The Audacity of Hope

While I am intensely interested in politics, it may not have escaped the notice of readers of this blog that I am also incredibly cynical about them.

My first memory of politicians were fuzzy black and white pictures of Harold Wilson, Ted Heath and Jim Callaghan in the grim years of the 1970s (oh how well Life on Mars recaptured that era), but my first political awakening came one sunny day in 1979 when I woke up to discover that Margaret Thatcher was our new Prime Minister. I was fourteen years old, my parents were so fed up with Callaghan they were thrilled, and it was to be nearly twenty years before I experienced a Labour government as an adult. Such is the general foaming at the mouth hatred engendered by the liberal middle classes in this country, when they think about Thatcher, it is easy to forget that actually that last Labour government was shit. I remember my childhood as being a time of strikes and bread shortages, and the Winter of Discontent was certainly not the best advert for Labour. So I do recall that mood of optimism sweeping the country (or well parts of it anyway) at the thought that now there would be change.

By the time of the next election, my political mindset was more set, and less focussed on what I'd overheard my parents say. I just missed voting that year and was quite glad I did, as I hadn't a clue who I'd have voted for. Although I did know one thing, I wouldn't have been voting for Thatcher by then. The next two elections I could vote in, it felt like I was wasting my vote. The Tories were going to be back by a foregone conclusion (even when Neil Kinnock made that dangerous speech in 1992), my natural inclination to vote Liberal was a waste in Labour Liverpool where I first voted in '87 and even more of one in sunny Tory Surrey where I've voted ever since. By the time John Major came into office I despaired of ever seeing a Labour government. Now of course, I despair of ever getting rid of one.

But in all that time, I have never ever felt (even when Tony Blair came in and the winds of change did seem for a moment to blow across the land) that there was someone in government to inspire, to lead, to somehow make us better then we are. And being the old cynic I am, I always thought it would stay that way. Politics is a rough and dirty business, you probably can't retain much integrity and survive, at some point your morals will have to be compromised. It is I think, the nature of the beast.

Or that's how I've always looked at it.

Until today.

Now I'm not going to go over all gushy and write some tosh about how Barack Obama is the new messiah or anything, but hearing him speak tonight, I thought finally we have a leader of the free world who can speak with compassion and feeling, who has a sense of his nation's past, and the humility to realise the problems of its future. He makes no bones about the difficulties that lie ahead or the problems of the task that faces him. Crucially (I think, having witnessed far too many new bosses sweeping in making huge changes without figuring out what actually works) he doesn't seem to be in a hurry to change things too fast, which I hope means that he's going to give himself time to work out how the hell he's going to do this job.

Now it may be that in a year's time some skeleton will come out of the closet, or Barack will have fucked up in a major way. Or god forbid, someone will have taken a pot shot at him. But...

JFK died two years before I was born. No one who's ruled his country or mine since has made me feel in the slightest bit inspired.

And today, Barack did inspire me. He did make me think, even if only for a moment, that things could and will be different.

So for once I'm going with the flow and put my cynicism aside. It may be in four years time I'll be saying I was wrong, but for this one tiny moment in history I'm going to allow myself the audacity of hoping that change really is on its way...

Barack O'Bama

Given that tomorrow is going to be a day that for once really deserve the title "historic", I couldn't resist reposting the Barack Obama is Irish song, as it made me laugh so much. (Sorry Lisa, you've probably only just got the tune out of your head.)

I really hope that Barack doesn't turn out to be all blarney and hot air. At least he is sensibly not rushing into change things too quickly, and recognising he has one hell of a job on his hands. Maybe, just maybe America and the world have got the president we need for the times we live in. Wouldn't it be just wonderful for once to have a world leader we could all say in ten years time was truly great? I'm not sure that that's ever happened in my lifetime, and I'm such a cynic I'm not sure it's going to happen now.

But... for once. I'd like to be idealistic, and am crossing my fingers and hoping that he truly can effect change. (And sort out the credit crunch to boot...)

Find the nude dude...

Today started with a phone call from social services to say they were coming to assess mil's needs (this is a Good Thing I hasten to add). Unfortunately said assessment was taking place at 8.45 when I'm on the school run, and I had the phone call two minutes after I'd arranged a GP appointment for no 4 at 9.50.

So I had to drive like a maniac to school, drop the older two off, run into the office to let them know no 4 was going to be late, and get back to mil's in time to meet the carer. I just about had enough time to go through all the necessary paperwork, but en route to the doctor's remembered I was supposed to be answering an urgent request about a book title on a project I'm working on.

No time before the docs (I still ended up late), and by the time I'd dropped no 4 back at school I was running late for my very expensive pilates class which is paid for up front, and I hadn't had breakfast... Stuffed a banana down, did my email and got to pilates ten minutes late (which wasn't bad going actually). Felt like death warmed up afterwards, and not cheered to discover that my pilates teacher recommends more physio for my back and mentioned the dread words swollen disc and operation (ouch, ouch, ouch!!)

So by lunchtime you could say that I wasn't feeling a happy bunny. Then I went onto one of my online groups and someone had posted this. Well. It made me smile. But little things etc...

http://www.realholidays.com.au/nudedude/index.html

My mama said...

Two of the most important people in my life, my mother and Spouse still fail to understand why I blog, and what I love about it. Well dear people, it's this. Picking up on my slightly frantic post from yesterday, lovely Persephone all the way from Canada posted two links on my blog to cheer me up. You don't get that sitting at home on your own NOT hooked up to the internet. Before I had an online life, when my children were small, and the walls of my home were closing in on me, I was going slightly demented. I may still be slightly demented, but at least I have found lots of friendly people to share my dementia with. The blogosphere gives me so much more then mere procrastination (though it offers that too, and I accept gratefully. If I didn't procrastinate I'd never get ANYTHING done.)

On the subject of my mother, about whom I write rarely to protect her privacy (though as she a) doesn't own a computer b) would never go online and read this even if she did, I maybe being over zealous about that), I will tell you that she is an ex nurse (her set at the London was the first to be trained in Bevan's new NHS. I keep telling her she needs to write a nurses version of that book about the East end midwife), and is a fantastic source of old fashioned remedies.

So among many other things my mama has said to me over the years, I have learnt you can use magnesium sulphate to draw out pus from horrible boils (Spouse wouldn't believe that one), a gin and tonic really does work wonders for period pain, and once when no 1 had a horrible gash we felt sure needed stitches, she pulled the skin together really tight, bound it up with steri strips and plaster and lo and behold the gash healed up in days.

Of late she has been giving me helpful advice about the ongoing back problem. One of her suggestions was to take Syndol as a muscle relaxant. I was a bit wary about it because it can also make you sleepy (and contains codeine, which is a cureall my mother used for years before it was banned from the shelves because of it's addictive properties). However. I was in so much agony on Monday night, and swimming which normally helps didn't, I took one before bed. It didn't do a lot and yesterday morning I had another one. Still no effect. The packet has dire warnings about only using Syndol for three days at a time. So I had one last night, thinking I'd give up on it after today, and lo and behold. I woke up this morning relatively pain free. So thanks mama. I'm glad I listened to what you said.

And thanks to Persephone and Jaywalker for sharing this. May those of you who are enjoying a rubbish start to 2009 (and I profoundly hope you aren't) sit back, relax and enjoy...




And if that hasn't done the trick. Have a butchers at this. I laughed out loud watching it this morning. Thank you soooo much, Persephone. I can only dream about my traffic bastards having been that good looking. Or romantic...

It's official

I want 2009 to STOP. Right. Now...

So far this year:

I've spent time trying to sort out social services to help with mil, and since we discovered she's not eating well am providing an impromptu meals on wheels service

Been unable to get any work done because I STILL have two children off school (back tomorrow, everything crossed)

My back trouble has resurfaced (not helped by long overdue hoovering of the house yesterday)

Spouse and I were back and forth to mil's three times yesterday to help sort out a leak from the upstairs flat (actually that could have been worse, when she first phoned me I assumed it was a veritable flood, rather then the massive amounts of damp it turned out to be, but it still involved a lot of toing and froing), plus running to the doctor for antibiotics for her.

