I emailed one of my people at the BBC this morning to be greeted with the all-too familiar response, "I no longer work at the BBC..." This email is only slightly less prevalent these days than the one which suggests the person at the BBC is either on sabbatical or has moved positions within the institution. The other regular response from BBC personnel is the one which suggests the person you're trying to contact is on leave. I genuinely don't know how the organisation manages to keep its head above the parapet with such an astounding revolving door staffing policy. No one within the BBC ever seems to be able to have a meeting with the person that actually makes decisions, because it's the school holidays or she or he "works from home two days a week." Worse than this is the fact that people commission stuff and then move on before the project is seen through. This results in entire projects being buried, shelved or under-publicised.
The recurring message in my present LinkedIn feed is former BBC staff announcing they've moved on to pastures new. These were proper "can do" creative people whose enthusiasm was sucked out of them by years of instability, reshuffling and brutal cuts. They're now using their skills elsewhere. One is working for Avon!
It's no wonder that the BBC is presently churning out very little but "safe bet" programming.
I would once have thrown myself in front of a bus to protect the future of the BBC, but I'm just not sure the organisation is doing anything important any more. It's certainly no longer my go-to channel when I switch the telly on. The two main channels today were almost drowning in repeats and re-hashes: "The Best of Wogan" "The TV that Made Me" "Too Much TV" "The Two Ronnies" "Perry and Croft: Made in Britain" "Room 101: Extra Storage". Even "Flog It" was showing a "best of the series" show. There's a limit to how often you can watch the BBC patting itself on the back and shrieking "look how amazing we used to be" whilst single-handedly refusing to be amazing in the present day. They repeat episodes of Top of the Pops on an almost loop (well the one which aren't presented by sexual pariahs) and yet they don't have the guts to commission a new show featuring chart music. It's Channel 4 who are still taking the risks and they are not funded by the license fee payer.
I went to the local corner shop today to buy a tin of spaghetti for lunch. It cost 74p. I handed the man behind a counter £10. "No change?" He said. "No, I'm afraid not," I said, feeling a little like his question would only have been valid had I been trying to pay with a fifty pound note. As I handed him the note he said, rather stroppily, "all the time, you coming in with no change." And I thought, "fuck you! All the time I'm coming in here and giving you custom instead of going to Sainsbury's down the road!" Gift horse. Mouth.
I worked all morning at Costa in the village whilst a loud-mouthed Jewish American woman shouted at her deaf elderly friend. For some reason she kept spelling her name. She'd go silent for a moment and then shout making the entire cafe jump. The woman sitting opposite me kept catching my eye and giggling.
On my way back from the rude shop, I went to our new local barber who turned out to be a rather jovial Iranian chap called Ali who'd grown up in Japan. Some people are just so "jet set"! I was a little surprised by how he pronounced Osaka. I've always thought it the "ah" sound was where the stress sat, but he stressed the "oh" - and made it sound more like the "o" of pot. Fascinating. He half made me want to go to Japan. I asked if, as a vegetarian, I'd struggle because the cuisine is so fish-heavy. "Oh no" he said, "there's lots of choice. It's not just fish. There's lots of meat too..." He then caught himself and said, "oh..." He spent ages cutting and primping my hair to the extent that I went into a hair-tickled coma. He's decided my parting needs to be higher on my head.
Speaking of hair, I have decided to embrace my beard for the time being and committed to it by trimming and shaping it this evening. Obviously it makes me look seventy-five, but I'm not sure I want to look forty-two.
Friday, 1 April 2016
Thursday, 31 March 2016
Pigeon carnage
I dreamed last night that one of my teeth fell out! I looked into a mirror and noticed that my bottom teeth looked a crooked and, for some reason thought I might be able to apply enough pressure to one of them to bring it back in line. Sadly it wasn't to be and the tooth simply came away in my hand. It wasn't a cool look. I looked like an old crone!
I worked at Jackson's Lane Community Centre this morning. Nathan came to find me and encouraged me to go to Highbury with him where he was meeting a knitting friend for lunch. We travelled the length of the Holloway Road on a 43 bus and crawled along at a ludicrously slow pace which enabled us to get a sense of what the road has become in the last few years. The bottom end has plainly gone up in the world. There are loads of fancy eateries masquerading as pie and mash shops which are plainly being aimed at young city professionals who want to be seen to be keeping it real.
