, it is the army of Welsh cats!

 

 

Can I find beauty in Telford?

A few weeks ago, I blogged about my issues with Telford. The argument I raised about the delights, or not, of Telford caused quite a stir. A few friends agreed with me  and stated that in their opinion Telford is quite a soulless place; others (mostly Telfordians but not all) reacted quite defensively. I was told that Telford beholds many beauties including Ironbridge, Much Wenloch and the like. However, my definition of ‘Telford’ doesn’t include those locations (even if the official definition of Telford does). I was talking purely about Telford town centre and the old ‘villages’ that it engulfed when it was founded (Wellington, Oakengates, Madeley and Dawley among others).

So today, as I was destined to return to Telford once again while my son attended his writers’ workshop, I decided to take my camera and try to find beauty in Telford. I want to love Telford. I don’t like being negative about the place. I want to be proved wrong. I really want people to argue with me and say ‘How can you say Telford has no soul!’

On one level, I found photographing Telford quite a challenge. The Telfordians seemed to regard me, a lone body photographing their shops and signs, as a bit of an oddity. I was on the receiving end of quite a lot of strange looks. Secondly, I saw so many fabulous photo opportunities which included the Telfordians themselves as they slouched around the shops in search of happiness but I was just too shy to snap away. I really, really want to be as confident as the likes of Martin Parr. So due to shyness most of my photographs centred on objects rather than human life.

I started my search for beauty in one of Telford’s old ‘towns’: Oakengates.

Even Oakengates recognizes that they need help

Even Oakengates recognizes that they need help

A typical Oakengates retail outlet

A typical Oakengates retail outlet

Somehow black-and-white photography fits Oakengates

Somehow black-and-white photography fits Oakengates

The town that the 21st-century forgot

The town that the 21st-century forgot

The rubbish of Oakengates

The detritus of Oakengates

I conclude that I was able to find some beauty in Oakengates. I found old shops, dated signs, lots of flower baskets, and a charming outdoor market. Perhaps to me this was beautiful because I love urban decay. Oakengates has charm. However, I still wouldn’t want to live there.

A fallen flower in Oakengates

A fallen flower in Oakengates

Next, I tackledTelford Shopping Centre and surrounding area. I found more similar beauty as a lover of urban life but didn’t really have the confidence to capture most of it. However, I did manage to capture some elements of Telford’s attractiveness.

Telford town from afar

Telford town from afar

A colourful Telford

A colourful Telford

A lovely old sign

A lovely old sign

Just like Oakengates, Telford lends itself naturally to arty black-and-white photography

Just like Oakengates, Telford lends itself naturally to arty black-and-white photography

Bored of looking for beauty, I stopped for a coffee

Bored of looking for beauty, I stopped for a coffee

The people of Telford, through a reflection

The people of Telford, through a reflection

The fag ends of Telford - I think these have beauty

The fag ends of Telford – I think these have a certain beauty

A plethora of colourful bags

A plethora of colourful bags

I think I found some beauty in Telford, and much more than these photographs indicate. If I’d had the courage I would have taken many, many more photographs. Does that mean, then, that beauty can be found anywhere if it is sought after? Even in Telford? I’m inclined to think  that the answer is ‘yes’. As someone who likes to find and highlight the extraordinary in the ordinary (and the more ordinary the better), I now truly believe that Telford and Oakengates have much to offer. The beauty might not be the same as found in Shrewsbury with its Grope Lane and Quirky Coffee Shop, but it is there nonetheless.

Shrewsbury may have traditional beauty, but somehow the beauty found in a town like Telford is that bit more precious.

Why don’t I like Telford?

This is a weird thought I had, not on the toilet, but in Telford today.

Every six weeks my middle son attends a writers’ workshop co-run by author Kate Long in a small settlement in Shropshire called Oakengates. This workshop lasts 2 hours. Oakengates is 20 minutes from our house so it isn’t really worth me coming back home again before I have to fetch him. The first time I took him, I tried to hang around Oakengates for 2 hours. I failed as I couldn’t find enough to amuse me in that time (I had two coffees in two cafes). Oakengates, in case you don’t know, consists of a theatre (where my son was), a scattering of sad-looking charity shops and two cafes.

The Theatre in Oakengates

The Theatre in Oakengates

The second time I took him, I went to Telford shopping centre to find amusement, which is 7 minutes away. There is indeed enough to amuse me there (at the very least, a Zara, two Costas and a Waterstones) but I don’t like Telford. I go there with a heavy heart and a cross brow. So my weird thought is: why don’t I like Telford? Plenty of people do like Telford. People even live there. Why does the thought of going to Telford make me feel cross? Why do I profess to hate it so much? What has Telford ever done to me?