And if that wasn't enough, Saturday proved the icing on the cake.

When I was taking the children to their various activities on Saturday morning, I foolishly parked in a bay marked private, which is part of an office car park which acts as an overspill at the weekends. Everyone does it, and like a twit I assumed that the council notice advising you you can park in the office car park out of office hours applied to those spaces too. But apparently not.

I was sitting at the leisure centre having a cup of coffee with a friend while no 4 was having a gym class. Spouse was coming to meet me, and en route in noticed I'd been clamped. I went out to find a number to ring, and discovered a happy little notice on the car telling me that I was going to be charged £75 for parking illegally and a further £125 for the bloody clamp to be removed.

There was no one around. The office was shut. It started to snow. I couldn't get through on the number I tried to ring (mind you I was using Spouse's ancient mobile which is increasingly dodgy), so I went back to the leisure centre, where they said I could use their phone, but for some reason everytime I rang the number it kept coming back to reception. By now convinced I was part of some Real Hustle scam (you've seen the one, the wheel clampers park round the corner, come back take your money and clone your card. Cynic.Qui moi?)

Spouse meanwhile returned home to pick up the other car, while I headed out into the cold . And boy was it cold. Persephone if you're reading, I realise by your standards it was probably like a spring day in the park, but I hadn't wrapped up that warmly, not thinking I'd be standing outside for an hour when it was -3. Earlier in the morning I'd also taken the kids to their swimming lessons and walked through the damp floor to the changing rooms in my socks. They were so wet I took them off, not anticipating that I would be spending over an hour in the freezing cold.

Eventually some little oiks turned up in a van with a pleasing dent in the side (unhappy punter anyone?) and aggressively told me that it was my fault for parking in the wrong place. I didn't know I couldn't, was my not unreasonable response, but reason doesn't mean anything to these people, and I have to admit in these situations my tolerance levels are precisely zero. Before long we were trading insults, and I was demanding proof of identity. He flashed a badge which meant precisely nothing, and then I spoke to his oiky manager who was somewhat less then helpful and cut me off. At that point I decided to ring the police to check the company out. By now I'd been joined by a friend who helpfully lent me her phone, and a stranger who usefully had the numbers of Surrey Police and the local council on hers. She also told me she had a WRITTEN letter from the council saying it was possible to park in the offending bays. Not that that cut any ice with my oiky friends of course...

The council offices were of course shut. The police response was to suggest I ring the Office of Fair Trading, from where I got no answer. At that point my kind friends had to disappear home, Spouse arrived back with my phone, and I spotted two other poor sods in the same situation. So we teamed up to confront the oiks, who grew quickly more aggressive once they realised there were several of us, and threatened us with a tow truck and the possibility of the fine growing larger. One of the clampees who rather usefully had an offduty copper mate with her, paid the fine, but then we spotted the council notice telling us we could park at the weekends. We tried to point it out to clamping vanmen, but they weren't interested. Our copper friend suggested we ring the police to clarify the matter, at which point they promptly fucked off, confirming all my suspicions. The other couple were so irate they were talking about getting bolt cutters by this time, and our copper friend told us that it would be criminal damage, but probably nothing would come of it. We were all pondering the possibility of becoming criminals when the police arrived.

After much discussion (and a lot of verbal on behalf of the other couple) it transpired that the police can do precisely diddly squat in these matters. The council also have no jurisdiction. So therefore a bleeding private firm can screw the pants off you and you have no recourse to any kind of justice. After a standoff lasting a further half hour (during which Spouse rounded up all the offspring and took them home), we all had to capitulate and pay the sodding fine - you can't appeal it unless you pay, you see...

By now my feet were like blocks of ice, and I couldn't feel anything from my shins down. When I walked I felt like a little old woman. I hobbled my way back to the car followed by Oik no 1 who had been so aggressive at the start. He undid the offending chain and mumbled, Sorry for the inconvenience in a not very convincing manner. I am not at all a violent person, but Ihave never ever felt more like committing an act of physical violence on another human being. I am amazed I manage to resist thumping him, although the thought of doing it in front of a copper was quite a good incentive not to...

So there you have it. We're only thirteen days in and already 2009 is a pile of crap. I think I may spend the rest of the year in hibernation.

Roll on 2010....

Turns out...

I have maligned the local County Council, as the school DID have a frost resistant system in place which has to kick in when it gets cold. However, I still think it seems daft not having the heating on AT ALL in the coldest winter we've had in over a decade. From the pics I've seen the culprit appears to be a pipe that may not have been tightened properly, so I forsee a nasty legal battle ahead.

Good news is the school are reporting today that they nearly have upstairs sorted, a temporary office is on its way, and with luck and a following wind we might get the kids back on Monday. I have a feeling though that they'll phase them in gradually with Year 6 (No2) going in first because the school will be so worried about the blasted SATs (about which I give not an iota as I think their educational value is about zero), so that means I'll probably have no 3 off on her own for a few days...

Still at least I got them to clean out the animals yesterday....

Water, water everywhere...

In the attic and down the stairs...

So it turns out that the damage at the Junior School is catastrophic. The wiring is soaking wet so no one is allowed in the building for Elf and Safety reasons, the new girls' toilets are completely trashed as the ceiling has come down, the school office is ruined, as apparently are all the school records, two staffrooms are a mess, plus two classrooms, the school hall (ceiling and floor allegedly in dodgy state) and the saddest thing the school library is completely destroyed. The books can of course be replaced under the insurance, but the school have a policy of the children being able to donate a book to the library on their birthdays, and all those memories are now gone. Not that I've ever been efficient enough to do that mind you, but I know plenty of people who have, and it does seem rather sad.

The story at the moment is that school will reopen on Monday, but barring miracles I can't see it myself. Which does rather beg the question as to how my children are going to catch up on the week they've already missed and however many subsequent days they are going to miss. I appreciate it isn't the schools' fault, but the situation regarding the kids' education is a huge concern if the situation is ongoing. And I would question the wisdom of the local education authority's alleged policy of keeping the heating OFF over the winter holiday. I know we've had mild winters of late, but that strikes me as beyond stupid. If they were thinking of saving money, that's come back to bite them in the butt - on the first day of term there were apparently lots of other schools also off with "boiler" problems, one hopes not quite as drastic as ours...

So in the meantime I have two very bored children, I am going demented as I have work stacking up and can't attend to it, the which dementia being exacerbated by lack of ability to get any exercise in thanks to said children's prolonged stay at home, and it's been so cold they STILL haven't cleaned the animals out.

I can feel January is going to be a long long month....

New Dr Who

So we have a new Doctor Who. And he seems to have been a surprise (I missed the last minute rumours at the weekend.) After months of speculation, I have to fess up to being quite pleased they managed to keep it quiet for so long, particularly after it looked 99.999% certain it was going to be Paterson Joseph.


As to who Matt Smith is, and whether he's too young etc, well let's wait and see. I glimpsed him briefly in Party Animals and Ruby in the Smoke and liked him in both. He has a rather alien looking face which works. And given that I knew very little of David Tennant when he started I'm open to the possibility that he might just blow my mind (or not). I quite like the fact that he is an unknown, because in a recent Dr Who Confidential I saw, DT made the rather valid point that Dr Who is a blank canvas for each new actor. An unknown one can therefore bring something new and different, in a way that some of the more famous names being thrown into the ring might have had difficulty with. I've also just caught up with his interview on Dr Who Confidential and I rather like what I see. (The only thing is he is sooo young I'm going to start feeling pervy if I lech after him, so it might be time to turn my Dr Who lovin' into a more maternal kind).


As far as the children are concerned they're delighted it isn't David Morrissey who they thought was far too pompous. While I enjoyed DM's stint in the Christmas edition, and was rather hoping that we'd been double bluffed and it WAS him, I think I prefer this solution. And I'm really pleased to have been surprised. So fingers crossed that the new era of Nu Who is as much fun as the previous one...

Snow on snow...

