It’s the strangest time of the year, when activity threatens to resume while the weather still says no. The winter lull stretching its legs all the way out from the end of December, it’s still hard to do anything productive other than tidy up and throw out January 1^st’s resolutions. What is there to do other than go to bed early and wake up late? Hide away in a duvet and pass up on Saturday night plans? Well, here are some films to accompany you through that January/February slump.

#1 Another Round (Druk)

Helping you feel like you’ve achieve something in your day, subtitled films always give me a sense of productivity. Another Round is the best kind of subtitled films, centring its plot around recognisable suburbia so you never get lost if you fall slightly behind on the dialogue. Taking an interesting look into our relationship with alcohol, another round is about a group of teacher friends than decide to test out a hypothesis of keeping their blood alcohol content at 0.5% to boost social skills and happiness. For a relatively calm and oddly cosy film, I had so much to say after watching this. For one, the relationships between the men made me want to cry, feeling like the first showing of male friendship that felt real and tangible, more akin to what I feel with my own friends than boring laddy banter. It was also lovely seeing totally normal older men, obviously Mads Mikkelsen is a heartthrob, but overall these men look like men you’d see in your day to day life, entirely centring the film in our society. And then the presentation of alcohol, managing to be as complex and intricate as it truly is, with the film managing to show the tragedies it can bring without demonising its place in joy and celebration.

Filmed in Copenhagen and all in Danish, the complex relationships are all set in a beautifully cosy scandi setting that makes it a perfect late winter watch for a night you’ve cancelled drinking plans.

#2 Man On The Moon

The iconic Jim Carrey playing the iconic Andy Kaufman. I finished watching this film and immediately did my favourite chaotic past time – rating films on Letterboxd purely on how much I enjoyed them. Man on The Moon got 5 stars.

Walking you through the silly complexities of Andy Kauffman’s subversive career, this is the perfect comedy film to watch when you don’t want to watch a comedy. It’s never cheesy and, if you don’t know much about Andy Kaufman like I didn’t, it remains totally unexpected and surprising from start to finish. At points I laughed out loud at the sheer absurdity of it all, but I never felt silly for letting myself sink into it and enjoy. All balanced out with a sad commentary on fame and purpose, the silliness goes hand in hand with the sombre in a perfect Sunday night in January way.

Jim Carrey is absolutely incredible and totally perfect for the role – but I’d skip the urge to follow the film up with his documentary about it, because it makes him seem dead annoying.

#3 Eighth Grade

What better subject to dive into during the cold months than old school trauma. If ‘written and directed by Bo Burnham’ isn’t enough to instantly hook you in, Eighth Grade is genuinely one of the sweetest films I’ve ever seen. Its so simple and tender, using a story of a girls struggles to make friends as a universally relatable tale of nervousness. Focused on Kayla, an eighth grader who makes motivational YouTube videos about confidence while simultaneously having none, its full of all the feels like encapsulate growing up and our school experience. I think Kayla, played by Elsie Fisher, might be one of my favourite character I’ve watched in a long time. While obviously being written in Bo Burnham’s classic dark yet silly comedy style, she feels so real as she walks through experiences we’ve all felt. Blowing up the relatively minor tragedies of teenage years into the end of the world emotional experiences we thought they were at the time, Eighth Grade is emotional and sentimental without ever becoming too heavy. 

If you want to really root for a character and have some time to reconnect with your past self, press play on this.

#4 Summer Of Soul

The total other end of the spectrum, this is one for people who want to get out of winter as quick as possible. Half way through watching this film, I genuinely remarked out loud how happy I felt, as this entire documentary is just so joyful and endearing. Using forgotten archive footage to tell the story of the Harlem Cultural Festival in 1969, there are performances from a lineup of legends including Nina Simone, Sly & The Family Stone, Stevie Wonder, Mahalia Jackson and more. Interviewing people who were there and looking into why this massive festival was forgotten and lost under the shadow of Woodstock, its simultaneously a massive celebration of the event while analysing the society that birthed it. Doing an amazing job of joining the dots between the 60s massive cultural moments that always feel so disconnected, Summer Of Soul immediately became one of my favourite documentaries I’ve ever watched. 

