Eighth Day Flashbacks

We received the following piece from Roland Humphrey a couple of
months ago. It is an excerpt from his son’s autobiography, written in the
early 1970s. Oh how far we have come?!

‘8th Day’ was having an increasing influence.

‘8th Day’ was an isolated shop on the city side of Rusholme. It stood intact, bizarre amidst the shattered houses and piles of rubble. Proudly painted in soft pastel psychedelic colours it glowed amongst the Manchester drizzle, the heaps of bricks, the mud, and the gaping houses with their exposed, rotting innards. The only other respectably inhabited, living building in that bleak, dank landscape was a pub. Michael had never been tempted to go in that pub but he had been tempted by, and willingly succumbed to, ‘8th Day’.

Inside it was a jumbled medley of smell. Joss sticks superimposed on food smells that came from the open sacks of brown rice and pulses. Food smells superimposed on the distinctive mustiness of the jute of the sacking itself, and laid over the whole exotic mix was the faint aroma of dope. It was a miasma hanging on people, those who served and customers alike. Go close, brush up against them and the sharp stale smell wafted from them to you - cutting through the heavy cloying sweetness of the ubiquitous incense.

Up the narrow wooden stairway was the clothing department. Up here the food and hessian elements in the melange of smell were replaced by a mellower, perfumed constituent. Sitar music discorded (sic) quietly in the background and racks of cheesecloth tops and cotton prints hung in the foreground.

Michael softened his angles. He bought a tasselled suede shoulder bag (for cigarettes, skins, cheques, coins, notebook, keys… ); flock velvet, pocketless, skin-tight trousers and a suede belt that looped through the pouch purse that came with it (for large denomination paper money). He bought chain necklaces with cool coloured stones dangling from them, Indian silk scarves and wide loose fitting cotton shirts. His appearance was trailing after his new life style, echoing it, signalling that he was moving outside the norms of society.

He put on his new clothes then and there. Dumping the contents of his pockets onto the counter, sorting through the crumpled notes he paid for his purchases then scooped all the clutter into his new shoulder bag. He left the clothes he had come in to be thrown away.

"Nice one man," Dennis said when he and Dave came into the office that afternoon.

"You’ve changed." Dave smiled at the conscious ambiguity.

Contact Us
		For all enquiries about the shop and cafe or other business issues please visit the contact page.