So just to make our Christmas Cup of Happiness complete the snow waits till the first day of term to fall. No1 wasn't going in anyway (to the envy of her sisters), but I got inundated with text messages this morning to let me know that nos 2&3 would also be spending the day at home as a pipe has burst flooding the school. So poor no 4 went sorrowfully off to school, bribed with chocolate in her lunch box, and the not unreasonable feeling that life is a little harsh (she, you may recall had to go to school for three extra days in the summer when her sisters' school was closed for building work). To make matters even worse the juniors aren't apparently going back till at least Thursday. Bang goes my work patterns this week then.

On the upside, I was planning to tackle the after Christmas clearup today, and as another bribe to get no 4 in, I made the others promise to help. And to clean out the animals as well.

There's no point having children if you aren't going to exploit them ruthlessly is there???

And lo...

... it came to pass that they all vomited eventually.

Actually, that's not quite true. The bug confined itself mainly to the young and old, but just to make life really interesting it operated on a Just When You Thought It Was All Over No It's Not approach. So it was that, having delayed a trip up north to spend time with my family because it got mil, five minutes before we were about to leave it got no 1. After a heavy night involving rather too much port and red wine then was good for me (what can I say? Christmas was rather stressful to say the least), I woke up on Sunday feeling like death warmed up. Despite Spouse's ridicules, I don't think the resulting day spent collapsed on the sofa was entirely due to alchohol. To make my cup of happiness complete, we were woken at 4am Sunday night to the dulcet sounds of no 2 succumbing to the bug. So far, it doesn't seem to have got Spouse, but I reckon there's still time.

Things I have subsequently learnt about this particular variation on the winter vomiting bug...

1) it has a two day incubation period
2) it is just possible to avoid throwing up if you have enough will power, stay in bed and keep your eyes shut for a very long time. The result is you spend two days feeling like crap instead of one. So maybe it isn't worth it...
3) given that we have probably given it to every member of my rather large family who are now dispersed the length and breadth of the nation, it's probably soon coming to a town near you...

Sorry about that.

Hoping your Christmas was somewhat less eventful then ours, and wishing anyone decent enough to have come by the blog and read my witterings, whether you've joined in the chatter or not a very Happy New Year. Life in our household has held a bit too much excitement of late, so I wish you, as I wished Spouse last night, an uninteresting 2009. Interesting times are overrated I think...

Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time...

...or not.

The most stressful Christmas I ever spent was six years ago, when no 4 was hospitalised with asthma the week before, and only came out about two days before the day itself. At the same time Spouse was down and out with tonsilitis, so unable to share hospitalbythebedsitting duties (our local children's ward seems to think that parents of patients only ever have one child). I was allowed out of prison for a couple of hours to finish my Christmas shopping, and I remember a hideous experience of standing in M&S heart so firmly in mouth I thought I might actually be sick from the stress, and just frantically grabbing anything I could without even looking at it, just so I had something to wrap up for people. I call it bulimic shopping. Don't try it at home.

We had six people for lunch that year, including aged mil and fil. Fil was very very poorly at the time (in fact he died six weeks later), and sil and I had hysterical conversations in the kitchen over the turkey about whether in fact he would make it through the day. He did hang on in there, choosing to depart on no4's birthday instead, which I suppose was marginally better...

Ever since then (I hadn't even bought vegetables, so bil and sil provided them already peeled on the day), I have refused point blank to stress about Christmas. As far as I am concerned, it is a day to be spent with loved ones, anything else is a bonus.

It's just as well I have adopted this approach, as this year, I can feel a sense of deja vu coming on.

Last week I went round to see mil to find her sitting on the floor where she'd fallen, going to answer the phone to me. She's ok, but coming on top of a dizzy fit she had the other week, this has prompted a trip to our saintly GP (the model for Ben in Pastures New if you're interested) who wryly reassured me he will be working over the festive season. Hmm...

On Sunday no 3 came in looking pale and wan and then spent the day throwing up. We were going out to sing Christmas Carols in our local pub, but decided not to risk passing the bug to mil. No3 is now recovering, but no 4 has taken her place. and mil is coming to us today, so she may get a Christmas present she wasn't expecting after all.

I was planning some last minute shopping today, but will have to defer till tomorrow when Spouse will be here. I've just realised we've run out of vegetables and are about to run out of washing powder (which in view of the vomiting is NOT good news), so I may well be putting in a repeat performance of last Christmas and experience trolley rage in Sainsbury's tomorrow. Oh joy.

I've also just taken the turkey out of the freezer and realised it needs 48 hours to defrost...

On the other hand we might get all the vomiting out of the way by tomorrow, my credit card could do with a rest, and I could always provide Christmas dinner instead of lunch, and unless I'm sitting in A&E I should get to see David Tennant on Christmas Day.

Whatever happens. I ... AM... NOT... GOING... TOO.... STRESS....


....MUCH

Talking of nativities...

I won't reveal what my perfect nativity is, cos otherwise you might not buy the book, but it's loosely based on this.

20 odd years ago I was lucky enough to take part in the Nativity Play part of the Chester Mystery Cycle, which takes place every year outside Chester Cathedral over three successive nights. We were on the first night, after a rather arty farty depiction of Genesis. God was on top of a tall tower I seem to remember, and there was a lot of dancing with scarves.

I played a midwife together with my actress friend who is very funny and brilliant, so I spent most of the time trying not to giggle. Particularly as the director (who was also one of our lecturers and had translated the Cycle into modern vernacular) took it upon himself to dress us in Red Cross uniform and hide us in the audience. Joseph at one point calls for a midwife so my friend and I had to start some chatter about, Did he say midwife? Does that mean us? etc - it was always entertaining to see the audience thinking we were proper hecklers and start telling us to hush.

My other chief memory from the experience was of the two lads playing Octavian Caesar's messengers going out to the pub while the dreary Genesis dancers did their stuff, and staggering back on pissed. This infuriated the director who had a hissy fit of such magnitude we ended up dumping him out of the minibus on the way home. Ah. Those were the days...

Anyway. That's where the idea for my nativity has come from, minus the pissed messengers.

But I've also gone out seeking ancient carols, as I LONG LONG LONG to go to a carol concert where they sing some of the really old stuff. We have a fabulous tradition of carols in this country, and certainly my experience of attending Christmas shows over the last ten years leads me to suspect that a lot of that tradition maybe lost on the next generation who never get to sing anything much which isn't modern.

For my ideal nativity, therefore, the most modern carol I've chosen is In the Bleak Midwinter, which I love for the tune. (The words frankly are quite weird Victorian sentimental nonsense, but the tune is lovely.)

So here it is, sung by Gloucester Cathedral Choir:



And here's the King's College Choir singing Adam lay y bounden, which I may have forgotten to put in, but will do when I get my next round of rewrites.



And here are the fabulous Mediaeval Baebes (whom I discovered thanks to my lovely ebuddy and fellow RNA member, Elizabeth Chadwick) singing I syng of a Mayden that is Makeles



My last two choices are probably my favourite carols.

The first is The Coventry Carol. Here's a version with Aled Jones and the Royal Chamber College of Music. This sums up Christmas for me, and I never can hear it often enough.



Last but not least, is the beautiful Ballulalow, the words of which are ancient, but here comes from Britten's fabulous Festival of Carols. I love the harp in this, but the whole thing gives me goosebumps. And it's the perfect accompaniment to my ideal nativity (should I ever get to see it of course...)



So I've told you my favourites. What are yours?

And Lo....

... Mary was a rap artist.

No, I never knew that either.

I have today sat through two performances of no 2/3's nativity (no 4's was last week) as I took mil and me ma in the afternoon and everyone else was going this evening.

Over the many many years I have been watching nativities I have seen all sorts I can tell you: from a ridiculously over the top one at the nursery no 3 attended, which featured Father Christmas. lots of toys, fairies, elves, mice and oh yes, that staple of the Christmas story Mary and Joseph, to a blink and you missed it moment with no1 when she had three lines and forgot to say them. (And yes the OTT one has gone in the book). I've seen the Infants do Ambitious and fail, and the Juniors do Dull and succeed. I've watched all of my children being angels, and managed one year to have sprogs in four different plays (that took some stamina).

