Author: oyster28catcher (JRA)

Dear Mum

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To my mother, Elaine, how did you put up with me? And Astrid and Paul Jr too.  Thanks for being there no matter what and for giving me the confidence to be me.  I am finally seeing who I am and will make up for all my mistakes.  It’d be a dishonour to you, if I did not. I am always trying to better and fairer. Even when the fan is hit by epic proportions of proverbial turd.

Thanks for the Lego, the creation, the joy of reading and the pushes a long my walk through life.  Gran shines on through you and your sisters.  Then, there’s my Dad’s mother, Nana, friend’s and family members as mothers.  We’re blessed by so many great people that we meet a long the way.  Then, there are those unlucky not to be mothers, or mothers who have gone through terrible tragedies.  Let’s think of them too.  There are so many great mothers in the world, but only one is mine. 

Thanks for sharing the gift from a wonderful person, your Paul, t’other day. Seeing the Royal Northern College of Music and Clod Essemble’s production was magically enchanting. The enchanting evening featuring Welsh poetry, prayer, dance, lighting, and Thomas Mccarthy‘s words was emotional. Mam and Paul shared some amazing times and I’ve been lucky enough to share a few along the way.

Thank you Mum, for being my hero. I’ll try to do you proud, as best as I can. This week will be a tough one with Paul’s funeral. You’ve worked hard to ensure treasured memories and tribute follow. Thanks to you and Alexia for staying together to sort all this touching moments and photographs of time into a fitting farewell.

My Mam hasn’t needed profound words or phrases but she has always had a way to make me think, rather than lecture. Learning about choices and consequences, through expected feelings and what could or could not go wrong or right is one way to develop. Mam has opened many doors to the world.

Through an introduction to Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, R.E.M., and live gigs like Meat Loaf or Jeff Wayne’s War Of The World‘s, Mam has always ensured entertainment and fairness. The Campaign for Minimum Wage concert at Manchester’s then Nynex Arena was yet one example of social consciousness that I’ve been lucky to attend. Save Levenshulme Baths walk completed. Fix Chapel Street Primary School roof, supported. Local coffee shops over brands and chain? Why not?

Cypriot charms, Cornish climates, Lanc-York-Derby-Shire wanders, trips to Barmouth in Cymru, and so many examples of Mam providing a good life beyond No Frills beans and Weetabix. Cheers fo investing in us all.

To mums!

To my Mam. You’re the best. Love you.

Escaped Alone / What If If Only

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Recently director Sarah Frankcom delivered two incredible plays at the Royal Exchange Theatre, Manchester. The radiant light of the domed roofing cascading light over an internal structure resembling The Crystal Maze’s finale.

First up was Escaped Alone cloaked in a tremendous intensity. For 50 minutes, a quartet of acting stars deliver performances worthy of awards. Award-winning 74-year-old Annette Badland (Ted Lasso, Bergerac, and many, many more) has appeared on the silver screen, radio, theatre, and other media. Escaped Alone and What If If Only, Annette Badland played two different roles. The dramatic Glaswegian voice of Maureen Beattie OBE (Casualty, The Bill, and a whole host of other appearances) filled the stage through a succession of apocalyptic articulations and enunciations with her stage peers. Margot Leicester has strolled many stages, film sets, and studios. Her credits include Coronation Street and Casualty (the go to show for acting). Souad Faress has featured in The Archers, Casualty, and The Spy starred throughout the effusion, delivering the outpouring histrionic excellently.

What If If Only brutally strikes at the heart – even though it only lasts 25 minutes. The dialogue is sharp, enticing, and enhances the talented cast within a tale familiar to memory. The depths of loss, grief, and anguish mask fond memories and occasions. Here the lost future, present, and more visit upon a hapless mourner. Game of Throne’s 18-year-old co-starlet Bea Glancy featured in a haunting segment of What If If Only. The main star of this gripping grief-stricken play is Time and Beaker Girls actress Danielle Henry. Across from the main character, Someone, is Waterloo Road star Lamin Touray, fresh from All Creatures Great and Small and other such roles. The Royal Exchange Elders add further dimension to Caryl Churchill’s play.