The perfect film for a Friday night when you just wish it would warm up – put the heating on, grab a drink and prepare to listen to the soundtrack for weeks to come.

#5 Can You Ever Forgive Me?

Never, ever in my life did I think I’d get emotional over Melissa McCarthy. I was so reluctant to watch this as Melissa is so associated with family friendly mind numbing comedies, but I’m so glad I got over my own snobbery. Telling the true story of Lee Israel, a biography who turned to forging letter between celebrities and literary legends when she could no longer get published, McCarthy’s performance as the figure is both painfully frustrating and totally devastating. A totally underrated gem of a film with incredible performances from McCarthy and Richard E. Grant, I was stunned when it finished, wondering how I could’ve let the film go unwatched for so long. With enough drama to keep you hooked and enough complexity to make you think, you’ll probably cry then instantly google Lee Israel after.

✿✿✿

I don’t think I was quite prepared for how often someone would ask me what my hobbies are. I thought it was a primary school thing, scribbling down our favourite activities and assigning them to ourselves as identities or future careers. If you liked to play with your pets, you were the class vet. Those who liked being part of the choir were destined to be stars. And I picked writing stories, still wearing my badge at 23. I didn’t think people asked, as I floated through years of friendships and life situations defined by my one big academic interest, and now I feel like I should have a better answer prepared. ‘So what kind of things do you like doing?’ – dates, interviewers, prospective housemates, I don’t really know what to tell you.

This was the first year in a long run that I haven’t written about new year’s eve. Never really knowing what else to do with my reflections, I pour them out into a blog and click publish to tick off an imaginary quota that I’ve engaged with it. I started one and stopped at just under 300 words, a pattern I’ve been seeing a lot. 1000 words used to mean about two hours and now is more like two days, I didn’t used to take breaks and now I’ll procrastinate between every paragraph. I reckon I’m just out of practice now my job doesn’t see me stretching my writers hand all day, but I’m shocked how quickly my lifelong identity as a writer feels threatened after 6 months of reduced output. The voice that used to yell at my lack of ideas or accepted pitches has nothing else to focus on but me, scratching away corner of my perceived self every night I don’t write a word.

For 6 months I’ve clocked off around 6:30 or 7, ate, and seen sinking into a bath for 45 minutes or so as the height of daily luxury. I felt like I read constantly and made no real progress to my to-read pile, I ate the same meals on repeat, melted my brain over hours of Gilmore girls, and didn’t write a single poem.

In December, I remedied it with cross-stitching, a skill I picked up years ago to busy myself after a big heartbreak. I spent a month dedicating every night to a variety of floral patterns and my sisters initials, and had them finished just in time for Christmas day. On the 29^th, my mum taught me the basics of knitting and I found something new to be hooked on that managed to silence the voice that keeps slicing me up. I knitted in the car from Middlesbrough to Sheffield. I knitted on new years eve only half aware of the calendar changing. I knitted all the way back down to London and every night since, until the 16^th. I ran out of wool before my last step, I’m still not over it. I cried when I realised, desperately face-timing my mum to see if she knew some magic fix that would require a week long wait for new wool. I held my breath and waited for the voice inside me to find the mistake to fixate on, woke up the next morning tensed ready. Put on my old scarf in the absence of a new one and waited all the way to work. But nothing came, I just ordered more wool.

When people ask me what my hobbies are, I always lead with writing, hyperaware that I sound like a person that can’t rest. I am that person. I tag going to galleries and gigs onto the list, but for years my weekends have felt wasted if I wasn’t finishing a piece. I struggle to go a week without needing to tick some work off my list, and will sacrifice all other activities to settle that need. I hear my housemates go out running or do drum lessons, my sister jets off for weekend breaks, my mum finishing making a cardigan, and I see all their hobbies as the most beautiful little decoration to their life. On them, it’s a thing of awe, I love the facets of their being, multiplying year on year with some new interest nurtured. And I want it for myself, feeling the blossoming begin each night I let a film soundtrack a stress free creation with no deadline or consequence. The soft wool seemed able to soothe anything, silencing that voice and letting me live in 20 stitch rows, smiling each night at new progress that cost me nothing in terms of strife. I loved how my hands moved without me thinking, feeling like writing on a good day, giving me a dose of that identity-affirming automatic action without any pressure. The needles clicking together was a calming hypnosis, the rows bobbing up and down like waves. I wish my new wool would hurry up and arrive.