And in all those years I have yet to see the nativity that I really really want. Namely a traditionally told, simple tale with PROPER carols wot I can sing along too. (I have been so disappointed in this modest ambition, I have in fact made up my perfect Nativity in Last Christmas. One day maybe someone will read my mind and show it to me. )

Both schools tend to go for trendy modern stuff, and the Infants generally aim for a big show that normally falls flat on its face. The Juniors have in the past taken a Get It Over And Done With As Quickly As Possible Kind of Approach. At best we might get to sing one or two carols, but I am greedy and as well as Once in Royal David's City and Hark the Herald Angels, to feel properly Christmassy I want: Silent Night, O Little Town of Bethlehem, In the Bleak Midwinter, O Come All ye Faithful, The Coventry Carol and God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman.

Sadly enough (as no 4 would say) I didn't get it this year either.

However, I did get a rather sweet nativity last week in which no 4 was the narrator. Normally the narrator doesn't get to say a lot, but in the past the narrators have tended to be the teacher's pets. Nos 1&2 clearly weren't the chosen ones as they never narrated anything, but during her time it the infants no 3 got to narrate an embarrassing number of times - it got a bit tiresome going to school plays with my head down to avoid the backstabbing. I was rather hoping to end my tenure there as modestly as I started it, but at least I was comforting myself that she wouldn't have much to say. Got much to do? I asked her. Oh no, was the glib reply. Thus reassured I arrived last week to watch her in action, only to discover that the Infants have gone completely against type this year and produced a SIMPLE Nativity, with mainly groups of children singing the story so everyone got a turn rather then having a huge long play to learn. No 4 had to do inordinate amounts of reading and is still proudly boasting that she managed to say traditionally and tradition.

After nine years at the school, this is my last Infant nativity, and I have to fess up to having a pang (but not a tear) at the thought that part of my mothering life is over. Luckily it didn't last long as I was ducking to avoid the brickbats from other mothers jealous that their little darling wasn't a Chosen One again. But I was pleasantly surprised, having sat through some really dire events, that it was actually rather sweet. Nice to go out on a high as it were (and such a relief to know that I'll never have to sit through a dire one EVER again).

Scroll forward to today and I was once more in front of my offspring watching them perform. Now, like I say, if the Infants have put on ambitious productions in the past, the same cannot be said for the Juniors. What parts there are always minimalistic, and no 1 got all the way through without doing anything more then light a candle in her last year (and that only by default as someone was ill), and up until this year no 2 has never had a part either. The service is held in the church that the school belongs to, and it is the most useless place to have anything like that. It tends to get packed out so most of the time I spend an uncomfortable hour craning my neck round a corner to catch a glimpse of the children who are always tucked away in an inaccesible corner somewhere. In fact there have probably been years when I haven't seen them at all.


However, that has all changed. Because after years of having an indifferent attitude to the music, the school finally has a decent music teacher. And boy has she made a difference.

I still didn't get my traditional Nativity (maybe they'll have come back in fashion in time for my grandchildren), but it was rather fun.


Each year group got to tell a bit of the story (which incomprehensibly featured two burglars and some talking animals who apparently were supposed to be arguing at the beginning but I couldn't understand a word they said - I still didn't get it second time around), interspersed with songs. For the first time ever we had a band, with trumpets no less, and a rather (inevitably) scratchy violin.

The afternoon's performance didn't go quite according to plan, and there were some unintentionally hilarious moments when the wrong people came in at the wrong time, or the instrumentalists carried on playing when they shouldn't have, but for the first time EVER at a Junior Christmas play all the kids looked like they were having a blast, and even the ones who didn't have anything much to do were involved.

Mary of course was fantastic. Actually I realised after I started boasting about it, that Mary is usually the most rubbish part because she doesn't usually do or say anything. However in this version of events Mary had quite a few lines. Which I couldn't hear this afternoon as her head was below the microphone. Luckily they'd sorted that technical hitch by the evening. My favourite moment though was when she said to Joseph, The baby's coming and he started running about in a paddy calling for towels and hot water. No 3 then sat down, and a minute later triumphantly stood up holding a baby, saying Here's the baby. You probably had to be there, but considering her own birth was an epic event, I couldn't help laughing at the ease with which Our Lord made it into the world...

All in all it was a fun and enthusiastic performance, if a little rough around the edges, but my favourite bit was a Gloria Rap, during which all the children donned sunglasses (presumably dazzled by the angels' brightness????), including Mary who wore pink ones. As one of my friends said, that was the coolest Mary she'd ever seen...

So there you have it. I thought I'd seen it all as far as nativities go, but Mary rapping in sunglasses will take some beating...

Well I never...

As anyone who has ever had small children taking part in a nativity play can attest there is always much excitement in the maternal bosom when your child comes home with the dreaded piece of paper announcing their starring role in this year's event. Apart from anything else, this particular maternal bosom tends to droop rather when sewing is suggested (one year no 2 was a star and the request came back for a white shirt with stars sewn on it. I was rather pleased with my pathetic effort till I sat next to the mother whose child had a whole galaxy sewn neatly onto hers), it usually droops further to discover that yet again said child is playing an angel (that's what happens when you have fair haired girls) and has to be cheered up because she's not Gabriel or Mary.

What every maternal bosom of course wants to proudly declare is that this year their daughter is Mary - there is such hot competition for the part sometimes I swear there'll be blood spilt in the playground. However, I am a woman of common sense and I know that my children have no more chance of being Mary then flying to the moon. Besides, given that I always got to be a shepherd, I think they should be bloody grateful for being angels myself.

So imagine my surprise when no 3 came home from school yesterday with a big announcement.

Yup. After nine years of trying and watching more nativities nearly then I've had Christmas dinners I've finally achieved maternal nirvana. I have a Mary.

Better watch my back in the playground then...

It's a Wonderful Life...

Watching It's a Wonderful Life was one of the pieces of research I did when writing Last Christmas (I've even pinched a bit). I am currently supposed to be doing rewrites, but have hit a bit of a hitch. Given that this is probably the busiest week of my year so far (cf last post on same subject) I suppose it is fairly typical of my own wonderful life that I have managed to put my back out. I did it yesterday cleaning the wretched hoppers out (weekend too busy for the offspring to do it, grr). I have so far resisted the urge to turn Dandelion into a pie, but revenge is much on my mind at present...

I managed to get to the physio yesterday who ascertained nothing more dramatic but a pulled muscle, but one which hurts enough to preclude long spells at the computer. Or sitting down anywhere. Or picking anything up. Or lying down. So I am wandering mournfully about the house wondering what the fuck to do with myself.

This is also on top of a slightly more interesting birthday party then we'd planned, as my mother in law was taken ill before it started. All well now, but we did have a couple of nasty moments on Sunday and we kept her with us till today. Unfortunately I am now so cronky I couldn't get her home, but luckily she only lives up the road, so she staggered off with her zimmer this morning, while I retired to mournful wanderings round the house. Honestly, it's like the blind leading the blind - there was she trying to help me out who was supposed to be looking after her. They've got a lot to answer for those pesky hoppers.

So in the interim, and absence of anything else I can constructively do, I propped myself up on a chair with a bag of frozen peas on my back and have just sobbed my way through It's a Wonderful Life.

I'm rather hoping mine will feel a bit more wonderful tomorrow...

Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly....

Tra la la la la la... NOT...

Be careful what you wish for.

You know what I was saying about the run up to Christmas being helpful for the old creative juices? I hadn't realised quite how helpful it was going to be...

I hadn't given much thought to it being December next week till Spouse suddenly pointed out what our timetable for the first week of December actually is.

The fun starts this weekend as it is bil's 60th and not only are we out with him on Saturday night, but also hosting a party on Sunday. (Which is one reason December hadn't yet featured on the radar).

In the meantime the children are developing far too interesting social lives/have too many activities.

This term they've all been doing drama at our local theatre, and sweetly they're all taking part in a show. Aaah. How lovely.