The top end of Holloway Road, by contrast, remains the insane place it always has been, full of curios, care-in-communities, lunatics, fanatics and throw-backs. We passed a woman who had an enormous star tattooed onto her forehead, and a young bloke with such awful posture you might have been forgiven for thinking he was 90.
There are always two buildings that I look out for when heading down that road. The first is a flat above a shop just shy of Holloway Road tube where the great Joe Meek (of Telstar fame) lived and died. It's where he killed his landlady after the mother of all mental breakdowns which was partially brought about because he was being blackmailed for being gay. It must be very odd to live in a building which has witnessed that much violence and tragedy. Ever since working as a stage door keeper at the New Ambassadors Theatre, I've subscribed to the notion that energies hang about in buildings. When locking up the auditorium at the end of a night, I could always tell whether the show was a happy or a sad one, or, oddly how large the audience had been. A sell-out show always seemed to generate more energy. When The Weir was running - a show so tragic that, on the first performance, one of the ushers was so distraught she had to be carried out of the theatre by audience members - the auditorium always used to feel very bleak.
The other building I watch out for on the Holloway Road is Islington Library which is, of course, where that other great gay Joe, namely Joe Orton, used to steel and deface library books. Orton and his partner Kenneth Halliwell both went to prison for vandalising council property but the books they so carefully and wittily ruined are now worth a fortune and are amongst the most valued possessions of the library. Or at least they were when I last read up about them. They've probably subsequently been sold to private collectors to plug gaps in council spending!
I got a message from Little Welsh Nathalie downstairs earlier on. It appears a pigeon has been macerated in our garden. She describes nonchalantly exiting the house and finding a scene of carnage which involved another pigeon merrily pecking away at the guts of his erstwhile friend. We assume the pigeon was "got" by a cat or fox in broad daylight. It wasn't there when I returned from my run at about 3pm (incidentally there are now five pieces of blossom on my favourite little tree...) I'm not sure I'm particularly into the idea of a cannibal pigeon sharing my home, and if the dead pigeon is one of my friends who sits up in the tree every day, I'm even more upset. Most upsetting of all, however, is the thought that the pigeon "eating" his friend was actually the friend's mate (pigeons mate for life) and that rather than eating, he was trying to revive his companion. It's even sadder if the pigeons were a gay couple, but maybe I'm writing a little bit too much into this story!! I've no doubt Nathan will want to bury the body.
I worked at Jackson's Lane Community Centre this morning. Nathan came to find me and encouraged me to go to Highbury with him where he was meeting a knitting friend for lunch. We travelled the length of the Holloway Road on a 43 bus and crawled along at a ludicrously slow pace which enabled us to get a sense of what the road has become in the last few years. The bottom end has plainly gone up in the world. There are loads of fancy eateries masquerading as pie and mash shops which are plainly being aimed at young city professionals who want to be seen to be keeping it real.
The top end of Holloway Road, by contrast, remains the insane place it always has been, full of curios, care-in-communities, lunatics, fanatics and throw-backs. We passed a woman who had an enormous star tattooed onto her forehead, and a young bloke with such awful posture you might have been forgiven for thinking he was 90.
There are always two buildings that I look out for when heading down that road. The first is a flat above a shop just shy of Holloway Road tube where the great Joe Meek (of Telstar fame) lived and died. It's where he killed his landlady after the mother of all mental breakdowns which was partially brought about because he was being blackmailed for being gay. It must be very odd to live in a building which has witnessed that much violence and tragedy. Ever since working as a stage door keeper at the New Ambassadors Theatre, I've subscribed to the notion that energies hang about in buildings. When locking up the auditorium at the end of a night, I could always tell whether the show was a happy or a sad one, or, oddly how large the audience had been. A sell-out show always seemed to generate more energy. When The Weir was running - a show so tragic that, on the first performance, one of the ushers was so distraught she had to be carried out of the theatre by audience members - the auditorium always used to feel very bleak.
The other building I watch out for on the Holloway Road is Islington Library which is, of course, where that other great gay Joe, namely Joe Orton, used to steel and deface library books. Orton and his partner Kenneth Halliwell both went to prison for vandalising council property but the books they so carefully and wittily ruined are now worth a fortune and are amongst the most valued possessions of the library. Or at least they were when I last read up about them. They've probably subsequently been sold to private collectors to plug gaps in council spending!