After a week without it, the voice is getting louder. Even now, this piece has taken me two hours and I’m at 846 words and I hate myself for it. I have plans to go out and wander and I can’t help feeling like for some reason I don’t deserve to, like there’s a more pressing task I’ve forgotten about, stupid girl.

But knitting into a new year, feeling freshly in love with a task that was never a chore or a stress, my only resolution was to do more no-pressure things. I want to decorate my identity with little badges that have no need to become anything more, no quota to meet, no punishment for a week off. At 23, I want to pick up some hobbies, remedying my younger self that stuck too close to one thing and could never last at anything else if it didn’t mean something bigger. Knitting means nothing bigger, just calm and sweet and soft.

And my new wool has just arrived.

I’m trying to not be disappointed by my lack of reading this year. In 2021 I got through 10 books, which feels pathetic compared to 2020’s 25, but I’m reminding myself that circumstances are very different. My new year’s resolution is to bring back to slow mornings of the previous year, I want to wake up earlier and allow myself some quiet reading time in bed with the morning light. But commuting and my TikTok obsession constantly threatens any attempt at reforming the habit.

What I will say is that I think I really engaged with the books I read this year, diving deep into each one rather than feeling like I skimmed past them in a week or so. I ticked off some reads I’d been wanting to tackle for year, and found some new favourites as I finally got round to finishing off the book pile I acquired last Christmas and way back in April for my birthday. 10 books is still good, I’m going to keep saying that over and over till I hopefully feel it, repeating it like a mantra as I start to pick out my selection for next year.

#1 Let Us Compare Mythologies – Leonard Cohen

Everyone knows how much I adore Leonard Cohen so it was about time I picked up his first ever collection. But what I was met with was something vastly different some any other Cohen I’d read. While his later stuff is silly and light-hearted, tossing out all rules of what poetry should be or look like, Let Us Compare Mythologies follows them to the letter. It’s very literary, as though Cohen originally planned to follow the path of the greats like Keats or whoever, before branching off to find his own voice. While it was definitely still beautiful, and still had hints of the classic Cohen voice, it wasn’t as charming as his older works. I’d still recommend Book Of Longing for a first Cohen read, but I’m enjoying diving into his back catalogue regardless. What a man.

#2 Nina Simone’s Gum – Warren Ellis

After a crisis with my original flat in London, I sat down the next day with a coffee and a cookie and read all 200+ pages cover to cover. Hyper-focussed to block out the stress and upset, I couldn’t think of a better book to accompany me. I haven’t read a book like this, maybe ever. So simple and so sweet and so unique, Nina Simone’s Gum tells the story of exactly that. After a performance in 1999, Warren Ellis climbed on stage and stole Nina’s chewed gum right from her piano, and kept it with him ever since. Kept close as a strange little relic or lucky charm, the book follows Warren’s mission to have the gum cast in gold, weaving in and out with tales from his career and anecdotes that will restore all your belief in human kindness. Encountering so many people desperate to help him in his mission to protect and preserve the memento, I couldn’t stop reading. It’s not that the story is gripping in its plot, but the conversational tone made it a page turner as I was eager to continue the cosy conversation me and Warren were having. By the time I finished, 3 hours later, I honestly could’ve gone back to page 1 and started all over again. Immediately joining my best of the best favourite book list, I haven’t stopped recommending it since.

#3 A Theatre For Dreamers – Polly Samson

You would think it would be difficult to get into a book about a sunny Greek island in the middle of winter in London, but the escapism was heaven. Grabbing a book that had been sitting on my shelf for months as I ran out the door to get a train, I realised it’d been ages since I read some proper fiction. A Theatre For Dreamers was recommended to me after watching a documentary about Leonard Cohen and Marianne on Hydra, and the novel finds its setting there. Including Cohen as a character, it fictionalises that circle of artists and writers, finding a home on the picturesque island. Despite the far off setting and climate totally opposite from my own, something about the book really invites you in. You feel like you’ve been welcomed into the friendship group, and my commutes were quickly transformed into sunny moments of transportation, from a rocky train to a beach.