No 1 is a singer/dancer in Fame, Nos 2&3 are in Peter Pan (Nana and a pirate respectively. Do you KNOW how difficult it is to get hold of a dog costume for a ten year old? No, I didn't either...) and No 4 is driving the rest nuts by reciting that poem about stirring the Christmas pud.

What I hadn't factored into the equation of seeing my little darlings perform is how many rehearsals they're going to have.

So on Saturday Nos 2&3 are out for the afternoon rehearsing, while I have to get no 4 to a party. I then have to get No 1 to Reigate for a party at 6.30 before going out myself at around 7pm. No 1's party inconveniently ends at 9.30 (I can feel this is the start of Spouse and I spending all our weekends driving the offspring about), but fortunately I've managed to do a lift swap. On Sunday she is then going to miss the birthday party as she is at rehearsals from 12-7pm. I don't think she has a single line but the dancers/singers are in virtually every scene.

Next week her rehearsal schedule goes:

Mon 6-9 (bang goes my swim then)
Tues 6-9
Wed 7-9.30
Fri 6-11

I'm not QUITE sure how she's going to fit in any homework into that.

On top of that no 4 has her star turn in her drama lesson on Wed 5-6 (so at least we'll be at the Playhouse but No 1 won't get any tea), No 1 has her school carol concert on Thursday night, and Spouse suddenly announced last night his work Christmas dos take place on Thursday and Friday.

On the Saturday the middle two have their show at 12pm - I'd bought no 1 a ticket and then realised she needs to be in rehearsal at 12.45pm (as they clearly won't rehearsed enough by then) - and no 1 has a show at 3pm and 7.45pm. Forgetting all about this I some weeks ago accepted a dinner date in the evening. So for the second weekend on the trot I have been scratching my head working out how to be in two places at once.

Fortunately when I went to do the Brownie pick up last night I found a friend who couldn't pick up on Friday night but could on Saturday, so now have arranged a convenient swap, as well as doing some lift sharing for the rehearsals. I can see in years to come Spouse and are going to be turning down invitation after invitation as we split ourselves in two trying to be in three places at once...

On the Sunday no 4 is having her Christmas Fair (the last one I'll ever have to attend. Result!) While no 1 is going out (again) for a celebratory after show Pizza...

(We've decided to skip No 1's Christmas Fair, clashing as it does with her rehearsal this Friday evening and no 6's school disco...)

So that's next week sorted then.

I haven't dared to look at the week after, but at least I have plenty of material to plunder for the book...

PS Music

I'm also finalising the soundtrack for the book...

Currently I have for my married hero and heroine Noel and Cat:

Let's Stick Together, Bryan Ferry - their marriage is in difficulties but they're trying to remember they still want one another.
Your Love Alone is Not Enough Manic Street Preachers - Love itself doesn't save the world, you have to work that bit harder...
Put the Sun Back Coral - where ahs all the joy gone in their life, if only they could find that out, everything else should fall into place.

For my my other hero, Gabriel's s musings on his ex wife and how he is unable to help her:

Other Side of the World KT Tunstall

For Gabriel and Marianne, the other heroine (with huge thanks to Persephone for tracking it down for me), for that joyous tumultous early love feeling:

She's Got You High Mumm-Ra

For Noel's midlife crisis:

This is Where I Came In by the Beegees
and the fabulous brilliant
Pretty Amazing Grace by Neil Diamond which is the heart of the book.

Last minute additions from writing the last few chapters are:

Angel by Robbie Williams for the relationship Cat has with her mother.
Streets of London Ralph McTell for a scene which owes not a little to A Christmas Carol.
I Can See Clearly Now Johnny Nash for an epiphany moment for Noel, but also probably a bit for Gabriel and Marianne at different points.

There may be a few more where those have come from. Am thinking I need a song for both Marianne and Gabriel about mending broken hearts, but it hasn't quite found me yet...

Back to it....

Regular readers of this blog may have noticed that I have been rather chatty in the last two weeks. In fact there have even been days when I have written more then one blog post. This is mainly because I had finished the first draft of my next book, Last Christmas (which is coming out next Christmas).

I use the word "finish" advisedly. This is the fifth novel I've written (seventh if you include two unpubbed children's books) and over the ten years I've been plugging away at this I've come to realise that my MO tends to be to get the story out as quickly as I can, and then go back and fill in all the gaps, insert a bit more depth and spend lots of time polishing. When I first started out I used to revise as I went and it nearly drove me demented, as well as having the unfortunate effect of editing out any of the energy and impetus of the original version. Plus I usually hated it when I came to look at it again. This way I throw the story out warts and all and then take a long hard look at it when it comes winging its way back from my editor and agent.

Good news this time is editor and agent both like it (What, said Spouse, would you do if they didn't????), phew. Other good news it's coming back in time for me to be in the proper pre-festive mode suitable for writing a book about Chrimbo. I can't TELL you how hard it was writing about Christmas in July. I kept all the kids' nativity bits and pieces and letters to Santa (have been hiding them all year, they've just written new ones which is handy), have got stacks of Christmas books to look at, lists of Christmas carols to choose from and last year's Argos catalogue. But there is absolutely nothing like having that sinking feeling I got to today when I realised there's a month to go and I've barely started, to dig deep into what it really means to plan Christmas in all it's glory(which is vital for one of my characters).

For this book I have created a village in Shropshire called Hope Christmas, which is loosely based on the town where my mother lives, and where I got married. Hope Christmas is both like and unlike my mother's town as I have picked and chosen the bits I like best. I spent a few days with me ma and the sprogs over half term, really trying to get the geography and location really fixed in my head. It was quite weird in a way as I have been visiting my mother's town for twenty years and there were some views I felt like I was looking at for the very very first time. I tried to keep a very strong picture of the places I visited in my head, so I can write them properly into the book, but I also took lots of photos as an aide memoire.

So here are a few of the locations for Hope Christmas, which I like so much now I want to live there...
.
One of the locations I've made up in the environs of Hope Christmas is a place called Hopesay Manor. It doesn't look quite like this, but Stokesay Castle picture below was a great model.

Here's an outside view



Here's the mediaeval entrance, unchanged apparently since the 12th century. Fabulous.



And here's the Great Hall



I have also drawn huge inspiration from Walcott Hall which has a wonderful drive way and lake in front of it, for the outside of my manor.



Plowden Hall provided me with my initial inspiration, having as it does a mediaeval chapel, which I have used as the basis of the chapel in Hopesay Manor which is a vital part of the plot.



I also scoured the area to find various houses that my characters live in. Two of them live up a lane by a stream, which I found here, just outside my mother's town.

This is the track to my hero's house


And this is the track that leads from his house to the hills where he farms his sheep



And the stream near where he lives, which has a vital part to play in the story...


And finally, here is a valley which my heroine walks in constantly. It's also somewhere I have walked more times then I care to remember over the last 20 years, and for which I have an abiding passion. Every time I go there it looks different, depending on the season, the weather and whether the heather is in flower, or the gorse is going golden. It is the most wonderful magical place, and has had a hold on my imagination since I was a small child and first read Malcolm Saville's brilliant Lone Pine Adventures which are partially set in this area. My parents very conveniently chose to retire here so not only could I have my wedding in the most wonderful location,but also come and visit regularly and use it for my own inpsirational purposes. Thanks parents...


So now it's back to the grindstone. Doing a lot more research to make sure I have got things right. Trying to pull out the depth of emotion I'm after. Making sure my character's dilemmas feel real and true. Having actually the best time of my life, and best of all getting paid for it.

I can't wait.

It's Your BBC

Is it just me, or do you think the tabloid press is acting more like a rabid dog running out of control wildly intent on causing destruction whatever the cost, then normal?

I only say this because we've had a spate of mad media events in the last few weeks staring with the Ross/Brand affair and culminating last week with the John Sergeant debacle. (I have blogged ad nauseam about that at the other place, so won't witter on about it anymore). In the middle of which we had the seriously tragic story of Baby P, which has had the tabloids howling for blood. Unable to actually say the people who did this are the ones we should blame ,the tabloids have been wildly lashing out at any one who had anything to do with the case. Sack 'em all I say. And then there'll be no one to look after the next Baby P that comes along.

