Can’t I just play a little longer?

Today my university membership expires. It’s six years since I started the PhD and six months since the degree was awarded.

I have been in a post-PhD slump. Struggling to imagine what next, while busying myself with school work and other immediate concerns. I have applied for a plethora of suitable and unsuitable jobs; few of which have resulted in interview. These have swallowed whole days and gobbled up weeks. I haven’t really let myself step back. To think what I want to do.

It takes time to work through ideas. Time to look away and wonder. Time to play.

As my access to the university ends, I really wish that I had made better use of it. If I could re-do the last six months ,here’s what I would do…

I wouldn’t look at the thesis for the first month; it has been good to take a break from it in order to see it a little more clearly. Then I would focus on publishing what I can of it; I intended on doing this straight away, but there was always something pressing to get done – mostly job applications but also school work that inevitably stretches into non-school days. Book proposal in, I would move onto planning a post-doc, until the book proposal returns either accepted so that the thesis needs revising or rejected so that the proposal needs re-working.

It’s easy to look back and realise what would have been more useful than chewing my way through job applications, given that I didn’t get any of the jobs that I applied for. Some of the applications have been useful. I know how close I was to some. I realised what I was lacking for others. But I should have made better use of the six months where I had access to the university’s resources. On the eve of losing it, I am frantically trying to predict what I might need in order to do research that I haven’t planned yet.

But even more perhaps, I wish that I had taken more time in the last six months to appreciate what I have done in the last six years. Not just the bitesize morsels served up on job applications.

I have loved having the support to research and make performances. As well as the opportunity to engage people in conversations about family history. I want to keep doing this. The time spent playing the family history board game opened windows onto so many histories, personal, local and global. Sitting in a café talking to friends, family and people that I was meeting for the first time – never strangers for very long – was special and important. Each game an archival hub and a knowledge exchange. I hope that I can do that again.

This is the end of my tenth year at Sheffield University, spread over twenty plus years. I know how difficult it is to stay connected once I am outside the institution, but I resolve to keep playing.

The Image Speaks Exhibition, 2018. Photograph by me of photograph by Andy Brown.

Ancestral Crockery

Working this morning, but I am struggling to know where to start. There’s a lot to do and everything is important to me, but how to start what?

I delay. I go to brush my teeth and I turn on the radio. Holly McNish is on Lauren Laverne’s radio show. She’s reading a poem about the loss of her grandmother. It’s beautiful and it makes me think.

The poem is called ‘heirloom’ and the opening line is ‘It’s not your jewellery that I want Gran, it’s your butter dish.’ She recalls time spent with her grandmother eating toast and watching TV. To listen to Hollie talk about her loss and to read the poem scroll to an hour and twelve minutes on this morning’s 6 Music show.

Fifteen years since losing my grandmother Georgie, it is the ordinary times that I still miss. It’s our Sunday afternoon chats. It’s eating together.

I have my Granny’s cereal bowls and coffee cups. Unexciting things, but I loved them as a child and I still love them now. They’re a dark chocolate brown with a matt finish. Solid pottery. An uneven glaze making them all individual. Dishwasher proof. I use them every day – a coffee cup is on my desk now as I write this. I never use them without thinking about my Granny. I remember holiday breakfasts at her house as a child. I remember growing older and developing a taste for thick black coffee perfect in the little cups. I remember Granny’s wonderful cooking and our last conversation about whether or not sausages should be pricked before cooking in the oven. (She was moving towards not.)

Near the top of my family history board game, Lines And Ladders, is the discussion prompt, ‘You have family heirlooms’. I worry about this prompt sometimes when we land there, because I don’t want people to feel that they have to talk about something grand. The word ‘heirloom’ seems to point to treasure. Yet these things passed through generations are precious simply because they connect us to our ancestors. These connections are sometimes personal memories or sometimes stories handed on. The provenance of the items is just as significant as for any work of fine art. My cereal bowls are invaluable, but only to me.

The heirloom prompt in Lines And Ladders sometimes led to conversations about jewellery – a necklace gifted to a young bride in a story shared by Arwen and Kelda Heaton – but it always led to stories about people.