I got a message from Little Welsh Nathalie downstairs earlier on. It appears a pigeon has been macerated in our garden. She describes nonchalantly exiting the house and finding a scene of carnage which involved another pigeon merrily pecking away at the guts of his erstwhile friend. We assume the pigeon was "got" by a cat or fox in broad daylight. It wasn't there when I returned from my run at about 3pm (incidentally there are now five pieces of blossom on my favourite little tree...) I'm not sure I'm particularly into the idea of a cannibal pigeon sharing my home, and if the dead pigeon is one of my friends who sits up in the tree every day, I'm even more upset. Most upsetting of all, however, is the thought that the pigeon "eating" his friend was actually the friend's mate (pigeons mate for life) and that rather than eating, he was trying to revive his companion. It's even sadder if the pigeons were a gay couple, but maybe I'm writing a little bit too much into this story!! I've no doubt Nathan will want to bury the body.
Wednesday, 30 March 2016
Stifled...
We've been watching Ricky Gervais' "Extras" over the past few weeks. I realise I'm about ten years late to this particular party, but I think it's a truly excellent show. Ashley Jenson is a remarkable and beautiful actress, and, as the show unwound towards its Christmas special anticlimax, Gervais himself becomes more and more compelling. It is fairly uncomfortable viewing. Gervais plays a man who starts off as the lowest of the low - namely an extra in film and TV - before hitting the big time as a catch-phrase yelling comedy actor who appeals to lowest common denominator audiences. Of course he hates doing the comedy schtick, and really just wants to be a well-respected, authentic Hollywood actor, but, ultimately, he's not good enough to be anything other than the catch-phrase yelling prat who wears a curly wig. Adulation and fame makes him grand and intolerable. He forgets his roots, shuns his true friends, and gets any extras on his own shows fired if they dare to approach him. He then becomes bitter and aggressive. His performance rang a lot of alarming bells for me. I meet people like him all the time in my work and I watch their acolytes fanning the flames which perpetuate these behavioural patterns.
I was back up at Costa in Highgate village this morning. I'm rather enjoying the routine of pottering up there for 9.30am and pottering back down for 1pm, having done three hours writing. I then go for a run. I'm not busting a gut when I jog at the moment. I run for perhaps 30 minutes, the same route every day so I can get a sense of my fitness levels rising. Running the same route every day also gives me a chance to witness the arrival of spring in the woods near me. There are daffodils everywhere at the moment. There's also a tree which I've been paying particular attention to. For the past five days just one brave piece of blossom has emerged on just one of the branches. Today, for the first time, the blossom had a friend on another branch. I'm sure by the end of next week the entire tree will be covered.
I spend the afternoons at the moment staring at a television. I can't bring myself to start work again. I think it's all part of the recovery process but I'm hating myself for wasting long periods of time that could be spent writing, or simply seeing friends or doing things in the big wide world. Television is the great crusher of creativity, particularly when you end up watching repeats on channels like Dave. I'm already bored of it, but I can also feel myself becoming a little work shy. It's very easy and quite comforting to sit down on a sofa, switch the television on and then switch the brain off. I'm giving myself to the end of the week to take things easy and then I'm going to get on with being creative again.
I was back up at Costa in Highgate village this morning. I'm rather enjoying the routine of pottering up there for 9.30am and pottering back down for 1pm, having done three hours writing. I then go for a run. I'm not busting a gut when I jog at the moment. I run for perhaps 30 minutes, the same route every day so I can get a sense of my fitness levels rising. Running the same route every day also gives me a chance to witness the arrival of spring in the woods near me. There are daffodils everywhere at the moment. There's also a tree which I've been paying particular attention to. For the past five days just one brave piece of blossom has emerged on just one of the branches. Today, for the first time, the blossom had a friend on another branch. I'm sure by the end of next week the entire tree will be covered.