Baby P probably deserves another post entirely of his own, but the Ross/Brand and Strictly stuff has really made me stop and think about whether there is a really malevolent campaign underway to destroy the Beeb (mind you Auntie's ridiculous responses to these situations don't really help her). As each of these (tabloid manufactured and totally over the top) "scandals" have broken there is an inevitable howling about what we pay our license fee for.

We can all complain about the relevance of the license fee in this day and age of free downloads and iplayer watching (now you can watch TV on your computer how the hell are they going to enforce it?) and TV as we know it is clearly changing frantically fast, so the license fee may well be an outmoded way of funding the Beeb.

However. We don't subscribe to Sky because we quite frankly find it hard enough to keep up with what we do want to watch on the terrestrial channels, but if we did, I wouldn't have a problem paying for it. And equally I don't have a problem paying for the BBC.

As it happens I think I get my moneysworth.

As a regular listener to Radio 2 (and Five Live when I'm on the school run - Mark Kermode and Simon Mayo are worth the license fee alone, I reckon) - I get a huge amount of pleasure from my radio. Given that I spend most of the day on my own while the sprogs are at school, I find the radio a great source of stimulus and comfort on lonely grey days like today when otherwise I might be contemplating slitting my wrists.

So the radio makes it worth it for me, but I'd say the TV does too. Since the launch of BBC3/4 there've been a whole host of interesting programming because suddenly the commissioning editors have slots to fill, which means they've had to come up with something other then reality tv and cooking programmes.

In the last year on BBC3 we've enjoyed Pulling and Gavin and Stacey , as well as the one offs like Being Human (yay! they're making a series) and the fabulous Mrs Inbetweeny (which deserves a series) and are currently watching Spooks a week ahead because I go out swimming when the BBC1 episode is aired. On BBC4 we also loved Stephen Fry's programme about the Guttenberg press and the rest of the mediaeval season (including a rare rerun of The Hour of the Pig which we've only seen once) and I am sure I will enjoy Edington and Einstein when I get round to watching it.

On Saturday night I was torn between videoing Edington and Outnumbered (maybe the latter is only of interest if you have more then two children but I think it is the best funniest depiction of modern parenting I've ever seen) as I am sadly obsessed with I'm A Celebrity at the minute. Outnumbered is repeated on Wednesday (damn, just realised I'm going to be out) so I videoed Edington. We had earlier watched Strictly (despite being very cross about John Sergeant - I have to say I am on the verge of quitting on the Strictly front, well done BBC), and Merlin, which is great family viewing. I wasn't sure about Merlin to begin with, but it's really grown on me and this week's episode was cracking. And later on we saw Never Mind the Buzzcocks. Given that we don't often get out on Saturday nights these days,that made for an entertaining evening in - I can remember a veritable famine of good evening entertainment a few years ago when the sprogs were all small. Now I'm more likely to feel I'd rather stay in.

Last night there was an equal feast of riches. We watched the Strictly results show while videoing Top Gear and then watched the first episode of Survivors, which though a tad uneven in places was sufficiently gripping for me to want to return to it next week. Nos 1, 2 and I have also been glued to Little Dorrit,which is helpfully repeated on Sunday in case (as we keep doing)we've missed it.

So I'd say that the Beeb actually offers rather good value for money. And however we have to pay for it in the future, I don't begrudge them the money if they keep providing such topclass entertainment as this (even the dross on the Beeb is better then dross elsewhere).

I have a feeling if the screaming tabloid hacks who are currently baying for the Beeb's blood did get their way and we didn't pay for it anymore, we'd really live to rue the day.

Yes they get it wrong a lot. Yes, there is too much inhouse backslapping camaraderie about the place (I like Jonathan Ross, but sometimes it seems he's just interviewing his mates), but on balance I like what Auntie has to offer.

So I'm going to keep watching (though maybe not Strictly Come Dancing anymore...)

A sliver of ice in the heart

Apparently this is a phrase that Graham Greene used when describing artists/novelists. (I know I have read the full quote before, but frustratingly can't seem to find it on the internet this morning). According to Greene the "true artist" possesses "a sliver of ice in the heart" which enables him/her to portray in some way/write about the human condition. It's that little bit of detachment (which to be honest we probably all have to a degree in moments of high stress) that enables the writer ( I think in the main he was thinking about writers) to bank experiences and draw on them later, even if it seems exploitative to do so.

Now I wouldn't claim to be anything as grand as an artist or a novelist,(though I am beginning to think I can call myself a writer now that I've had two books published. ) but I do completely get what Greene was talking about.

I'll give you an example. The day my father in law died was possibly one of the most stressful (and at times unintentionally hilarious) days of my life.I had a phone call from my mother in law to say he was ill while I was in the middle of icing no 4's birthday cake (it was her first birthday). I ran up the road with two small children and spent a very odd half an hour having tea with my mil while she wouldn't let me into see fil as she kept telling me he was resting. My first instinct had been that he'd died, but she covered it up so well I thought I must be imagining things. Suddenly she announced I could go and see him, and I walked into the room and immediately saw he was dead. Don't know how, as apart from seeing my dad's body in the funeral parlour (which was completely different) I'd never seen a dead body before. I was just panicking about wtf I did next when there was a ring on the doorbell. The District Nurse had come to visit him. "Thank god," I said, "I think my father in law's just died." Which was probably just what she wanted to hear...

Now obviously I was in a state of high stress with all this going on, but do you know, even at that moment, a bit of my brain had detached itself and was taking notes and turning it into a tale to be told later. I could even hear Fil's voice in my head, Saying "There was poor old Jules, with Mum, and the children and my dead body." To this day that makes me laugh. (I hasten to add Fil, to whom I was utterly devoted, would also have laughed, he was that kind of person). And I know I tapped right into that experience when writing a scene in Pastures New.

I mention all this because I am about to start a new book. I know it's going to be about weddings. And I have four characters forming in my head. Up until relatively recently though I had envisaged writing a bubbly frothy kind of book. But I am rapidly coming to the conclusion I can't write that kind of story. The more I've been thinking about it, the more I want this one to celebrate friendship - and specifically female friendship, of the sort I have been lucky enough to share with several people over the course of my life. The sort of friendship where you casually trade details of your boring domestic life, but underpinning the crappy boredom of your daily dross is a much deeper bond. I know I've been fortunate to have that kind of friendship at several different points in my life, even of sometimes the friendships haven't for whatever reason stood the test of time. I also know at the moment I have several friendships which are so rock solid I could probably just pitch up on the door at midnight in trouble and each one of the women I am thinking about would calmly put the kettle on and ask how they could help.

So that's what I want to write about. But since I've finished book 3 (well not finished properly -this is the lull before I get to do rewrites) and I've given it more thought, my subconscious appears to be playing havoc with my creative synapses (not sure that sentence makes sense, but I hope you understand what I mean) and I am finding myself drawn to a difficult period in my life which happened some time ago, which I never ever thought I'd write about. It was painful and sad and I don't particularly want to go back and revisit it, besides which there are other people who might be affected by what I write, which is something I'm also not sure I want to do. It's also the only time in my life when I couldn't have found the necessary detachment to write about it.

But suddenly the sliver of ice bit of me is taking hold to a quite alarming extent, and I am feeling quite compelled to write some of this stuff in a way I could never have imagined before. So now I am trying to find a way to harness all this emotion in a positive way, because whatever I may think I want to write, I feel the book will be a shadow of what it could be if I don't let some of this stuff out.

Interestingly, I also wrote the first rough scene yesterday, which actually I didn't write. It kind of wrote itself. It's a wedding day scene which seems a good way to start a book about weddings dontcha know, and features the bride tensely waiting with her father for the wedding car to arrive. I freely admit to plundering my own wedding day experience here, though my heroine's reasons for being tense with her dad are somewhat different to my own. I can't recall ever having felt so gripped with the need to write something down. It was most peculiar.

