In Sheffield to do an interview, I linger in Cambridge Street, open-mouthed at the sight of its newly restored buildings. How astonishing to think that in my youth, a council hellbent on demolition wanted to put a shopping mall here. What we would have lost. The old entrance to Leah’s Yard couldn’t look more spiffing now if it tried, its rosy brickwork and claret sash windows crying out for a visit from Mary Portas or World of Interiors (or maybe both). Named for Henry Leah, a Victorian manufacturer of die stamps for silverware, this spot was once home to 18 Little Mesters, highly skilled craftsmen who worked with cutlery and tools. Its future – o tempora, o mores! – comprises a collection of studios and “makerspaces” as well as the inevitable coffee shop: Chocolate Bar, on whose menu you’ll also find “curated” charcuterie plates and cocktails “inspired by craft chocolate”.
When, I wonder, does a proud city reach peak coffee shop? How many ersatz street food outlets can one place sustain before its people rise up and march against overpriced fried chicken and pad thai? On the advice of my niece, Florence, I call in on the Cambridge Street Collective – supposedly Europe’s largest purpose-built food hall. Its pared-down, warehouse-style interiors are undoubtedly lovely, and the late morning air is heady with the scent of lime leaves and freshly ground Yirgacheffe. But still, something gnaws at me – and it isn’t hunger.
Sheffield has, to my knowledge, three other food halls already, as well as the more affordable Moor Market. Who will buy all these noodles? Who will drink all this bubble tea? My head full of these and other pressing questions, I walk to my brother’s, where he makes me – just add Hendo’s – a very good cheese and tomato toastie.
Hollywood beckons
In 2020, the excellent Paul Rainey won the annual Observer/Faber graphic short story prize with a very funny comic about a bloke who meets Madonna in a Milton Keynes pub, having entered it every year but one since its inception in 2007. When I spoke to him at the time, Rainey told me this was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He hoped very much that it would help him to find a publisher for his then not-quite-complete graphic novel, Why Don’t You Love Me?
And so it came to pass. Rainey’s book, an inky-black sci-fi comedy, was indeed published (to rave reviews) in 2023. And now something even more thrilling has happened: Why Don’t You Love Me? is to be adapted for a film starring the Oscar-winning Jennifer Lawrence: news that is all over the breathless Hollywood presses. Huge congratulations to Paul from me on the prize – and if reading this has inspired you, don’t forget that entries for this year’s prize remain open until 16 September.
Noisy neighbours
A report into climate resilience in the capital, commissioned by the mayor of London, Sadiq Khan, suggests that those who pave over their gardens should be charged for doing so, a suggestion with which I passionately concur. But why stop there? Artificial turf should be charged by the square inch, and those who “renovate” perfectly habitable houses, ripping out nearly new kitchens on nothing but grounds of taste, should not only be billed for this; they must also live on or near the site as the work is carried out, the better to grasp their neighbours’ misery. Should this not be possible, recordings of the noise will be played to them wherever they are staying at top volume from 8am until 4pm daily. (I can’t wait until I rule the world.)
• Rachel Cooke is an Observer columnist