I spend the afternoons at the moment staring at a television. I can't bring myself to start work again. I think it's all part of the recovery process but I'm hating myself for wasting long periods of time that could be spent writing, or simply seeing friends or doing things in the big wide world. Television is the great crusher of creativity, particularly when you end up watching repeats on channels like Dave. I'm already bored of it, but I can also feel myself becoming a little work shy. It's very easy and quite comforting to sit down on a sofa, switch the television on and then switch the brain off. I'm giving myself to the end of the week to take things easy and then I'm going to get on with being creative again.
Second wedding (anniversary)
We woke up this morning to a number of Facebook messages wishing us a happy second wedding anniversary. That's the second anniversary of our wedding, not the anniversary of our second wedding, you understand. I'm glad the messages were there, else we might have forgotten all about it! Apparently the second anniversary is cotton, although my Mum assures me it's china. There's an old list and a new list. Two years doesn't actually seem that long. There are people out there who probably think of Nathan and me as being in the first throes of a relationship. The truth is, we've been together almost fourteen years, which may explain why we ate pasta and watched RuPaul's Drag Race this evening! Rock. And. Roll! Note to self: make more effort next year!
Nathan and I both woke up with the same ear worm ricocheting through our heads this morning, which was so random I actually wondered whether one of us was actually singing in our sleep. The song in question was Julie from Les Bicyclettes De Belsize, which, in fairness, we watched with Abbie and Ian on Friday night, but it nevertheless seems a little strange that it should return to us both four days later.
According to Wikipedia, the first recorded use of the phrase "ear worm" in literature occurred in 1978 in Desmond Bagley's novel, Flyaway, which sounds like a right dystopian barrel of laughs. 98% of people apparently experience regular ear worms but women endure them for longer periods and get more irritated by them. Musicians and those with OCD are particularly prone. If you want to stop an ear worm, you should do a Sudoku. So that's ear worms dealt with.
A group of older men appeared in Costa this morning. There were six of them and they talked about politics whilst sipping coffee and eating croissants. It was very unusual to see a group of men like that. I so often come across groups of yummy mummies or school children but sixty to seventy-year old men don't tend to hunt in packs. I went off them a little when one of them was describing a woman with short hair and another said, "you mean a lesbian."
The Archway Road would appear to be the hair-dressing capital of the world. There are now six hair-cutting establishments within the two blocks stretching from Jackson's Lane community centre to Topp's Tiles. There's even a hairdressers which specialises in cutting and styling black people's hair. So if anyone's in doubt as to where to come for a new barnet, come and visit me.
I saw Llio late this afternoon. We had tea at Jackson's Lane. I have to say, I got rather used to seeing her every day during Beyond The Fence, so I was actually missing her rather a lot. It was so good to see her and she taught me how to pronounce the village my Nana grew up in. We actually got trapped in Jackson's Lane by a massive rainstorm which lasted two hours. We could hear it pounding down on the roof. Jackson's Lane is famously a converted chapel, so I was fairly astonished when Llio looked around the bar and said, "isn't it interesting how much churchy furniture they have in this building? There are pews everywhere. I wonder what that's about!"
It's been odd weather all day. As I walked back from Highgate Village, the sun was so bright I couldn't see the screen of my iPod, and when I went for a run, I almost baked myself... Until it started to hail. A man walking a dog in a pair of shorts was looking particularly confused.
"Am I imagining hail?" I shouted to him as I jogged past... "I don't know who I am any more" he replied.
Nathan and I both woke up with the same ear worm ricocheting through our heads this morning, which was so random I actually wondered whether one of us was actually singing in our sleep. The song in question was Julie from Les Bicyclettes De Belsize, which, in fairness, we watched with Abbie and Ian on Friday night, but it nevertheless seems a little strange that it should return to us both four days later.
According to Wikipedia, the first recorded use of the phrase "ear worm" in literature occurred in 1978 in Desmond Bagley's novel, Flyaway, which sounds like a right dystopian barrel of laughs. 98% of people apparently experience regular ear worms but women endure them for longer periods and get more irritated by them. Musicians and those with OCD are particularly prone. If you want to stop an ear worm, you should do a Sudoku. So that's ear worms dealt with.
A group of older men appeared in Costa this morning. There were six of them and they talked about politics whilst sipping coffee and eating croissants. It was very unusual to see a group of men like that. I so often come across groups of yummy mummies or school children but sixty to seventy-year old men don't tend to hunt in packs. I went off them a little when one of them was describing a woman with short hair and another said, "you mean a lesbian."