All in all, two great plays, watched at a time of rightfully-heightened emotion. A pleasure to accompany my Mam to each performance. And if you haven’t booked a ticket for the theatre, “Go to”.

Spiralling down.

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The awesome of the mysterious light, radiating through a fine mist, drifting towards me was mesmerising. The patterns like straps on a parachute ascending upwards like a triangle missing its uppermost plain.

I tried to video it and take photographs. Even as Panda, my dog, nudged me to throw his ball, I pondered, wondered, and questioned what it could be. I knew from the object’s translucent state, it couldn’t be a drone. The misty form transformed passing rays of light outwardly. I queried all my logic. It couldn’t be a weather balloon. Not even a burst one.

I watched as it appeared to disappear and pass directly overhead. Then reappear, fade, and appear once more. I could see satellites passing overhead, far above this unidentified floating object. And aircraft flashing way up high. Its course stayed true, from Moston toward Clayton, Manchester. I pinged an image and video to my space expert friend Dan. He has raised his twin boys on a diet of the outer limits and knowledge.

An excited reply came back, “Maybe a rocket launch. SpaceX? I’ll ask Alex.” One of the twins would know or have a better idea. The light orb appeared to fan out like that of a ship’s rudder. Was this a projection? A hologram? No visible beams could be seen in the very clear sky. Not even a cloud. For Manchester, without a cloud is a spectacle itself!

Alex and Dan came back by message, see SpaceX launch in Florida, a few who’s previous. And that’s when looking at they sky became ruined again. Mites danced in the highest of visible atmosphere. The satellite pathways of Starlink and so on. Hundreds and thousands. Many of which become visible all too often. What would our ancestors make of it?

From hunter-gatherers of old to modern and better equipped people, eyes to their skies has been normalised and led to discovery and theories, or stories and moments of magic. I’ll confess this fuel dump by SpaceX was enchanting. Until I thought about the waste. The atmospheric dumping of gases and liquids. What would be the consequences? My adopted cousin Anthony commented, “Elon is pissing on us all.” He’s right. The days of Mulder and Scully are limited.

Williams Duo & Goodwin Too

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Oh, hey now is this a sign?
Have I been here before?
Oh, why should I care?
You can hear the silence drone
I still thirst

I looked for some guidance
Some beauty in my heart
Trying to accept the person I am
God knows it ain’t easy
Who knows the reason why?

Seize the time
Here comes my day in the summer sun
On summer days like these
But it slips through
What did you want?

In Memory of Paul: Words of Waits

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2019年2月9日，我们夫妻两人在Bradford的一家酒店住宿，好友John的妈妈Elaine阿姨得知这一消息后和她的伴侣Paul驱车三个小时连夜从Manchester赶来，还给我专门带了礼物，Elaine阿姨不知道我妻子也在，又把给自己女儿送的礼物送给了我的妻子。我们在酒店的酒吧里畅聊好几个小时，Elaine阿姨和Paul叔叔又深夜驱车赶回了Manchester。
匆匆一面，Paul叔叔非常和善健谈。六年后的今天他在于癌症抗争多年后离世。
REST IN PEACE, PAUL。
愿天堂没有病痛，我们缅怀您。

On February 9th, 2019, my wife and I stayed at a hotel in Bradford. When Aunty Elaine, the mother of our good friend John, heard the news, she and her partner Paul drove three hours from Manchester in the middle of the night. They brought me a gift, and Aunty Elaine didn’t know that my wife was also there. She gave my wife the gift she had bought for her own daughter. We chatted for several hours in the hotel bar, and Aunty Elaine and Uncle Paul drove back to Manchester in the middle of the night again.
After a hurried meeting, Uncle Paul was very kind and talkative. Today, six years later, he passed away after years of fighting cancer.
REST IN PEACE, PAUL.
May there be no pain in heaven. We remember you.

The kind words of Waits, Zhangye and Gansu’s biggest Manchester City fan.

