An Alternative Writing Retreat
I’d been drawn to it, when it had appeared one day in the middle nineties, bursting upon a patch of wasteland on the way to Roman Road, where my favourite morning market had offered cut-price clothes. My mother and I had gone to the market every now and then, and we’d punctuated our chilly trawl down the long, stall-congested street…
We’d arranged to meet in front of the Whitworth Art Gallery and head onto the baths from there. Being a time before mobiles, the plans had been made on landlines back at our respective houses – of course back then we didn’t call them landlines, we just called them phones…
Picking up a copy of this single-sheet newsletter from a plastic folder sellotaped to a lamppost, in this tense atmosphere, felt like a risk. It was touch. It was connection, of a sort. But it was a risk we took, and it paid off well. As hyperlocal micropublications produced during a global pandemic go, The Usher is in a class of its own…