I’ve refilled my coffee cup and I’m thinking about Hollie and her more recent loss. My grief is less raw now and the memories are happy. Using the crockery makes me feel close to my Granny Georgie again. I hope that in fifteen years time, the butter dish will bring the same comfort that my coffee cup brings me.

Me and Granny Georgie in the summer of 2000

Reading family histories: Vikram Seth’s Two Lives

When Natalie Pithers interviewed me for Twice Removed, she asked the question, that she asks to most of her interviewees, what do you say to someone who thinks that their family history is not interesting?

I’ve recently finished reading Vikram Seth’s auto/biography, history, family history Two Lives and I think he answers this question beautifully there:

‘Behind every door on every ordinary street, in every hut in every ordinary village on this middling planet of a trivial star, such riches are to be found.’

Family histories are ordinary, but only as ordinary as life itself. The conditions that have enabled this ‘middling planet’ to successfully sustain life are inherently extraordinary.

Seth’s account of his uncle’s and aunt’s lives are framed through Seth’s relationship with them. For him, this is a necessary vantage point, but he acknowledges this perspective might be ‘sometimes distorted, sometimes overexplicit’. Seth takes his reader on his journey of discovery, unravelling his personal relationship with his uncle and aunt while sharing a traumatic history that stretches across the globe.

Two Lives is an account of the lives of Seth’s uncle, Shanti Seth, and aunt, Henny Caro, lived through the twentieth century across India, Germany, and the UK. Shanti Seth moved from India to Germany in the 1930s to train as a dentist. Henny Caro was born in Berlin and her Jewish family were subject to the persecution of the Nazi regime. All of Henny’s family are murdered, except for one brother who had moved to South America. Shanti had lodged with Henny’s family in Berlin; later, after the Second World War, both are living in London and they marry.

Vikram Seth’s framing of this narrative from his own unconscious naivety staying with relatives who seem elderly to a young man, enables the gentle unfolding of an impossibly difficult narrative that starts and ends in the mundanity of London’s suburbia.

The history is pieced together by Seth through independent research, interviews with his uncle, a trunk of letters that he found that belonged to Henny, and his own memories. It is explicitly a history told from the perspective of a personal relationship. Family histories are embodied narratives; Seth channels Henny and Shanti’s story through his experiences and it is a more resonant and nuanced telling for that honesty.

The ‘riches’ that Vikram Seth uncovers through his investigations into the lives of Henny and Shanti Seth is the revelation of the complexity of human character. And written from the first decade of the twenty-first century, Seth’s family history is witness to the astonishingly awful events that were experienced by so many families in the twentieth century.

Reference: Vikram Seth, Two Lives (London: Abacus, 2006)

It’s taken a while, but I’m PhDone!

It’s been a funny year, I think, grasping at the greatest understatement I can find as I start my first blog post in nine months.

A few days ago a box arrived in the post. This is the box in which I will put my thesis and a copy of Lines And Ladders, so that they can be deposited in the university library. I opened the parcel today as post has a 72 hour quarantine period these days.

I spent most of 2020 writing my thesis. I started with a plan; I would cocoon myself in work for the first three months of the year, submit the thesis some time in April, whatever state it was in (remembering the adage about there only being two types of thesis: the finished ones and the perfect ones), and then viva in the summer. But, you know this story, as I emerged back into the world from the hermit stage of writing, we were all ordered to stay inside.

For me, this was time to redraft, to improve, to slowly wend my way through the comments from my supervisors. Delaying in the hope that my viva might take place in person. Playing a board game in a public space, critical to my practice-research, seemed suddenly desperately improbable and all the more necessary because it was beyond reach.

It turned out delaying until we could have three people from different households in the same room was not feasible. The mismanagement of the situation in the UK meaning it simply wasn’t safe throughout the Autumn and Winter of 2020.

I had my viva online in December. I passed without corrections and I still don’t quite believe it.

It wasn’t as bad as I had feared. My shambling attempt in the mock two weeks earlier prompted me to practise. Fundamental for a practice-research PhD, you might think, but I realised that for the last year I had avoided talking about my thesis, because so much of my brain power was being expended writing it. When people asked about it, I deflected.  