Farewell friend.

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I want to thank you.

Thank you for opening my eyes.

Opening my eyes to a new lens.

A new lens capturing moments of time.

Moments of time caressing tender memories.

Caressing tender memories that led to this day.

Led to this day when we said farewell.

Said farewell to you and thank you.

Thank you for being here.

Rest peacefully. Good night and God bless. 🕊 🐝

To P. or not to P.

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You are the first person I’ve seen love my Mam. Before you, I didn’t witness it, from outside the family. Without that security for my Mam, I wouldn’t have upped and travelled or lived overseas.

During Gran’s last days, you stood firmly by Mam’s side and took care of me and the siblings. Where others would have walked away, you remained. And since then, hurdle after hurdle, you’ve stood by our tribe. That doesn’t mean you have no faults, and you know that legendary grumpiness is acceptable, even if you’ve had to tolerate me trying to get you to see and hear the music that I choose to share.

You’ve left a great impression on me. I didn’t need a father figure or a step dad. I found you to be the positivity and heart for my Mam. You’ve taken Mam overseas to countless theatre shows, pottered with pottery, tinkered with theatre, and travelled around this green isle. Fond memories stretched from caravan holidays in Anglesey to York for Yorkshire puddings stuffed with everything under the sun. You’ve opened doors to strange worlds of ice music, penguins, and crappy musical adaptations of miracles on New York streets. I wouldn’t change the world for these experiences. And, you’ve encouraged my growth for passion in hiking and wandering. Even if my body is catching up with me!

I told you and truly mean it, I want you in our family and my family. Time won’t allow much more togetherness, but have bo regrets. It is what it is. Like you said, we can’t grab false hopes and expect miracles. We can make it known about peace and love and letting your life stay with those you’ll leave. I wish I’d called by and kicked you out of a slumber, but I can’t change the last few hectic weeks. It wouldn’t have made today any less unpleasant. I just hope we can talk over these coming days.

And yes, these last few weeks have been agonising, and communication has broken down, but that doesn’t excuse being there for one another. Mam is there for you, stronger than ever before, and I’m around for natters and hopes and dreams. Nobody wants to say goodbye. It isn’t goodbye. Not yet. Only when you’re ready. I don’t want you to suffer. Nor do I want you to worry about Mam. Your sister is always welcome. We’ll all be stronger together because you need to be celebrated and championed. I hope tonight that you find calmness and a good sleep before we all visit again. There’s still time for talking.

What is strength? Is it the power not to lash out when anger fills your veins?

Is strength an illusion? A label to wrap up fear?

Is strength useful? Or a blind to allow all else to carry on?

For what good is strength when hope feels distant? Is it an alarm to carry on the conversation?

Peace and love. 🐝 🕊

This is not an obituary! This is a letter from the heart. Thank you for being present in our lives.

Self-discovery lens.

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We each have bad habits, and it isn’t my place to judge.

I ain’t ever smoked a cigarette, although I’ve breathed in far too many.

My not trying drugs is an issue I won’t ever budge.

Sometimes, my focus loses its antennae.

I am not an alcoholic although I do enjoy an odd drink.

I wouldn’t say I look to fight, even if I feel ready for a hit.

I like to avoid conflict, passing on kicking up a stink.

I can not tell a good joke or come across as full of wit.

I try to give more than I take. Whatever it may cost.

I prize friendship over profits.

I treasure memories but worry about opportunities lost.

I get frustrated at times. Throwing all kinds of fits.

“I’m not a racist but…” No. Not all all. I hate racism.

I’d like to protest but found my hands tied up.

I question capitalist ways, leaning my ears to socialism.

A bully bullies because they’re bullied and hold no club.

I am, however, a disappointment.

I am a disappointment.

I am.

Drawers.

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At the bottom of the unit lies a spring-loaded drawer with all my deepest and darkest utterings and thoughts.

Above that, another drawer, less-sealed, more-opened to tuck away memories warm and cold.

On top of the metaphorically wooden system, a drawer for the here and now. It has future dreams, brewing, and stewing.