I didn’t expect to enjoy it as much as I did, despite being interested in Hydra and it’s circles, I’d been putting off picking up the book for a long time. But when I finally did, I flew through the book within a week or so, constantly wanting to get back to the dramas of the sunny island.

#4 The Favourite Game – Leonard Cohen

Back on the Cohen hype, this was my first foray into his prose as I picked up his first novel. First published in 1963, it fell out of print for a long, long time, only recently becoming accessible again. And thank god it is. The Favourite Games is odd, yet wildly easy to read. Made up of short chapters, and text that flits between short sentences and long winding poetic prose, I flew through it. Semi-Semi-autobiographical, it follows the life of a young writer from Canada, battling between love and artistic calling. The main character Lawrence Breavman is self-involved and complex, all his relationships feel fleshed out and real, every character full and developed. Nothing is missing, as the plot is just busy enough and just slow enough to leave space for Cohen’s poetry.

Criminally overlooked, I’m going to be shoving this novel under everyone’s noses for a long time.

Next up…

The Song Of Achilles by Madeline Miller

On my list for 2022 (so far)…

My Year Of Rest And Relaxation - Ottessa Moshfegh

The Fran Lebowitz Reader -Fran Lebowitz

POPism – Andy Warhol

Please send me your recommendations!

✿✿✿

Yesterday I noticed that my childhood bear looked dirty. Pooh Bear, 21 and sat on my new bed with his bald spots suddenly tinged grey, and for a moment I’m flooded with a burning anger for my boyfriend’s dusty room where my bear lived briefly. Taken from home to home, resting proudly in every bed I’ve set my duvet on, when I first moved down to London we were left in waiting for a month. And there’s no way Pooh would be boxed up and put in storage, no way. Parted from all my belongings but a suitcase of clothes, a scrappy bear felt like the one thing I needed.

Once an underwhelming gift, I didn’t care for Pooh Bear much on that Christmas, age 1 and more interested in Barney. Originally full of metal that would bend him into poses, dressed smartly in a red t-shirt that left dents in luscious fluff – now he’s full of shards, occasionally poking through thinning arms as a reminder of his former glory. When my Mum asked if I’d ever get him restored, I couldn’t say no quick enough as his bold spots and holes bring me more comfort than fresh fur ever could. I love his strange face, I love the way his smile has migrated into something sideways and old, I love how certain patches have matted into a kind of velvet. And I think lately I’ve loved him more than ever, feeling almost embarrassingly reconnected to my childhood bear at 23, gripping him tight despite my boyfriend taking up the other pillow, crying if he fell from the bed onto a foreign floor.

During long distance days or earlier teen relationships, Pooh was relegated to a draw each visit with no space for him in the bed. I could probably liken him to a child, needing to become certain of feelings before I introduced bear and suitor. So he stayed out of sight, spending another year shuffling between bed and hiding place as I grew bashful of him. At uni, you rarely see other childhood toys. Maybe we’re all doing the same dance of hiding or maybe some people are simply less sentimental, but I remember feeling shy about his presence but knowing, completely, that I couldn’t do it without him. Moving from Middlesbrough to Sheffield to Manchester to London, taking trips in between for holidays and internships, going back and forth for Christmases and birthdays, this bear might be the truest form of companionship I’ve ever known and god his dirty material makes me want to cry.

When I first reluctantly rolled my suitcase into my partner’s house after finding my new flat flooded, the first feeling was one of grief. After six months of blissfully living alone again, filling each of my walls with my things, writing my name on every corner I could look at with objects that came with an owned by me tag, being separated from my things feel shamefully like losing a piece of myself. When my TikTok algorithm feeds me a clip of minimalism with sweet voices talking about the need to disconnect from material things, I utterly can’t relate. I think there’s a bit of me in everything I own as I used to look around my flat and gush over all the artwork and vinyls and books I’d gifted myself. Raised to scrimp and always consider the value before a purchase, everything has been granted special access, deemed worthy, invited in. For the first week without it, I mourned my coffee machine, my artwork, my record player, my books, my little silly trinkets. I mourned my own space that looked and smelled and felt like mine. I cried the whole first weekend, coughing out a couple of small sad words on the first night – ‘Can Pooh sleep in the bed?’