Then last night I had a very long complicated dream which featured long walks in the country in different locations, with various members of my family, and some of my children. I ended the dream in a house opposite where our walk had started, and I was worried that the rest of the family who were behind us wouldn't catch up. Then the door opened, and I went expecting to find the children. Instead I found my dad. Which was weird and unsettling because in all the years since he died I've only dreamt of him a handful of times, and never have I seen his face. But here he was facing me. It was him in the flesh. Something I've subconsciously wanted for the last thirteen years.

And yet.... my subconscious is unfortunately far too realistic. "You're not supposed to be here," I said. Which wasn't how the planned reunion was meant to go. I think I told him that twice and he crumpled and fell. So I felt a heel and went to hug him. Now, when my father was alive he gave the best bear hugs going, but here he was dead, in my dream, and the hug was completely insubstantial. And I knew as I hadn't noticed before that I was dreaming. And I felt a howl of anguish such as I haven't felt since he died, and I was fighting, fighting through layers of filmy water to reach the surface and wake up. And I knew. Absolutely, categorically that somehow somewhere, that experience is going to find its way into a story (my parallel universe one will do nicely thank you) - so it's as if for me the sliver of ice is still operating even when I'm asleep.

And in a funny kind of way it solved my dilemma about the current book. I am going to tap into the emotions that are calling me. And I'm just going to see where they take me. Because I have a feeling where I'll end up is somewhere a long way from where I started, but the story forming in my head just wants to be told.

Things you think you'll never do.

I was five when David Cassidy shot to fame. I can (just) remember the Partridge family, but I have never ever got the teenyboppyer adulation which so many of my peers fixated on him in my formative years. And I've certainly never got into his music which is far too saccharine for my tastes (if you have to have your hair long sing, Bed of Roses or Dead or Alive. That will do it). So things I thought I'd never do included going to see a concert by David Cassidy.

However. My very lovely friend who bought us tickets for Stratford is a fan. And some months ago she bought two tickets to David Cassidy. She was having trouble (I wonder why) getting anyone to go with her, so in the interests of girly friendship (and quite frankly when someone buys you tickets to see David Tennant a girl will be obliged to go a very very long way to repay that act of extreme generosity), I said yes. I was rather assuming she'd find another fangirl to go with her, but sadly she didn't.

Having said all that, I also think it is beneficial from time to time to go and do/see things you wouldn't normally do to break down the barriers of prejudice that form in your mind. I have discovered in the last year that Neil Diamond who I had hitherto regarded as churning out the same cheesy crap as DC is actually fabulous. I loved his last album, have used Pretty Amazing Grace as a key soundtrack on my latest book, and even discovered I liked Love on the Rocks. So anything is possible...

I have to say I haven't had a Pauline conversion to DC's ouevre, NONE of which I even recognised (how odd is that? Going to a concert and not knowing a single hit, apart from the covers he did). I realise that this is partly because I was too young (I was 7 when he had most of his hits), partly because I didn't hear him at the right hormonal moment (though I was a late developer in that area - it was Sting who turned me onto music and by then I was 13), and partly because his hits are the cheesy crap I thought they were. However, it is quite clear that though I don't get it, thousands of women (mainly middle aged and older then me, phew) obviously do. So like Mills and Boon which I don't read or write, but I know lots of talented people who do both, I accept that David Cassidy is a strand of the music industry who entertains royally, which is just fine and dandy. I don't have to listen.

What I will say though, which was a bit of a revelation, was that 1) DC was highly entertaining, keeping up a constant patter throughout the show 2)He was quite daring (well if he wasn't full of bullshit anyway), taking himself out of his comfort zone and (allegedly) playing songs he hadn't rehearsed, trying new stuff for the first time and 3) he has a great voice, plays guitar AND even went and did the drums when his drummer (a really foxy chick) got up and sang Brass in Pocket.

So despite the fact that I have a rotten cold, didn't know a single song, and still think his hits are rubbish, remarkably, I had a really great time...

Ashes to Ashes meets Top Gear

Somehow we managed to miss this in Friday night.

Enjoy!

Children in Need

Tomorrow is Children in Need Day. I know it's tacky and cheesy and Pudsey is a mushy sentimental little bear, but on the plus side you get to see newsreaders doing things you'd never ever imagine they'd do, we're getting an extra Dr Who episode and fans of Strictly Come Dancing can finally see Tess dance(and Terry Wogan for that matter - do you think he'll be as good as John Sergeant?).

We always watch every year as the kids love it tacky and all as it is, and despite the tack it also does an enormous amount of good for charity. Not least my favourite one, Tadworth Court's Children's Trust who do amazing work with children with very severe needs. I hadn't realised till today that Tadworth Court benefit from Children in Need, but if you go here you can find out all about it.

So I know it's credit crunch time, the economy's in a downturn etc etc, but if you even if all you can do is spare a few coins tomorrow, do it. So many children are helped as a result of CiN every year and despite the cheese I think it's a fantastic cause.

As sadly I couldn't afford to take part in the Things That Money Can't Buy (I don't think Spouse would have been happy for me to pay ten grand on The Strictly Come Dancing experience somehow) I am planning instead to get hold of a copy or two of this as well as phoning in a request the 24 hour music marathon on Radio 2 tomorrow ...

Lest we forget

Ninety years ago at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month the Armistice was signed to end the war that was meant to end all wars, but which of course sadly did no such thing. I think whatever your views on the rights and wrongs of war, it is important that we do take this time to remember and honour the dead from all wars, and particularly the ones being fought currently.

Like most people in this country, I suspect, if they dig a little into their family background, I feel a strong connection with the men who went to both world wars. Both my father and father in law fought in WW2, and my maternal grandfather was taken prisoner in WW1. Not only that my children are probably very lucky to exist at all, given that their great grandfathers on their dad's side faced each other across the Somme (when they met after WW2, they got on famously and compared gun positions).

So it is of them I think on Remembrance Day. In our immediate family we were very lucky as my father and his two brothers both came home from the war unscathed, and my grandfather probably owes his survival in WW1 to having been taken prisoner. Spouse's grandfather was also incredibly fortunate to be wounded just before the Great Push on the Somme, therefore missing the worst of it.

But scratch the surface and tragedy does lurk underneath. My maternal grandmother lost two brothers, as well as her fiance.

I am fortunate enough to have in my possession a letter from the padre to my grandmother telling her of the loss of her fiance, which moves me to tears every time I read it.

His name was Jack Towns and having been hit in the stomach in a battle (I don't know which) on 26 March 1915 he was left on the field by the captain who bound him up, as there were no stretchers to bear him from the battle field.

The padre who wrote to my grandmother later went back on the field to look for him in the dark, and despite numerous enquires couldn't find a trace of Jack. I think it's the sparseness of the prose, and the total unsentimentality of it that affects me. The padre speaks of the men he talked to "Some wanted water, others a smoke, others just a few moment's talk. So you see, I walked up and down the whole fo the field. I spoke to as far as I can make out every living soul there. Dead men I did not examine for time was valuable, and there was no light." The next day he returned to what he describes as "the continuation of the strafe"where he describes things as being "a little hot". Obviously at this point he was unable to continue searching for Jack, but when things got calmer he continued to make his enquiries and drew a blank, and so the padre concludes that Jack is dead. The letter ends: "The only chance would appear to be that he might be a wounded pensioner; but one point which I have not mentioned settles that . 1000 men were extended line upon line across a battlefield on the night of the 26th. They linked hands & walked slowly across the field picking up every living man. After they had passed only the dead remaned. And the Turks supplied us with a list of wounded prisoners. Jack was not one of them. I optimist as I am, am absolutely convinced that poor old Jack died where he fell."

My grandmother went on to marry my grandfather, who I think I am right in saying was one of Jack's friends. I'm glad for her that she found that peace and happiness, but this year more then ever, I think about Jack and honour the memory of the man who might have become my grandfather, but who like so many fell too soon and too young.

Anthem for a Doomed Youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
--Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them from prayers or bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,-
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of silent minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Wilfred Owen

Of course, I forgot to mention...

Barack Obama is of course, Irish....

Historic victory indeed...