One drawer shut tightly contains a world of marvellous thoughts.

Above it is an open shelf of optimism. A sliding glass door keeps in contained. Often, it is open just a tiny sliver.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I can keep everything, but what I need closed.

Mostly, however, my drawers are left open with socks and underpants spilling all over the floor.

If I were Napoleon, I’d shut the drawers and nod off.

I’m not Napoleon.

Quintessentially Doves

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Doves’ artistry is on display amongst the two tracks Renegade and Cold Dreaming. Until the romance of a Valentine’s Day album release, it appears just two doses of the Constellations For The Lonely are all that will be available. Each piece reminds us that whilst a road may seem bleak and unwelcoming, there is still beauty to be found in struggle and feelings.

The brooding intensity of Renegade’s conclusion pipes emotion. Jimi Goodwin’s distinctive tones overlay a bold and rhythmic track. It was used at a recent snooker competition, and on listening, it could be a tune heard at the Etihad Stadium or equally a doctor’s surgery. The driving energy of Renegade is rebellious, with the track title itself emotive to its Medieval Latin routes. As you’re drawn into the track, expect a touch of hypnotic intensity to circulate around you.

This gritty atmospheric anthem steadies introspective lyrics on a relentless sonic wave of self-determining propulsion. There’s the defiance of abandoning old ways in favour of urgency. Sharp percussion. Ethereal guitar work. This is a sound that is quintessentially Doves. A turbulence of inner conflict offers a chance to break free from self-imposed restraints or that of societal and fanbase expectations. Through warming lyrics, there is an echo of disconnection and yearned clarification. Trapped by doubts. Restlessness. Haven’t we all been there?

“Far from the hopes and dreams of crashing out too low” – Renegade – Doves

Cold Dreaming seems to tackle the quieter struggles. It strikes at detachment and longing for emotional connection. There’s a cinematic airy melody, expert drum work, and finiteness to the track. This deeply immersive track screams ambience, shimmering textures and draws on lush electronic-influences. There’s Northern Soul galore and a feeling of floating up and out into an otherworldly place. The soulful haunting tune could befit bands such as Mansun or numerous Northern English outfits.

At points, the tracks from Doves’ sixth studio album offer melancholic stillness, a space in the shadows of overthinking, and possible forgiveness from emotional numbness. There is a huge nod to Black Rivers, the project of Andy Williams and his brother Jez. Their post-Doves, pre-Doves band belongs as part of Doves. Much like the recovering and loved Jimi Goodwin remains present, even in the exile of recovery.

“Give me the strength I need to forgive” – Cold Dreaming – Doves

Doves have an uncanny track record of knitting and waving emotional landscapes in their sounds. Themes of solitude, inner struggle, and self-reflection are relevant in everyday life. The contrast of shades that we encounter in human experience is high volume. Here lies two tracks. Each allows solace and understanding to visit the listener, offering a place to navigate our own mental journeys. Do we truly know where all fights lead? We are surely vulnerable to not knowing. Is this struggle a sign of the growth of Doves? Or us? These tracks have felt like mirrors of late. Life is challenging, and like life, each track conveys emotional ambiguity. Bittersweet sense: should it dissolve in my grasp or be released as is the mature of fleeting time?

Words.

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Letters jumbled together to make some sort of sense.

Until they don’t.

Some make you sit up straight, late at night, tense.

Go away, they won’t.

Some are favourites, warm and welcome.

Others are demanding.

A smattering of words you’ll see seldom.

Many are descriptive waterfalls of meaning.

They drop delightfully.

A few unlock secrets and ideas gleaming.

They drop frightfully.

Sentences and words arranged not from simplicity.

There to baffle you.

Newspapers spew words of publicity.

“Words can’t hurt you.”

The toxicity of a word’s elasticity.

Yes, they FUCKING can!

Ferociously delivered weapons of choice.

Venomous sounds.

All the way at you as one voice.

Good old words.

id est quod id est

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The platinum Latin phrase of last week has to be, id est quod id est. Translation: it is what it is.