But we as people lose a lot. In the course of my 23 years, I’ve lost favourite albums to breakups, I’ve lost hobbies and passions, I’ve lost important jewellery and phones and passports. I’ve lost best friends and partners and family. Most the things we love will disappear or die in a pessimistic but true way. Maybe the difference in my love for pooh is that the silly bear is forever. Theres no need to snap pics and post on my Instagram because he’s not fleeting, beyond life phases and changes, his role in my life is almost boring in its solidness. There’s a gentle pleasure in him, something sweet about owning a thing that is so completely pointless and simple, but keeping it so long you’ve embedded a million different functions and needs into it, year by year.

By this point, Pooh will never stop smelling like me, with 21 years of nights pushed into his stuffing. Nothing about him will ever be scary or new or strange as he ages with me. And no matter how many strange beds I held him in or boyfriends that patted his little head, he’s mine. Unleaving, untainted, unchanging in its power to soothe, my childhood toy is the purest form of ownership, the solidest companion, still the best thing I have.

I think this is just my ode to him.

Nearly 4 weeks out from my life in Manchester, and I think the home sickness is starting to kick in. Still, when I fall asleep, I imagine facing the window and hearing the noise of the Northern Quarter. Wake up shocked that I don’t turn right into my kitchen, go down 4 flights of stairs and turn left towards the café, right towards town. Having spent 2 years on autopilot, its turning it off is tricky when navigating a new place still feels clunky. While I cling to google maps in London, here are places I could direct you to even with my eyes closed back in Manchester.

For coffee...

Siop

After an achievement, when a zine with your by-line falls into your mailbox or NME reply to your email, go and get a donut. Put 5 candles in one to celebrate an anniversary of your work. Buy your Dad one when he drives to collect you for Christmas, buy your friend one and take it to a picnic in place of baking. When people visit, collapse there for hangover breakfasts and sit for ours taking in a way that sounds just like ‘we should start a podcast’, but don’t. Pace down the street to be there before they sell out, buy bags of coffee to take the flavour with you.

Just Between Friends

In 2019, the simple coffee sign screamed glamour. Sat there as the weather chilled, being bundled up in a coat feels like the cosiest statement of style. I loved the recycled mugs and how they never quite sat on their coasters. I finished reading Elizabeth Smart there, I’d meet my own flatmate there, slowly learning that the cherry brownies are amazing and living right opposite a café was always what I’d wanted.

In 2020, the sign turned to a statement of necessity, something you’d see in a mirage, an oasis calling out – C O F F E E. Real coffee, foamy milk coffee, properly brewed coffee in a cardboard cup. Coffee to make you feel real, and even a pastry to go with it. Opening as a hatch when everything else was shut, there was a brief period when no one else realised and that coffee felt like supplies from the resistance. I went every day for weeks.

Idle Hands

I have the faint idea that I went to Idle Hands before, back in uni at 18 with a rubbish boyfriend. I got black coffee then and hated it, it was in a much smaller place. I know for a fact I went the day I found my flat, ate pecan pie and wrote a letter. I went Daisy there, it became our place, working our way through the rotations of flavours, sharing with select friends, talking about everything. I’ll always think of her there, Daisy and chocolate cream.

For a drink...

Rose + Monkey

I first went to rose and monkey because it reminded me of The Washington in Sheffield, and now I’m searching for its twin in London. As though an eclectic musician inherited an old pub, I’d get either a Guinness or an aperol, paired with pretzel pieces or a full indian feast. The place to run to in between the various lockdowns, a guy plays guitar to himself in the corner as friends talk in groups. Pouring a pint that Quentin had no complaints about, it had everyone’s stamp of approval.

Night + Day

On New Years Eve 2019, I sat outside Night + Day in a beret, drinking a gin martini and admiring my own life. I laid photobooth pictures of myself down on the metal orange table and snapped a picture. In March, it housed a brief reunion with Sheffield friends before I wouldn’t see them for a year, a night out with Emmie that I remember despite its unremarkability. She danced to kylie, I don’t think I even bought a drink. Unlike the day before my 23^rd birthday, when me and Sophie bought one too many and its house wine coarsed through my veins painfully the next day.