Silly Money

If you are having trouble understanding the current credit crunch, who better to explain it then Bremner Bird and Fortune. Last night they hilariously turned their attention to China and the unholy financial alliance the West has made with the Chinese. Bird and Fortune did a fantastically uneasy skit on the morality of cheap goods both here and in the States being available as a result of the exploitation of people in China. I couldn't find it on You Tube this morning, but I will keep looking. But in the meantime, if you haven't seen this and didn't know what the subprime nonsense was all about, here Bird and Fortune explain it in their inimitable and brilliant style. Satire at is very very best. Enjoy

I realise I am totally behind the times...

... but have been very busy finishing off Book 3 and therefore didn't have time to blog as I'd intended to about the US election last week.

As it's all over bar lots of photo ops of Barack meeting Dubya (how weird is that? Since when has the outgoing incumbent been so friendly to the incoming one?) at the White House and whole rainforests have been cut down in the reams of copy various hacks throughout the globe have been filing about this "historic" occasion ("historic" - most overused word of the week. Discuss.), I'm not going to say too much.

Except this. While I do think it was a great day for America last week (and more importantly a FANTASTIC day for democracy. Would that people would turn out to vote in such numbers in this country. Would that we had a politician who could inspire us to turn out in those numbers), I don't think Barack Obama is the Messiah, and I also think he is possibly too inexperienced to lead the world's largest democracy. On the plus side, he's not Dubya, and he also has the opportunity to rebuild bridges that Dubya and his cronies have burnt in their squandering of the world's goodwill towards America during their two terms in office. He also represents the best of America. If a country that forty years ago was segregating its citizens because of their colour can overcome its problems sufficiently to produce a black president (though technically of course he is inconveniently half white but its more dramatic to present the black heritage of course), then that can only be a good thing. However, I doubt very much the troops are coming home from Iraq any time soon, despite what Obama would like to do, and there's a hell of a financial mess to sort out when he's got time.

It will be interesting to see how quickly the US public fall out of love with Obama when he demonstrably fails to deliver (well he'd have to be superhuman to sort all the problems out in his lifetime let alone in four years), and whether he can manage to make a difference at all. Saying "we can" and actually effecting change are after all two very different things.

Still. It was a great day for the world last week, and here's hoping things turn out better then the cynic in me imagines they will. A president who actually turns out to have as much integrity as it appears he does, and can actually bring about positive changes in his society and to the world at large. Now that would be historic.

And another little bit of news I missed...

I really picked a bad week to go away...

I suppose it wasn't totally unexpected that David Tennant was going to leave Dr Who, but, sigh... rather like Rose (and Donna for that matter) I wanted to travel with him forever. I suppose I've got a year to get used to the idea...

But on two utterly more positive notes...

Paula Radcliffe won the New York Marathon again. Hurrah. I wish she could get it together for the Olympics, but hey, at least she's back on winning form...

And double hurrah, Lewis Hamilton is the youngest formula one world champion EVER. By the skin of his teeth admittedly, but what an exciting finish... A world championship decided two corners from the end. Fantastic. (And fantastic sportsmanship from Massa who thought he'd nailed it, then realised he hadn't).

I love Lewis Hamilton. He appears to have riled lots of people in the notoriously competitive and ruthless world of F1 (that's because he's winning y'see, they HATE it), but he deals with all the stuff that comes his way good and bad with politeness and dignity and never lets any of the crap get in the way of his singlemindeness about winning. When we have so much bad press about young black men, Lewis Hamilton is a welcome relief from all that and a great role model for the young (particularly in the light of the appalling racism to which he's been subjected this season). I couldn't actually watch the race because it was so close to the wire anyway I couldn't stand the tension, but hurrah, hurrah. It was a close run thing, but this year, the right guy won.

Boys will be boys

I've been away since Wednesday and only caught the periphery of the scandal that has engulfed the Beeb and most specificially Radio 2 this week.

I am as readers of this blog are probably aware a big fan of Radio 2 (such a big fan it features rather large in Pastures New), and part of the reason I started listening to it in the first place was Jonathan Ross' Saturday show. Yes, he's rude, he's edgy and often puerile, but he does (usually) make me laugh. I generally enjoy his chat show as well, though it does sometimes appear he's just interviewing his mates, and he can appear arrogant. Despite that, I think old JR can be quite engaging when he's interviewing someone he genuinely admires. He's such a fanboy and you can almost see him pinching himself that he is actually interviewing whichever idol it is, though to be fair this tends to be more evident on Film 2008, where his love of film is genuine and his reviews (though never as good as Mark Kermode's) are always worth taking note of.

I am not, it has to be said a huge fan of Russell Brand, and I did rather groan when I heard that Lesley Douglas had hired him - someone chasing the young vote, methinks. (That being said I did actually find his turn in St Trinians rather sweet because it was so against type that he couldn't chat up the head girl).

I therefore have never listened to Russell Brand's show, but figured it wasn't for the likes of me anyway, and was reasonably happy to have it on the edges of Radio 2, as he clearly has an audience, even if I'm not it.

Having said all of that, I think his and Jonathan Ross' behaviour towards Andrew Sachs was totally inexcusable and the pair of them (particularly Jonathan Ross) showed a lamentable lack of judgement in thinking that their "prank" (which I have seen defended in terms boys will be boys type terms) was funny. It wasn't. It was crude, offensive and utterly puerile.

BUT.... apparently before the story broke, only two people actually rang in to complain. After it hit the Sundays over 30 000 did, fed and whipped up by an hysterical tabloid media who clearly can't forgive Jonathan Ross' joke about earning more then they do. (Yes he earns silly amounts of money, but more fool the BBC bosses for giving it to him). Furthermore, there does appear to be some misunderstanding as to whether Andrew Sachs had given his consent to the programme going ahead, the producer was only 25 (poor cow, I hope her career isn't stifled at birth), and Andrew Sach's granddaughter has sought the offices of Max Clifford to tell "her side of the story". Said granddaughter also appears in a band called The Satanic Sluts, which is of course her right and doesn't mean she or her grandfather should be subject to abuse, but is it cynical of me to think that this publicity can't exactly be harmful to her career? Without all of this no one would even heard of her.

My feeling now is that the whole thing has got a bit out of hand, and I cannot STAND it when politicians start pontificating in a self righteous manner about this kind of stuff - when was the last time a politician took the flak and resigned as Lesley Douglas has done? I think she showed integrity in doing so - this did, as she said, happen on her watch, and she appointed Russell Brand and apparently didn't reign him in - but by all accounts she has been a brilliant Controller of Radio 2 and responsible for most of my favourite listening over the last four years. It seems a pity she's had to go as a result of this debacle.

But the thing that sticks in my craw most has been the gleeful malicious joy with which the tabloids have greeted Wossy's fall from grace. Maybe his fault for alienating them, perhaps, but I personally find it distasteful. (I saw a headline yesterday screaming its outrage that the Disgraced Star had dared to have a Halloween Party with his Showbiz Chums. Erm - why shouldn't he???)

I don't for one minute condone what Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand did, and think their punishment is probably fair. But hell. There are far more important things to worry about right now. This could and should have been resolved with an apology by both of them to Mr Sachs and Miss Baillie. The self righteous howlers should have shut up and left well alone. And I really really hope that Terry Wogan isn't right in saying as he did yesterday, that the damage to Ross' career is terminal. He has made a very very bad error of judgement, but he is certainly paying the price. One hopes that in time the great British public might be able to forgive him.

But I also hope that the result of this isn't the Beeb playing safe with everything. Comedy should at times shock and disturb us. Maybe we've had too much of that of late on the Beeb (I like Little Britain, but am growing tired of the insatiable need to shock), but it would be a great pity if the output becomes more anodyne as a result of this show. Auntie hasn't come out of this too well, either it has to be said, having first tried to ignore the problem then (in my view) added to it by navel gazing ad nauseam (they did the same after the Dr Kelly affair). There are lots of problems with the Beeb - not being regulated by Ofcom being one of them, but it still represents broadcasting at its best, and I for one would hate that to change as a result of this nonsense.