It’ll be a year before I spend another evening in Manchester. As last suppers go, this one was pretty great. This new neighbourhood kitchen has a category in its wine list called ‘raw and challenging’ in which we try orange wine for the first time, its cocktail list is a mini coffee table book where each beverage invoke a different theme, and we read ‘clarified milk’ and the nebula of the universe in the same description. There’s all manners of draping foliage, some succulents have their own stools, and spoken-word/funk is playing in the background. It’s pretentious and we loved the theatrics. Megan comes from Wood & Co and I learn that she was behind the pandan pina colada that I loved so much, that’s no longer on the menu despite my repeated slurry requests. She tells us about fermented, funky wine and explains that what I’m sipping on is the product of 3 days’ fermentation of white grapes with the pip and skin on. We eat a treacle tart that’s got holes in it the way sourdough bread does. The staff are all stylish and fun. This little town can be awesome sometimes.
Back home, we cuddle the kitties, laughing at the painfully real but hilarious scenes in Catastrophe and haggle with each other about how late we can leave it get up the next day. In between I ask Adam how many times he’ll forget to take himself to bed, make suggestions about expanding Sailor Moon’s repertoire of tricks, and we hold each other lots. And in between this, lots of final little things play on my mind and I struggle to relax.
In the morning, because there’s never a dull day, at the train station a tune repeats interspersed with ‘Inspector Sands, please report to the control room’ followed by ‘this is an emergency announcement, will all passengers please evacuate the station immediately’. I start heading for the taxi rank when I overhear the staff saying this is just a drill. I weigh my bag and the scales read 20kg. I make mental deductions about how much I’ll be getting rid of, by way of presents: a bottle of booze - 1kg, a tin of biscuits - 500g?, two ceramic mugs - 500g?, a pack of tea towels - 200g?... I get desperate and even throw in the fig and clementine I’ll eat on the plane. I conclude I’m just lying to myself and console myself with the fact that the heavier I am, the harder I am to kidnap, and the less likely people are to walk into me.
My first stop is Toronto, where I stay with my favourite aunt and finally meet my 5?6? Year old niece. I can’t conjure up familiar images of Toronto, but I remember the rough layout of my aunt’s house (my brain has post-edited in the papparazi car crash photos so maybe I didn’t see that on TV but her living room was where I found out about Princess Diana), and I hope my other relatives aren’t too annoyed that I didn’t invite them to the wedding. I wonder if we’ll get a chance to talk, or if it’ll be more superficial when others are around. It’s been years since I’ve seen my cousin who’s now a doctor, mom, and runs a successful Instagram shop selling antiques. I don’t know what I have to show for myself, but I’m more interested in hearing about them anyway.