I don’t know. They all come from different places. The short answer is ‘anywhere’, which is so unhelpful as to be almost rude. But look, the point is, it’s a process or an attitude of mind. For example…
The other day I was walking down the street fiddling with my telephone. I nearly stepped on three poodles, a brace of cheery Schnauzers, and some form of Spitz which was labouring under the delusion that the entire world was something it should try to have sex with.
Or, I suppose, it is possible that the Spitz is correct and that the world exists for one dog to hump. Much would be explained.
[Look! A jarring alteration of perspective which offers the possibility of an alternative history - a fresh narrative. It's an idea. You could write a novel around that premise. It would be a very strange book, but it might be brilliant. Myself, I don't fancy it much, but someone might. Or I could work with it and come up with a different kind of shift in perception, one which has a less... revolting... inception. Er... but I'm blogging. Right. Yes. Onward.]
The point is that as I skipped to avoid Bosko The Sexpuppy, I pushed the button on the camera and took half a picture of a manhole cover. And then I stopped, and took a whole picture of a manhole cover, because I was interested.
There was a time, not so long ago, when it was rumoured that the term ‘manhole’ had been drummed out of the language in favour of the more neutral (soulless) ‘personnel access hatch’. I don’t know if that was ever true – which it could easily be – or if it was just another of those
nonsense stories newspapers occasionally run about how the local council or the government is selling Britishness to Johnny Foreigner in exchange for beads and twine (because that’s the kind of thing Johnny Foreigner does, with his lesbian vegetarian cohorts and the infamous Gay Conversion Brigades). Here, then, was either proof that it was false, or a noble survivor of a ludicrous bureaucratic purge…
I know it isn’t terrible pretty. It’s a bit of grimy iron set in the flagstones.
I was delighted by it.
I was. Don’t laugh.
But that got me thinking; what else had I been missing under my feet? Leaf imprints and detritus and bloodstains and fag packets, yes, but those are ephemeral. What else? Well, more manhole covers. So I walked around and I photographed a bunch of them. They come in a great variety of designs and patterns, and each one of them tells you a story. For example, here’s a little piece of history all on its own:
Can you remember when you last heard the word ‘telegraph’?
I can. It was a long time ago, when we still talked about phonelines as ‘telegraph wires’.
If you think about it, the word ‘telegraph’ is revealing in itself; it comes from the time when writing went down wires, rather than speech. Which, of course, it does again now…
There are some great stories there. Change. Communication. Confusion. Logistical failur
e. Families in chaos… all because of the arrival of the phone, or a telegram – or the non-arrival of the same.
But that’s not the point, either. This ugly bit of concrete is part of a huge story. One which I don’t know enough about – so I’ll try to find out, and then I may end up writing about it.
The story I was thinking of was the story of industry and industrialisation in Britain, which sounds drab (really drab), at least to me, because it was something we had to learn at school. Of course, the reality is that it underlies and wraps around just about the entire history of the world for the last two hundred years or more, so it’s got a bit more to offer than first appears. I mean, take India. The Jewel In The Crown, right? So… is there or was there a firm in India which made this cover?:
Not tremendously jewel-ish, I’ll grant you. Might just be the name of the foundry or something in Stockport. (Do they have foundries in Stockport? Where is Stockport? How did Stockport come to exist? Stories everywhere…)
I haven’t looked on Google or anywhere else
to
find out. Not yet. I’m still churning it in my head. Maybe Stockport isn’t the answer. But maybe some sort of port is. Seaports – all kinds of ports – are fascinating places, mixing pots, dens of thieves, and borderlands. Always interesting.
Tell you what, though, these manhole covers are all the same. They’re humdrum.
Why doesn’t someone bring some design into these things? We’re all going to see them all the time (except that we don’t because we know they’re boring). Is that the idea – to make them too dull to notice, because what’s underneath is vulnerable and vital? Communications, utilities… maybe there’s a strategic obligation to look boring. Or maybe we just don’t really see the world very well.
I don’t know, though. I like this one. It’s almost pretty.
What about it – found art? By Thames Water, that is. And for some reason, it’s called ‘Warrior’. Why?
Now, by this time I was attracting some funny looks. I was running around taking pi
ctures of manhole covers. I should imagine people considered calling the police, or the mental hospitals. I kept trotting a few hundred paces, then squatting down and snapping away, then moving on.
Being a writer is all about the glamour, you know.
I nearly got hit by a cyclist apparently practicing for some kind of speed record over red lights. I’m a huge fan of cycles – despite the fact that I am 
the most unstable cyclist on earth – but I all but threw my phone at this guy. Red light. Man on knees in road. Does your cycle have breaks or doesn’t it, you carrot-headed stinkweasel?
Yes, all right, most people do not stop in the middle of a crossing to photograph a manhole cover. I grant you. Still, I’m on my side.
It’s true, though. Being a writer can take you to some funny places and some strange thoughts. I think that comes with the job, and I think you have to be okay with it. (I’m really glad my wife wasn’t there for this expedition. She would have tolerated it, but she would also have worried. Rightly, one suspects. It is an odd thing to do.)
So here’s the last thing I noticed before I went home to brush the goo off my knees: an old parish marker. I’ve lived around this bit of London for much of my life, and I’ve never got down and looked at it before. Even if you know this area, I bet you haven’t eith
er. And we should, because it’s very pretty, and again, it’s a part of a big, interesting story.
So that’s where I get my ideas.
