We returned to our house on a dreary Wednesday morning. Gossamer wings were on the porch, scattering now and then with the wind. The house hummed a low tune, a mournful lullaby, almost as if it remembered everything. And if it remembers, it must be grieving too. I was a lost child. Invisible. Lonely. The Icarus who never touched the sun. I screamed at the world to carve a place for myself. I trashed rooms and spoke vicious words. My thoughts often morphed into a parasite that

When sixty thousand people from the North-West of England marched and danced to brass bands in their Sunday best on the sixteenth of...