After an icy walk with the dogs, returning back for an episode of Brassic, and feet up, I noticed something missing. The black and white purr-box that has been cowering from the cold indoors almost every day, like a barometer, had not bugged me for a fuss. Between Panda GunDOGan, my Dad’s kangeroo-bollock-yapping-dog Blue and Sky the cat, my arms often get enough stroking exercises on a sofa.

Then I heard it. The faintest of faint meowing. I went upstairs, following the sound, zooming in on behind my bedroom door. For the first time, Sky had been locked in my room, signifying she’d snuck in after my shower. Unnoticed, sly Sky had spent several hours there. She wanted out. I opened the door. The door refused.

The door, flimsy at best, held firm. Its paneled front buckled slightly. The toughness of the bottom of the door scraping on carpet made me shudder. Sky had ripped the carpet up. And the underlay. And for good measure, the tacking that holds the carpet down. And the waterproof membrane off the back of the carpet. The door shifted a few centimetres. It was going nowhere fast.

Sky, sensing my frustration, upped her meowing game. Ear-piercing desperation, likely detectable on Mars as a signal of pleas for help. Then, the kind of constant whining only an upset can can muster. I computed my options. I had to push the door hard and fast past the fold. I’d damage the carpet, which I assumed was already a state.

I shoved, and Sky shot out a gap wide enough for a cat, yet too narrow for my 40-inch waistline and barrelled-chest. The door declined to open further. In a heat of rage, I shoved it, full shoulder. Newton’s second law. All 120kg of mass multiplied by acceleration. Full force.

The door shifted. I squeezed through a newer wider gap. The door’s hinges ached and screeched. I kicked the door shut and looked down at the damaged carpet and underlay. Fixable. Just. I tucked it in and noted it was not holding any longer. A repair for the future.

I went to open the door. The door held. It was jammed again. I was inside and wanted to be outside. My phone was ringing downstairs. A birthday video call for someone special. I tugged harder. Nothing. I applied more force. Off popped the door handle. An inconvenience. I yanked at the coat holders mounted on the door. They tore away. More than an inconvenience.

Panicking, I gripped the thin panel on the back of the door. It shifted slowly. Steadily, I exited the door. Later on, I tapped the carpet into a safer place. 

On reflection, id est quod id est, is a phrase that clearly signifies nothing can be done about a previous situation. It is what it is. How about the future? Unwritten? Let’s see.

Northern Rail

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Points failure. Delayed.

Late from the depot. Cancelled.

Staff member unavailable. Denied.

Leaves on the line. Complained.

Due to a landslide. Declined.

Snow, ice, fog, and high winds. Failed.

Extreme heat and railway line buckling. Inconvenienced.

Overhead line equipment failure. Uncovered.

Signal failure. Terminated.

Poor Victorian planning ahead for population expansions. Unconvinced.

Heavy volumes of rail traffic.Backlogged.

Overrunning engineering works. Poorly planned.

Speed restrictions in place. Underdeveloped.

Trespassers on the line. Stupid.

Telecoms failure. Apologised.

Animals on the line. Departed.

Lineside fires. Transpired.

Death on the line. Expired.

Another tannoy apology by a robot. Delay repayed.

The good old commute.

Immigration.

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Wouldn’t mind more migration and less borders.

Wouldn’t mind a little less bombing interventions overseas.

Wouldn’t mind peaceful values and ideals before responses get dished out.

Wouldn’t mind capitalism paying more taxes and seeking less havens.

Wouldn’t mind a shoulder to cry on.

Wouldn’t mind a living wage and more opportunities.

Wouldn’t mind fewer inequalities and a smidgen of hope.

Wouldn’t mind a hand of help reaching out to those who need it.

Wouldn’t mind thoughts before actions.

Wouldn’t mind understanding before judgement.

Wouldn’t mind smiles over frowns.

Wouldn’t mind less wealthy controlling corporations.

Wouldn’t mind a boom in small traders.

Wouldn’t mind dreams and dreamers discussing ideals and progress.

