So long, Sheffield

Sheffield City Centre always looks good to me but in these weeks leading up to my trip, Sheffield has never looked so good. 

It's Sunday 5th February and thanks to the February sun's slightly higher position in the sky and global warming's effect on the flora it feels like Spring is springing after months where the only light came from fairy lights. There is a tree on the Pondarosa with buds like lime green dangly earrings and the daffodils are on their way. I'm with Pete, and while we are impressed by and grateful for Spring's ability to bring hope year on year, we admit it's a little early. I realise it was in Manchester train station in November that this trip to Kampala was conceived and I wonder if its being November played a bigger role in my decision to go than I'd actually given it credit for. 

I feel a sense of premature nostalgia, looking at everything and one as though it's for the last time. I’m a frightened flyer and in a melodramatic moment(s) I tell Pete to live the life I would have: vote with your wallet, invest in the Sheffield around you, support the Shawarma bros and the corner shops. He said he’ll be too sad in Sheffield so will move straight to Manchester and sell our terrace to a property developer.

We go on a classic Sheffield circuit starting on the Moor and go for coffee in three different places; I spread my coffees over three single shot lattes in three different cafes as am conscious that I'm at work early tomorrow and must sleep but must also spend this day doing what I enjoy most: drinking coffee in Sheffield city centre. In one place I pick up an Exposed Magazine and Sheffield University's Spring events listing. 

Reading about what is going on in Sheffield and looking at all the events a. makes me wonder why would anyone leave this place for any amount of time, let along 7.5 weeks? And b. chances are I wouldn’t have attended every classical music event in the Octagon but feel guilt knowing I’ll definitely not be able to go to now. I see an empty seat in the imaginary audience which should have been mine.

We walk past restaurants I’ve never been to or not been to recently and feel bad for removing the possibility of giving them my custom. To add insult to injury, we pass a groovy looking new bar called Manhattan which will open the moment I leave. I look longingly through the windows and hope it is still there on my return. I hope everything is still here, and that it doesn't change a bit. Sheffield seems extra fabulous today, cosmopolitan and bustling. I'm gonna say, a bit like New York. A place I've never been to but of whihc I have a strong picture in my mind. There are well dressed women at the bottom of town making their partners take their pictures. I love it when people see Sheffield city centre as a worthy back drop.

I'm sure Kampala will be gorgeous and wonderful but right now it feels completely abstract. In Sheffield I know I am happy and I know what to do when I’m not happy. I know I can walk to The Light in 10 minutes to give me a two hour break from my phone. I know I have a handful of soul sisters in a 1.8 mile radius of my house. And I know I can turn up to work and will be in the safe embrace of the best teams.

Over the 3rd weak latte - this one in Kelham Island's Grind - I talk Pete through Sylvia Plath’s Bell Jar and figs. He probably doesn’t need to hear me justify my trip again but is being extra patient given this is our LAST SUNDAY in Sheffield. I’ve never actually finished the Bell Jar but nevertheless think I relate A LOT to one particular passage. It's about a fig tree upon which every fig represents a different future. The character is to choose one of these figs, but she wants them all and can’t make a decision. She does nothing and the figs begin to die and start plopping to the ground. As time goes on, my own figs will start to plop - I suppose they've been plopping for a while now - and going to nurse abroad has been a fig I’ve always wanted to try. So here I go, I’m picking this fig before it plops.