When the sun rolled in and they placed their benches outside as a left over from the days we drank under umbrellas because it was all the government would allow, I never walked home without considering stopping for one, messaging something to say ‘you out?’

Castle Hotel

YES

You meet everyone at YES. Sometime in December 2019, I push myself into the door when the crowd reached it. With shared air only, the night is hazy to remember feeling so foreign now. But I remember meeting daisy and Jamie, them meeting Quentin, creating a group chat and a backbone for a year of only online communication. Then a year of basement cinemas and vegan chicken, two for £8 aperol spirtz, lunches after job interviews, long coming reunions, getting food because you’re there and you might as well, walking 15 minutes in the rain for a cocktail and immediately swapping to £3 beers, whiskey and Guinness in the gig room where it’s always cold. 3 or 4 floors and I don’t think I ever saw them all, too busy laughing and hoping for a seat on the terrace.

For food...

Wolf At The Door

I went to Wolf At the Door one last time, three times. Shrugging and slipping in for a dinner out excused by a why not, adding an extra bao to the order, still eating even as the rain fell around the fragile gazebo, £1 tacos could out weight any doubts. Serving up some of the most fun food I’ve ever had at a bafflingly low price, ‘serious’ baos never have quite the same appeal as one filled with chips and curry sauce, and chased by a pilsner.

CRBR

Marking the end of any lockdown, me and Emmie flocked for soup. Ramen is a mystery, no matter how hard you try, homemade attempts are never as good as restaurant quality where simplicity becomes something intricate. The ladle spoon scooping up broth calmed my chop stick anxiety, picking up and dropping mushrooms like Bambi, splashing soup over clothes to ruin the sweetness of the image. The meal always had to be proceeded by a bun, and a clear cocktail that was deadly in its crystal appearance. Making an event out of cosiness, it’s the tastiest comfort.

Crazy Pedros

Go to Crazy Pedros at 5pm after work, say you’ll stay for one and leave hours later, full of half price slices and happy hour cocktails. Go on your birthday and cram as much as you can into a bottomless brunch, switch from frozen margaritas to prosecco for effectiveness as the brain freeze sets in, tally your slices. Go on the Friday night of pride, share a whole pizza and nachos while maintaining your buzz with tequila. Get takeaway, opt for monster munch on a pizza or something mental over a classic stonebaked from down the road because sometimes more is more.

Companio

During lockdown, the Companio queue was the only one I would tolerate. Way down the street from the door, I stood in the rain at 8am every weekend for months, far more dedicated to my ritual than my warmth. When my time came to go in, I abandoned my pre-conceived order as the counter seemed to get fuller every week, eventually overflowing to the baker’s bench by February. Letting impulse lead, centring the child that begged for treats, embracing the romantic visions of bakeries in Disney films and art, I’d pick out what I wanted. Coffee and almond croissants, cinnamon buns, rhubarb danishes, basque cheesecakes, cheese and marmite rolls, honey cakes, fresh sourdough, pear and hibiscus tarts and on and on and on. 2 or 3 each week, every Saturday, I’d eat them in bed with a book, collecting a cappuccino elsewhere as I wandered back to warmth.

For a moment of calm...

Manchester Art Gallery

There’s a room in Manchester Art gallery that’s full of nudes. Walls full of Eves and Liliths and Sapphos and Marys, they’re connected by a conversation about censorship. The conversation interests me but not as much as the beauty and all the sad eyes. I’d take the same pictures everytime, awestruck anew over and over.

New Islington Marina

During the brighter months of the first lockdown, I almost felt like I was the only one in Manchester to know about the marina. I’d have my pick of benches, stopping to enjoy my pastries in the fresh air with a book. I watched it get busier and busier till even a patch of grass was hard to come by in summer of 2021. But we always found somewhere, becoming a one and only meeting spot when everything had to be outdoors. In winter, Quentin poured whiskey into our coffees for his birthday. In autumn, me and holly toasted her university challenge victory with canned beers. In summer, me and daisy shared ice creams and arancini on a bench. Our lives revolved around it for a year and a half, I’m sure others still do.

✿ ✿ ✿