Liberation

 [Written in 2022]

Drawn by the siren call of ephemera, and arriving on the scene courtesy of a municipal cattle wagon, I find myself back in my old stomping ground.

Lenton Lane presents itself in all its beguiling, offbeat, weekend glory. Over the canal and I'm in the thick of it.

I pass by Poplars Court, home to such mysterious entities as InTouch, Motive and Formpipe Life Science Ltd, offering, respectively, 'Your entire conveyancing transaction on one cloud platform', 'Public Relations and Link Building strategies for ambitious e-commerce brands' and '...a combination of products and services designed specifically for the Life Science sector to simplify complex process and technology environments to deliver our customers' compliance and quality goals within their regulatory framework'. Yawn. When did life become so full of people wanting to suck every last bit of, well, life out of it?

E-scooters litter the pavements as I walk past the huge premises of Trent Vineyard ('For Jesus. For Nottingham. For you.') Trent Vineyard is a modern church at the wave-your-hands-in-the-air end of the spectrum. Its 'Senior Pastors' are John and Debby Wright, who are also National Directors of Vineyard Churches UK & Ireland. I'm going to venture that these guys are not short of a bob or two.

Narrowly avoiding the lightning bolt that turns a nearby fence into a smoking heap of charred timber, I continue onwards. To my right are the headquarters of another institution whose success is based on fantasy scenarios - Games Workshop.  As well as the studios and offices of creative folks and administrative types, the site includes Warhammer World, which contains an exhibition centre, an events hall, and even a bar.

I make my way over the railway bridge and around a bend in the road, reaching the point where the River Leen, having been ignominiously forced under the railway, emerges to be, erm, ignominiously forced into an artificial channel. Actually, I love artificial channels, so there are no complaints from me. I pause, as I do whenever I pass this spot, to spend a while watching the holy water of Nottingham's true river flow gently towards the Trent. On this occasion, a young heron provides extra visual interest, stalking the cascades in search of fish.

The University of Nottingham's Kings Meadow campus, which houses 'many of the University's professional services and business support departments' and was previously a television studio complex, is the next site of interest.

Perhaps the buildings retain some memory trace of my previous visits. On this site, I've roasted under studio lights, sat in an office as the University tried to weasel its way out of a grievance I'd filed against one of its managers, had my 5G microchip implanted and researched nineteenth century city centre burial vaults.

It's a complicated relationship.

I continue happily on my way. This area, in its out-of-hours guise, makes no demands of me. Its topographical and temporal liminality is enchanting. It is, to use a South African academic's words, 'aesthetically confounding' and 'existentially liberating'.

A directional sign points towards a path between some trees, but I resist the temptation to follow it. Another sign, on a nearby business unit, declares, 'We'll help you make it happen'. I crunch my way over some windfallen crab apples and pass by The Pizza Factory, thanking my lucky stars that I don't have to spend most of my waking hours working on a production line.

The traffic on Clifton Boulevard is surprisingly well muted by the tree line on the opposite side of the road. I'm aware that at some point I must have walked over a culverted section of the Tottle Brook, which last saw daylight in Dunkirk and will re-emerge in another part of the industrial estate on its way to the Trent.

Pristine Ferraris at the Greypaul dealership present an incongruous sight. A Pizza Factory Topping Operative's pipe dream.

'Get the look for less at Tile Mountain!'

More cars. So many cars.

Midlands Tool and Plant Hire. Screwfix. Formula One Autocentres. Men welcome, women tolerated.

Lenton Lane morphs into Queen's Drive and I morph back into me. There's a bus to catch, food to buy, laundry to dry.

It was nice while it lasted.