I went up to Manchester by the 11.50 a.m. yesterday, arriving at 3.40 for performance of "Flora" at Rusholme. (See 'The Residue of Love' September 27th.). The Manchester Guardian man came to the hotel, and I gave him tea. Then he took me out to see architecture. Damned little to see. I got a car to drive to Rusholme. Theatre full except two back rows. Theatre quite decent, considering that it was once the stable of the tramways company (in horse days).
|Rusholme Theatre, 1915|
Today I took the 12.5 back to London, which went through the Potteries. The sight of this district gave me a shudder. Why should that be? I have written about it with affection, and have described it as having a unique 'beauty'; it has been the source for most of my work which has received critical acclaim; it has contributed not insignificantly to my material comfort; it is the foundation for who I am.
I am now sixty: that may be the problem!