that is the question that makes the title of a little project currently being displayed at the manchester art gallery. the concept is obviously very simple as is the setup, which comprises items of luggage stacked up against a wall, serving the purpose of carrying paper tags that people have used to write their answers. the end result is visually impactful and in a way atmospheric since it carries hundreds of little insights into people's weird and wonderful minds. so in my search for the obscure amongst the dozens of "spain", "thailand" and "somewhere warm", here is what i found:

there were music references

and then there were other gems

harry potter with advisory PS

some graffity

 
as for my addition, it was an obvious one that was probably already hidden in there somewhere

and in case you think i was joking before:

DMs are like the smaller rooms of a big house party. You go in one mainly just to get a moment’s silence and hear someone else talk without all the loud music and people around you. Sometimes it’s just to share information or gossip that you don’t want to get overheard. Sometimes it’s to have a row with someone without ruining it for everyone else. Or to talk about mundane things, sort things out, make boring arrangements. Obviously, such spaces ooze intimacy and are calling for exchange of pleasantries of the flirtatious kind. But you can also get dragged into one by a total bore or a weirdo, in which case you just want to escape as quickly and painlessly as possible. And while all this is happening, you can still hear the music and the noise coming from the main big room where everyone else is.

The DM equivalent of horrible morning after realisations transpires in the deletions, which are a way of letting someone know what you’d rather be forgetting.

I actually haven’t been to a real house party in years.  

i never had a bike as a child. or as an adult actually. so in short, never in my life have i had a bike. it's ok, you don't need to feel sorry for me. i grew up in a beautiful, hilly city of a hot mediterranean country, where it was too hot to ride a bike. when i turned 18 i moved to a grey, flat city of a cold and wet country where i could think of a few ways of transporting myself worse than riding a bike. no, actually that's wrong. i could think of no way of transporting myself worse than riding a bike.

so nothing happened between me and any bike, no interaction whatsoever for years and years. there was no big turning moment either, when i suddenly fell in love with them and my life was incomplete without one. it was more of a gradual, imprerceptible change, where over time i met more and more people who had bikes and more and more people who were really into them (obviously, i mocked them endlessly and called them sados). i was even talked into bike rides that i absolutely hated and was convinced that it was something that would never be for me.

it was only this year, when it was sunny and warm in spring that i started entertaining the idea of a pleasant bike ride round the back streets of withington and fallowfield. my wish did not come true or at least not in time for the two warm weeks of the year that we get in late spring, but i did get lent a bmx a few weeks ago. to say that i'm a cyclist is pushing it a lot, to say that i'm a confident one is a blatant lie. however, my views on the subject have changed quite a bit. i have actually warmed up to these metal structures with the two wheels and the solid piece of hard plastic that you call a seat. i even confess to absolutely loving the feeling of freedom you get when you step out of your doorstep and you can go anywhere on them and the thrill of going really fast and the excitement of going under bridges. things i'm sure all of you have done all your lives but i hadn't. i had only taken the piss out of anyone in tech gear or any kind of clothing that comes with instructions. now i have to live with the shame that comes with my conversion. i don't care though cos at the moment i'm too infatuated with the whole thing to think clearly. however, i do ask from you one thing; just shoot me if i ever get into bird watching.

 from fallowfield to ashton and back

did someone shout "autumn"?

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if that was the front of a typical end terrace, i would be calling it an ostentatious eyesore. with it being the back of one and right next to a canal, well... you tell me.

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old bridge, new bridge.

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Portland basin and the Ashton canal warehouse. something between a posh antique shop and a museum of northern families from the 40s–50s onwards.

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the casualties.

yesterday, at frankfurt airport, i saw the man with the world's largest eyebrows. make no mistake about it, they were huge in every dimension possible. even in the fourth dimension of time, since they had managed to keep their dark brown colour despite the owner's white head of hair. obviously, this sighting had the car crash effect on me and all i wanted to do was tell someone "look, look, look!" and take the piss, laughing about it like morons for as long as possible. unfortunately, my travelling companion was a colleague i had never met before and who didn't seem like he would entertain this kind of banter very much. i tried to imagine in my head what my most frequent travelling companion, who happens to be my hilarious friend martin, would say in this situation but my imaginary dialogue kept getting disrupted by my colleague's moaning about the passport control taking a long time. who the fuck cares about the 2-person queue in front of us? there's a man with humangous eyebrows one queue down!
travelling alone can be a lonely bussiness but travelling with the wrong person can be even lonelier.
my heart sank a few minutes later, when i saw a young man dressed head to toe in scrubs-green clothes that weren't scrubs.
airports....

sometimes you just see some years of your past life flash before your eyes.

is that the end of an era?