Peterborough is a place of places, of old neighbourhoods, cycle paths, underpasses, parkways, new towns; of grand history and the heritage of a nine-hundred year old Anglican Cathedral; of Sunni and Shia mosques; of shopping centres catering to particular clienteles; works canteens and social clubs; small independent cafes and clubs evoking memories and tastes of Kurdish Iraq, Lithuania, Portugal, old England. Places of arrival and departure. It is not only our stories on their own that make places but our relations with others that may make us feel known or despised, welcomed or unnoticed.
I went [to Bolton] in my Dad’s van… He took all my stuff up… helped me move in. He stole me…no, he got me a</em> <em>big bunch of lilies from work… And when we drove through the Pennines path he was like, ‘oh my God, don’t fall out of bed here, you’ll roll down a hill’… And he started writing me letters, he’d never done any letter writing, and he used to write about once every week.
