Things I'll Miss About Hull: 5

Beverley Road baths. Back in the day, to be chair of a Baths Committee merited your own bust. These days, busts are bursting out of Primark suits while fatmen swim diagonally into my line of swim vision.

Things I'll Miss About Hull: Number 14

Shops like Booze & U, which is slighly more interactive than the very similar Booze 4U and a miles away from the funky pretences of Rhythm n' Booze. Booze & U acknowledges that you already have a drink problem.

Things I'll Miss About Hull: 545b

This trophy is the only thing in this Hull chap's front window display. He was St Paul's Boxing Club Champion in 1988. He looks exactly how you'd expect a 1980s boxing champion to

look. Sovereign rings. Mullet. Tache. He now rears pitbulls in his garage.

Things I'll Miss About Hull: 375

Its distinctive people. This chap was seen close to Boothferry Park. I gave him 30p for Laundromat. He was delighted to have his picture taken and is an active blogger. Smell not included in photo.

Old media, new media

Plush interview yesterday in a penthouse overlooking the cranes and mills of Salford Quays, which has changed massively in the four years since I was last in Mancland. It's a changing landscape round here, that's for sure - and a glimpse at the Manchester Evening News property pages reveal apartments going for London prices. Saying that, it's a city where it's hard not to be positive, as new developments spring up and landscapes are re-routed and rewired. Easy to be overwhelmed by all these concretes and casinos, so I stepped into a black, beating heart of old Manc, the Hacienda Exhibition at Urbis. A great testament to Tony Wilson, but also the late and oft unsung Rob Gretton, it's an ear-throbbing, visually splendid exhibition going from the cold dark days of Manchester in the 70s through the superb dance culture it beckoned in in the 80s and its sad, gun-related decline. The pictures of Russian spies Philby, Burgess and McLean, which were behind the bar at the Hacienda greet you as you enter. And giant screens mean I spend the post-interview dwellfest being inspired by clips of Curtis Mayfield and Copey. Go and see this exhibition, but not on a hangover.

Different world

I've got a job interview here tomorrow, in the funkily named Laser Quay, in Salford, in a really glossy hi-tech job as an interactive content editor. Couldn't be further removed from my current role in Louth - like comparing Heroes to Last Of Summer Wine. Even the instructions on how to get to Laser Quay are a lesson in new-meejah speak, apparently I am to look for the "white and glass building with the centrally-focussed glass atrium" and I must park my car in bays GE, GR or GT but not in GX or GY. If I can get through all this conceptual nonsense, and, indeed, the front door, I may stand half-a-chance with this job. Weird how Salford, once desolate and home to that evocative Smiths shot, is now a burgeoning home for twisted cyber geek cyber speak. What would Morrissey say?

Listening: Cherry Ghost - Thirst For Romance; Hole - Live Through This

Reading: Wait Until Spring, Bandini - John Fante

Cattery Power

Cass, my four-year-old tortoiseshell, is now safely ensconsed in her new home, Catterie Towers, overlooking the vale of Axholme halfways between Caistor and Brigg. I left her with a heavy heart, not because her palatial kat bedroom is loftier than ours, but because I am entrusting her to what looks like a couple of new rave cat obsessives. David, the bloke, was wearing trouseurs last seen on the Newbury bypass protestors of the early 90s. His wife looked like a cross between a Katebush and a Klaxon. I'm not expecting High Street fashion from my cat guardians, but happy-clappy children entertainer chic with buckets wasn't on the agenda either. They took a look at Cass, and said: "Who's this little person, then?". 'She's a Cah-Ah-Ahht,' I was thinking. Quite what kind of beast I return to is anyone's guess.

Also: Have paid £28 for 20 early bird swims at Beverley Road baths. Most early bird swimmers are nutters. One today looked like Martin Samuel, surely the fattest football reporter on the NOTW. After swim, he joined me in the showers and delivered a note-perfect rendition of Bloc Party's The Prayer. Not the natural tune of a 20-stone beardo in Hull, but different.