By Paul Woodgate
What I miss is five lads (myself, Fellsy, Skids, Dec and Darren, with occasional substitutes), walking down Springfield Road in Chelmsford, retracing their Geography lesson on urban business districts, set on spending the money in their pockets. Parrot Records, then Our Price, then Alan’s market stall. A cup of tea in John Menzies cafe, studying album covers, reading the insert sleeve, then home to turn the LPs up to eleven. Not a care in the world.
by Paul Woodgate
Ask anyone about Marillion and the first three things they will say to you are:
- Lavender, Dilly Dilly
- It’s all long songs and prog, innit?
If only they knew.
by Lucie McKnight Hardy
I have very few memories of my childhood. A handful before I was 11, at which point they seem to rush me, as if making up for the previous absence. I think of this often. It’s not right, is it, to have half-a-dozen of my own memories – not those handed down by parents, friends, encased within mementoes, captured in pictures – and nothing else? I regularly pull myself back from the brink of cod-psychology, fearful of what lies beneath.
by Zoe Gilbert
We are stories. We walk through a narrative of inter-dependent connections, as individuals, outwards to family, community, town, city, county, nation. We move through time at varying speeds, cogs of unimaginable complexity grinding against other cogs of unimaginable complexity. It’s no wonder there are stories, no wonder we create them.
by Miracle Mile
If you press play on your car’s CD player as you set off from Chelmsford on a March morning heading north on the A12, Miracle Mile’s Limbo lasts until just north of Darsham. On March 10 every year, I drive to Pakefield, a village Lowestoft swallowed some years ago, to bear witness to an anniversary.
by Nevil Shute
A few days ago, I engaged in some quasi-light-hearted discussion with a friend by text. On the surface it was no more than suggested times and places to meet for a drink, but sub-text being what it is, it evolved into a series of jabs, feints and counter-punches that could be politely summarised as ‘what’s the point of everything?’, specifically relating to the need or otherwise for society to be bound by money. The root of all evil can plummet the sunniest of exchanges south into murkier waters, and this was no exception.