The town with no soul

The town with no soul

There are a number of reasons for my antipathy towards Telford:

  • I always get lost in Telford as it seems to consist solely of  roundabouts and ring roads and all lead to each other. There is no logical way out.
  • I always get lost in Telford because my sat nav thinks it is mostly fields.
  • There is no middle of Telford. It is just roundabouts (yes I know I should love these as I love roundabouts) and a shopping centre.
  • Telford has no soul (not having a middle).
  • The Waterstones, although a highlight of a visit to Telford, is fairly crappily stocked (it only has one floor).
  • Telford has no black-and-white buildings. I like black-and-white buildings.
  • The people don’t look happy. They must be, they are in Telford. They don’t look it though. They drag themselves around the shops as if searching, yearning, for something indescribable. I don’t think they will find it in Telford. I feel as if I ought to tell them to go to Shrewbsury instead.
  • I always get lost in the shopping centre.  It is quite big and it all looks the same.
  • All the houses in Telford are new. I don’t like new houses.
  • The sun always shines in Telford. That can’t be real. I don’t think I’ve ever been to Telford in the rain.
  • Telford reminds me of Seahaven from The Truman Show. Everyone looks as if they are acting (they couldn’t possibly be there by choice, could they?) and the buildings look artificial. Is Telford a reality TV show?

I hope I haven’t upset anyone who lives in Telford with my disparaging words. I’d be happy to engage in some lively debate with a Telfordian and be convinced that Telford is actually a nice place. Please do feel free to try if that is you. It has an ice rink, after all. So it isn’t all bad. I think the main reason I don’t like it is because it isn’t very old and I live in Shrewsbury which is very old (we have a lane called ‘grope lane’ where the ladies of the night used to hang out in medieval times – and a very interesting history is attached to such streets).

My favourite street in Shrewsbury - no ladies of the night here now

My favourite street in Shrewsbury – no ladies of the night here now

I keep thinking I need to learn to love Telford and perhaps I should start an art project about the town so I can grow to love something about it. I suspect that there is something about it that part of me loves (like when you fancy someone and you are mean to them). I have a love-hate relationship with Telford. It just seems such a sad place where the only leisure pursuit is to shop in the search for happiness or a meaning to life. Shopping is just not the path to happiness though, or is it?

These people live in Telford

These people live in Telford

 

 

Charles Dar…who?

Before we moved to Shrewsbury I hardly gave Charles Darwin much thought. He was just a bloke who invented a theory he called evolution which made a lot of religious people cross, and he wrote a book about it.

Where is Adam then?

Where is Adam then?

Since moving here I have become an expert in Charles Darwin. This is not by choice.

My weird thought is: why are the people of Shrewsbury so obsessed with Charles Darwin? I think the obsession goes far beyond his importance, so why?

Charles Darwin was born in Shrewsbury. He lived here as a child. He went to school here. Then he moved on and did many clever things. However, the people of this town remained obsessed with him. He’s known as ‘Shrewsbury’s most famous son’. My children have learnt a lot about Charles Darwin. They know more than me. He is the natural choice of topic for the local primary schools. Everyone who lives here can tell you all about Charles Darwin.

Here is a list of Darwin-related Shrewsbury things:

  • The Darwin shopping centre. Thousands of people pass in and out of this building every week. Does Charles Darwin, sitting up there in heaven, appreciate his consumerist connection?
Straight on for Top Shop, turn right for Dorothy Perkins

Straight on for Top Shop, turn right for Dorothy Perkins

  • Darwin Town Trail. I have never partaken but it exists.

 

  • Darwin Festival. This happens every year, or so I believe.

 

  • Charles Darwin’s statue. He sits outside the library looking down on the town’s book lovers.
The patron saint of book lovers?

The patron saint of book lovers?

  • The Charles Darwin ‘Quantum Leap’ sculpture. Many local people question the beauty and purpose of this object. I quite like it. It was unveiled by a relative of his in 2009. It sits by the river.
The Quantum Leap sculpture, nothing to do with Dr Samuel Beckett

The Quantum Leap sculpture, nothing to do with Dr Samuel Beckett

  • One of the four houses at my son’s school is called ‘Darwin’. This one is a bit of a cheat because his school is in Newport not Shrewbsury but still…

 

  • The Darwin song. Yes, there is a Darwin song.
The song

The song

 

  • A Darwin video. Watch and enjoy.

 

I feel a little sorry for Shrewsbury’s second most famous son: Wilfred Owen.

World War I poet - his poems had a deep impact on me at school

World War I poet – his poems had a deep impact on me at school

I was quite in awe when I found out that we were moving to the town where Wilfred Owen lived (more in awe than I felt when I found out about Shrewbsury’s first most famous son). On our first visit here we found ourselves eating lunch in a grave yard and a passerby asked me if I knew the location of Wilfred Owen’s grave in that grave yard. Of course I couldn’t help her at the time and my response was something along the lines of ‘ohhh is Wilfred Owen’s grave here?’ That was how I found out about the connection. We live a few houses down from the house where his parents lived. There is a school named after him. However, ask a local who Wilfred Owen was an not everyone can provide an answer. Some will even say ‘he must be the chap who founded the school’. Oh well,  dulce et decorum est.

Not far from here, where Wilfred Owen's parents lived

Not far from here, where Wilfred Owen’s parents lived

I don’t think I have an answer to my weird thought though. I don’t know why this town is obsessed with Charles Darwin. But I love that they are. It is quirky. It is geeky. It is adorably cute.

However, there was a ripple of excitement recently when a rumour went around that GARY BARLOW had bought a house here. Perhaps in 200 years time there will be a Barlow Shopping Centre. It will have to sit next to the Darwin one.

Gary shops in the Darwin Centre

Gary shops in the Darwin Centre

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