For the two weeks between the mock and the real thing everyone I spoke to heard all about my research. Anyone local helped me by questioning and listening as we walked or ran together. Friends and family further afield quizzed me over video link – and I realised just what phenomenal interviewers they all were. Another year, I might have talked more about my research at conferences and suchlike, but speaking research out loud is a different skill to the writing that I had spent the last year developing. The drilling that started in the mock and continued for the next two weeks made me articulate more succinctly.

The thoughtful consideration and kindness of the examiners, Frances Babbage and Jerome de Groot, made the viva a challenge to be relished. Their engaged, informed and enthusiastic questioning encouraged me to speak with confidence about my research. From the opening awkward conversation between Frances and I about the apples in the fruit bowl behind me, while we waited for Jerome who got locked out of the meeting, to the closing opportunity to add something that was missed, the examination was respectful and friendly.

Part of me is sad to have finished the PhD, I’d expected to drag it out for a few months with corrections. I like being a student. But on the other hand – woo hoo! It’s done!!!

The thesis and game board in their box ready for the library.

Lines And Ladders Performance Diary 25: Dedicated to contemplated feasting

I’ve borrowed the title of this post from my grandfather, Cyril William (Nick) Nichol’s journal.

Playing Lines And Ladders was a way of always telling stories spontaneously. I have found it hard to consider the stories of my grandparents as family history. These stories are too personal to me to share in writing or on the stage. I am lucky; I knew all of my grandparents into adulthood and my Granny Paddy continues to help me with my research. Their lives are close to mine in a way that their predecessors are not. Lines And Ladders is a personal exchange of stories; it is easier to talk about people I know to people I can see.

My grandfather Nick was a pilot in Bomber Command. On the 22nd March 1944, his plane was shot at and the Wireless Operator, Arthur Elliott, was killed. Nick managed to land the plane and the rest of the crew survived. Two evaded capture, but my grandfather and three others became prisoners of war. He didn’t talk much about his experiences to me, but he did keep a journal.

It is filled with lists of food that he dreamed of eating. He wrote ‘At Luchenwalde time was heavy and passed slowly so that many officers began to collect recipes, menus and lists of places to stay and places to eat. Many hours were lightened by chatter about good food and pleasant places to stay when we were living more than two hundred in a single storey barrack approximately ninety feet by thirty five feet, on three tier bunks with not enough blankets issued to go round’. Living on rations of mint tea, soup, potatoes, rye bread, a small amount margarine and sugar every third day, evidently recording imaginary feasts was a distraction.

The journal is an international culinary celebration, with recipes for food and drinks from around the world, and recommended places to eat from Bassenthwaite to New York. Four pages are dedicated to German recipes, including a Mohkuchen Poppy Cake, Nürnberger Lebkuchen and Berlin Pancakes. There’s a list of sandwiches that I guess are influenced by his American friends: peanut butter with lettuce and mayonnaise; peanut butter with bacon;  or peanut butter and raspberry jam.

The war did not end on VE Day. I wonder how my great-grandparents must have felt seventy-five years ago? I presume relief that their children might return to Cumberland, but there must have still been great uncertainty.

My grandfather did return. He was thin and malnourished, but he came home. Three months after VE Day, his sister, Connie Nichol, died of malaria. She was nursing in Nigeria at the time and is buried in Lagos.

The war was fought for peace and freedom from oppression. Its conclusion meant that the ‘contemplated feasting’ could take place all over Europe and across the world. My grandparents spent their lives looking outwards and were holidaying across the world by the time that I knew them.

I don’t think my grandfather did much cooking after the war – so I don’t know if he tried out these meticulously copied recipes. Most are so full of fat and sugar, I don’t think I could stomach them, but I do plan to try making the pepper nuts (for which there are two different recipes). These featured in a wonderful, moving play that we saw at Derby Playhouse last year – Pepper & Honeyabout the relationship between a Croatian woman living in the UK and her grandmother.

75 years after the day that peace was declared in Europe, I won’t be flying bunting or dressing in red, white and blue. I’ll be taking time to remember the man I was lucky enough to know and his sister who didn’t come home.

When I raise a drink to my Granpa – perhaps from his extensive and lethal looking list of ‘Punches and Cocktails’ – I’ll remember that his measures were always generous.


My grandparents, Paddy and Nick, after he had returned, with thanks to my Granny Paddy for sharing this photograph and my Granpa’s journal.