Big City Dreams

Big City Dreams is a recent story featured in the anthology Cities of Words collated by Leeds Trinity University’s ‘Wordspace’ project.

Big City Dreams – Lucy Brighton

There is a parade in my honour today. You could say it’s long overdue – I mean, some would say I am the backbone of Britian, that my innards fuelled the industrial revolution. That would warrant a parade in anyone’s book. There will be something carnivalesque about the proceedings, and people are running around in preparation right now. There are balloons and bunting, and all the excitement of a Christmas market. Oh, and did I mention they are showing Kes at the cinema? The glory!
I will let you into a little secret: the parade is actually in commemoration of my market bell – 775 years old, lovingly restored by my adoring residents. They did not bus off to Meadowhall when it opened its grotesque automatic doors. No, they stayed here, with me, frequenting my many eateries and artisan market stalls. Do you see a 775-year-old bell in Meadowhall? I think not!
I am hoping this will be a stepping stone in my campaign. I expect the mayor will be able to use this historic occasion to get my status changed. I hope you have signed the petition. I mean, Vatican City is a country! Not that I have such lofty ambitions. No, no. City. County. Province. Any of those will do, I am not fussy. It’s not about pride for me. It’s about worth, is it not? Keeping up with the times. I do not identify as a small mining town anymore. I have gone through a period of personal growth.
I mean, you can be Godless and still have a cathedral. I only have to say one word to demonstrate my point: Wakefield. The City of Wakefield, no less. And what do they have to offer? Rhubarb. If anything was having issues with identity, it’s rhubarb. Vegetable? Medicine? Fruit? Nobody knows. A market is much more important than a dusty old cathedral and a plant having an existential crisis.
I did not tell you about the big celebrity guest, did I? None other than the world-renowned poet: Ian McMillan. He has even written a poem about me, a love letter of sorts – something about the Darfield bus. I am not much of a wordsmith myself, as we only acquired a bookshop a year or two ago, but I am assured it’s excellent. And the mayor will of course be here, giving a speech about all my accomplishments and unparalleled architecture.
Then the dignitaries will likely go to The Botanist following the celebrations. It’s twelve pounds for a glass of wine in there! I thought there had been some mistake when I heard the collective ‘how much?’ But they pay because they know it’s akin to visiting Paris or Rome – only here they get to see the Barry Hines statue and the Town Hall water installation. No need for the Thinker or Trevi Fountain here. No, siree!
I am all spruced up ready, adorned with fairy lights and an array of LGBTQ+ coloured umbrellas. I do not mind admitting to a shiver of nerves. My congregation will be here soon in their tens. They will smile the smile of the truly happy, albeit without good dentistry. Salt of the earth, they are.
Friendly as well, did I mention that? I think that will be one of the key factors in the campaign, to be honest. We are the most welcoming place in the world. Yep, there is nowhere else on God’s green earth where you will find the same level of acceptance and a sense of belonging. You can leave your car on the street, and someone will move it for you and ask nothing in return. And they protect their mothers and their football team with unbeatable devotion. Woe betide any Wednesday fans disembarking at my train station. No, no, they are not invited. This is not a party for them. Although, maybe we could get them to sign the petition before we send them packing?
So, without further ado: Let the parade begin.