‘It is Spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters’-and- rabbits’ wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to-night in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows’ weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.’
~ Dylan Thomas, Under Milk Wood
It is not spring, it is July. It is not imaginary seaside Wales, it is Manchester. The town clock does strike, but the shops are all open and the people all very awake.
But there is something about today that made me think of this. A kind of shuffling chilliness, dampness; it has been dark all day thanks to a thick blanket of black clouds. And, of course, it is the beginning of my study.
Back at last after all this time, ready to take a second bite of the cherry.
John Rylands Library is always a neo-gothic treat, but especially so when you’ve found a nook in the reading room, and can hear the patter of drizzle on the wine-bottle windows.
Reading, and stretching, and reading again, in a comfortable chair well worn by more prestigious posteriors than my own, it’s good to feel the spark of interest tingle back to life.
I really hope I can pull this off. It’s been a bit of a roller-coaster ride since the course materials arrived, resplendent in red tissue-paper.
Can I do this? Do I have the smarts? Do I have the determination? Do I have any creativity left? I suppose only time will tell. Time, and getting stuck in.
Of course, if it means more rainy days in town with tea and cake, I’m willing to give it a good go.
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