Wouldn’t mind more and more and more and more trees.

Wouldn’t mind water so clean you can paddle and drink in the freshness.

Wouldn’t mind the words and wisdom of the deceased generation that loved us all.

Wouldn’t mind no babies in hospitals, displaced by bombs, disease, and warmongering criminality.

Wouldn’t mind translators and cultural exchange bringing people closer.

Wouldn’t mind change.

How about you?

Christmas Eve

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They’re sharing family Christmas photos;

Wishing you all well and greetings for the seasons.

Yet, here, without you, I’m incomplete.

My family’s come is shattered beyond reasons.

The glimmer of hope like the slim chance of snow on a warm winter’s evening;

The last bus approaches on a pathway surrounded by emptiness.

A lone blackbird sings beneath a damp lamppost;

Touched in the heart, I am not in all fairness.

I envy and feel bitter to those who have it all;

I feel happy for each and everyone enveloped in family.

Yet, here, without you, I’m still incomplete.

For too long now, I suffocate in calamity.

Wreaths hug doors and trees sparkle in light;

Hearing carols on the street, my stomach flutters.

Yet, there and here, I cannot find a way out;

I feel bleakness, struggling to rise from the gutters.

To be found.

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I used to smile.

Instead, my face creases like contours from a map.



I used to laugh.

Now jokes pass over me like Arctic winds on the tundra.



I used to chuckle and gleam.

It’s all replaced by a seemingly eternal cold emptiness.



I used to preach hope.

But for all its worth, I let go of that dream.



Before today, I was strong.

I slink down beneath a door frame, unable to open the handle, and let myself in.



Before today, I sought new songs.

Yet now most seem overplayed and all the same: repeat after repeat after repeat.



Before today, I had ambitions.

They slipped away, leaving an endless string of survival day by day.



Before today, I loved the rain.

Now, I greet umbrellas and raincoats and wellies as sanctuary.



Where is the old me?

Lost, maybe.


To be found.

The Next Broadcast

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Doves have accompanied me for years. The band was mostly made up of Jimi Goodwin on guitar and often lead vocals, with drummer Andy Williams and his twin Jez on guitars. Martin Rebelski has for a long while provided keyboards and other bits and bobs. Yet, here we are, in 2024, with a new look lineup. How would they sound in Birkenhead’s Future Yards?

“Sure enough if you feel nothing
You’re better off this way
Gets to the point where you can’t breathe” – The Last Broadcast, Doves

Jimi is taking an extended hiatus as he “needs more time to recover.” Naturally, fans of Doves are there for Jimi and will be ready and waiting when Goodwin is ready. In light of this, the twin duo Williams’ brothers take central stage. Alongside Nathan Sudders on bass (who I’d seen in Nadine Shah’s band) and Jake Evans (Bad Lieutenant), the line-up started a pre-tour on Wednesday, November 27th in Stoke. The Friday would see Hebden Bridge, but the only ticket I managed was Birkenhead, sandwiched between those dates. No complaints at all!

“And as you make for the door this time you’re walking out
…out forever” – Renegade, Doves

Swept up by Lost Souls in 2000, the dreamy soundtrack to college studies were plaued between CDs like Badly Drawn Boy’s The Hour of Bewilderbeast and all other available audio distractions. The wholesomeness of sounds that stood out and warmed my studies helped me reach university and apply to work for Greater Manchester Fire and Rescue Services. Listening to Doves helped my mind decode that university was the intended choice.

“In satellite towns
There’s no color and no sound
I’ll be ten feet underground
Gotta get out of this satellite town” – Black & White Town, Doves

During my university years, The Last Broadcast helped me process my Grandad’s death. And then the death of my Gran’s partner Ernie, who I regard as my grandfather. Every hard moment had a song and some tracks were visited more than others. Words for comfort. Melodies for medicine. Even heading to see Manchester City would swiftly be showered by the foot-stamping Pounding. All the combined track energy and near-psychedelia sounds would transport you from a lonely student room in Aberystwyth to soundscapes far beyond the hills. Feeling like an imposter at university, lost in not belonging, the words hugged me and kept me grounded.

