I was walking along Westgate in Wakefield, a few feet behind two nervous looking guys in their twenties. They kept peering round, but said nothing. Then without warning, they began sprinting. One of them vanished into a shopping centre to the left, while the other dashed into the road without looking, threading his way through the screeching traffic. A moment later I was surrounded by about eight young guys. All I can recall is thinking they looked strangely rustic: unkempt, and at least some wore muddy boots. One of them shouted “He’ll do”. That meant me. I was surrounded. It happened so quickly that I didn’t think to feel scared until I saw that one of them was waving a knife. I heard myself saying, “But they’re nothing to do with me. I don’t know them”. But all he said was “You won’t do that again”. And then he thrust the blade towards my stomach.
The good thing about nightmares is that they ensure you wake up nice and early. So there I was this morning at 5:30, suddenly awake in my Leeds hotel room, feeling grateful that my bucolic assailants weren’t real, and wondering whether I should try dozing for another hour or two, or do the decent thing, and get up and run.
I did the decent thing. Except that there wasn’t a lot of running involved. I shambled for a bit then stopped to try reasoning with _colin, my distance gadget. GPS seems not to like buildings very much. It’s always disheartening, ten minutes into a run, to find that your watch is saying that you’ve barely moved.
Leeds at 6.15am is an elegant place these days. Today it was cool and almost empty. In the new Leeds, the streets are clean, and seem wider than previously, even though they’ve remained pretty much the same for at least 150 years. I plodded up towards the Corn Exchange, past our favourite Leeds restaurant, 42 The Calls. Into the Headrow where even the dole office seems happy now. When last I frequented the place, it was like an annexe to Hell. Then down the now pedestrianised Briggate, past those regal Victorian shopping arcades, all glass and brass and promise. This street has been around for at least 450 years.
Here are the two old bridges. Under the railway, over the River Aire. The latter, Leeds Bridge, has a fascinating, and undeservedly inconspicuous plaque, explaining that in 1888, it was filmed by Louis Le Prince, one of the first ever moving pictures.
I was panting miserably by now so turned back towards the hotel. _colin was coy about the distance but from the time taken I reckon it was about 3 miles.
This evening I strolled down the Headrow to some new cinema in some new shopping centre. I saw Mean Girls. Well worth seeing. It’s a sassy comedy about American teen life. Funny and intelligent, and just about impossible to dislike.