“Follow
Your own path from here
So don’t listen
To what they say” – Words, Doves

Hearing Here It Comes, I’m spellbound by the genre-crossing ambience and the simplicity of the backing sounds. The lyrics are magical. It’s reminiscent and inspiring in equal measure. Just like the rays of hope from the latest album track release, Renegade. There’s an unmistakable warmth and tone, despite the Piccadilly garden rains. By the time I’d graduated at university, Some Cities had fired volcanic-proportions of indie rock at the world. The track Snowden, complete with rhythm and magic, alongside the drive of Black And White Town, amongst others, propel your ears. The lyrics range from frustration to joy to wonder. I’m sure other bits are covered in equal measures.

Playlist for the night:

Firesuite, Carousels, Words, Cold Dreaming, Black and White Towns, Snowden, Renegade, Rise, Circle of Hurt, Sea Song, Mother Silverlake, 10:03, Pounding, Caught by the River, The Cedar Room, Here It Comes, Kingdom of Rust, There Goes The Fear.

Future Yards is a class venue, with friendly staff, a great sound system, ample ales and beers, decent food, and warmth. Seeing Doves perform there, after many years of radio silence, was an absolute privilege. So, where’s the next Doves experience? Manchester Aviva. Can’t wait. The superb Doves Music blog website is firmly back on my homepage. The Doves family are back. This next broadcast is more than wanted.

“There goes the fear again, let it go
There goes the fear, let it go” – There Goes The Fear, Doves

Thank you Doves, thank you so much, thank you for coming back. I truly feel energised after a tough few months and feel you’re with me, blessing my ears and touching my soul as the future unfolds. Thank you to Jez, Andy, Jimi, Martin, and the new beginnings.

Kristen Perrin’s How to Solve Your Own Murder: Review + Light Up Lancaster

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How to Solve Your Own Murder by Kristen Perrin is a page-turner with a unique premise that sets it apart from other mystery novels. At first, the genre and title didn’t attract me. Once I’d opened the cover, the protagonist’s posthumous investigation is intriguing, and Perrin’s plot is full of clever twists and turns. The novel’s fast-paced and suspenseful narrative keeps readers engaged from start to finish. Perrin’s innovative approach to the mystery genre makes this book a highly enjoyable and memorable read. 

At times, I thought the book to be both gripping and inventive take on the classic murder mystery. However, I felt torn between changing a chosen book to read. At first, the story centres around the protagonist who, after her own untimely death, must piece together the clues to uncover her killer. It sounds cheesy and forced. Perrin’s writing is key to why I continued. The delivery is sharp and witty, with a plot that keeps readers guessing until the very end. That being said, it doesn’t leave too many imagined options.

The novel’s unique premise and well-developed characters make it a standout in the genre. Fans of mysteries and thrillers will appreciate the clever twists and the protagonist’s relentless pursuit of the truth. as it offers a fresh and intriguing spin on the traditional mystery narrative, Kristen Perrin‘s well crafted work stands out as a must-read for mystery enthusiasts looking for something different. A thought-provoking and compelling mystery told through the themes of identity, justice, and the afterlife. May contain deeper philosophical undertones.

If a soundtrack is needed for any future televised or silver screen production, then look no further than Rebekah Okpoti‘s haunting score for the Light Up Lancaster event installation in Lancaster Priory. Amongst the visuals by artists Jonathan Hogg and Nick Rawcliffe, a tone of menacing organ music filled the vast Lancaster Priory. The acoustics seemingly fit multiple genres of entertainment, and I reckon Kristen Perrin’s work deserves a soundtrack.

The Lancaster Priory’s Director of Music, Rebekah Okpoti, took inspiration from William Herschel, playing a tune overlaying an almost eye-lije triangle screen sinisterly reflecting kaleidoscopic journeys. The other town light installations varied in shape, sizes, and subtletkaleidoscopicy, much like the words of Kristin Perrin.

Amy Helen Bell’s Under Cover of Darkness: Review

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The cover stood out. It had to read. I could not resist dipping beneath the cover of Under Cover of Darkness.

Amy Helen Bell’s Under Cover of Darkness slings the reader deep into wartime Britain. Loaded with intimate and authentic historical detail, the author’s power of research ploughs meticulously through an era of conflict plagued by rationing and air raids. Central to the storyline are compellingly genuine characters beating with a heartbeat of transformation, through loss and adaptability.

Inner conflicts hug danger like a hand grasping the wrong end of a knife-blade knowing that to let go would be disastrous. Turning over pages, a narrative of sacrifice, duty, and moral dilemmas emerge to test even the most devout in their resistance of desire and maintenance of responsibility. Are choices always clear?

Through a fusion of pacing, timing, and psychological tension, Amy Helen Bell’s world builds an edgy psychological tension. During our privileged era, the shifting roles of women during World War II created new opportunities for women. Bell capture’s a spirit and revolution in her story, exposing the complexity of newness and challenges faced by women, at that seismic time. For feminists and history buffs alike, this novel delves into the mean streets of London during a backdrop of fear and uncertainty.

This deeply human story sensitively connects the fragility of romance during conflict and the jeopardy of life’s end point seeming ever nearer. Nods to the psychological toll with trauma, resilience, and grief evident throughout the chapters. Ethical dilemmas integrate the human capacity for good and evil, without sounding preachy. That sense of resilience underlines community and togetherness offering hope amongst the doom and gloom.

Through skill and crafting, Bell’s writing style elevates the story beyond just another war story and showcases depth and range of storytelling through suspenseful character-driven narratives.

Hannah Pick-Goslar’s My Friend Anne Frank: Review

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“Of the 120,000 Jews who lived in the Netherlands before the war, only 5,000 of us returned from either the camps or hiding.” – Hannah Pick-Goslar

Through reading My Friend Anne Frank, by Anne Frank’s reallife friend, Hannah Pick-Goslar, the text offered a unique perspective on Anne Frank’s legacy through the lens of their friendship. A slickly rich delivery in the form of memoir, loaded with heartfelt reflections that compliment Anne’s diary.

“I often feel Anne’s presence with me because I go around speaking about her very often.” – Hannah Pick-Goslar

Pick-Goslar uses her narrative as inspiration, layered in poignant heartbreak. The power of memory certainly ensures and in a world saturated by antisemitism and division, a fuller understanding of lost lives like Anne Frank, and the impact of absence wouldn’t go amiss. Touching anecdotes impart a close bond, evocative of a time of innocence swept up by severe tragedy. The deeper understanding of humanity lost in historical events crawls from the pages.

“I try to be compassionate, but I’m not sure it’s the result of war.” – Hannah Pick-Goslar

Several of my reading peers experienced the tales carried through Hannah Pick-Goslar’s My Friend Anne Frank. Upon feeding back to our book group, tears formed, and voices trembled. A more engaging and enlightened view of Anne Frank‘s legacy beyond her diary surely could not be found. Resilience and impact through shared memories that offer expansion to Anne Frank’s Het Achterhuis (republished later as The Diary of Anne Frank).

The author, Hannah Pick-Goslar, was one of several Verlorener Zug (“lost train”) passengers liberated by the Red Army. A broken railway bridge impeded the progress of the train to Theresienstadt ghetto for extermination. The luck led to survival. That survival allowed a story to live on.

“I approached the fence, but I could see through new gaps in the straw that the tents on the other side had been cleared out. Anne, Margot, Mrs van Pels, everyone was gone. Vanished. It was if they were never there.” – Hannah Pick-Goslar 12/11/1928 – 28/10/2022

An end.

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Stones roll inwards;

                Passing fiercely;

                                Slamming down violently;

Smashing all in its pathway;

                Tossing and turning;

                                Without discrimination;

                                                Rupturing creation.

Turning solid shapes to shards;

                Presenting passage;

                                From life to the beyond;

Savage and cleansing constructs.

                                An end.