The Archway Road would appear to be the hair-dressing capital of the world. There are now six hair-cutting establishments within the two blocks stretching from Jackson's Lane community centre to Topp's Tiles. There's even a hairdressers which specialises in cutting and styling black people's hair. So if anyone's in doubt as to where to come for a new barnet, come and visit me.
I saw Llio late this afternoon. We had tea at Jackson's Lane. I have to say, I got rather used to seeing her every day during Beyond The Fence, so I was actually missing her rather a lot. It was so good to see her and she taught me how to pronounce the village my Nana grew up in. We actually got trapped in Jackson's Lane by a massive rainstorm which lasted two hours. We could hear it pounding down on the roof. Jackson's Lane is famously a converted chapel, so I was fairly astonished when Llio looked around the bar and said, "isn't it interesting how much churchy furniture they have in this building? There are pews everywhere. I wonder what that's about!"
It's been odd weather all day. As I walked back from Highgate Village, the sun was so bright I couldn't see the screen of my iPod, and when I went for a run, I almost baked myself... Until it started to hail. A man walking a dog in a pair of shorts was looking particularly confused.
"Am I imagining hail?" I shouted to him as I jogged past... "I don't know who I am any more" he replied.
Tuesday, 29 March 2016
Bank holiday blues
There's almost nothing to say about today. Because it was a bank holiday and because normal people take bank holidays off, I decided to drift about the house like some sort of restless spirit whilst Nathan launched a knitting pattern.
The most productive thing I did was a mini-photo shoot where I took photographs of the scarf for which Nathan was creating the pattern. We went out to the little triangle of grass on the corner of Archway Road and Muswell Hill Road opposite the old Children's Bookshop which has recently become a retro Barber shop.
At this time of year, this particular triangle is always covered in a carpet of daffodils. There's one tree there. And a stone bench. The tree, I discovered today, is dedicated to the eradication of nuclear weapons. Heaven knows how I've managed to miss that.
I took some more pictures with the scarf draped over railings in front of a post box. I know the Americans (many of whom buy Nathan's patterns) are well into their red phone boxes so figured that they might enjoy a post box as well. Surely they're just as iconic?
Nathan had his hair cut in the barbers. It's only just opened but there's never anyone in there. This upsets us greatly. I'm not sure Nathan is that happy with the cut he was given though. Typical Brits. We'll continue to go there out of politeness!
That's it. I've bored myself. I cannot wait to start working again tomorrow!
The most productive thing I did was a mini-photo shoot where I took photographs of the scarf for which Nathan was creating the pattern. We went out to the little triangle of grass on the corner of Archway Road and Muswell Hill Road opposite the old Children's Bookshop which has recently become a retro Barber shop.
At this time of year, this particular triangle is always covered in a carpet of daffodils. There's one tree there. And a stone bench. The tree, I discovered today, is dedicated to the eradication of nuclear weapons. Heaven knows how I've managed to miss that.
I took some more pictures with the scarf draped over railings in front of a post box. I know the Americans (many of whom buy Nathan's patterns) are well into their red phone boxes so figured that they might enjoy a post box as well. Surely they're just as iconic?
Nathan had his hair cut in the barbers. It's only just opened but there's never anyone in there. This upsets us greatly. I'm not sure Nathan is that happy with the cut he was given though. Typical Brits. We'll continue to go there out of politeness!
That's it. I've bored myself. I cannot wait to start working again tomorrow!
Monday, 28 March 2016
Cheshire roast
I've been in Cheshire at Nathan's sister's and her husband's house today. There are way too many apostrophes in that sentence, so many, in fact, that I'm doubting their validity, but it's rather late and I've eaten too much chocolate, so, you know, f**k grammar...
We've had another lovely day, which started with a road trip up the A1 through rain, sunshine and rainbows to Lisa and Mark's house where we dropped off birthday cards for their children George and Rosie. Two of Lisa's children were born on the same day, which, rather oddly has collided with Easter this year. They were all out. We didn't actually expect them to be in, so delivered the cards, left a couple of Easter eggs on the doorstep, popped to the local churchyard to say hello to George, and continued our journey along the A14, the M6, the M54 and the A41 to Nathan's Mum's and Ron's house. Again, way too many apostrophes, but you know what I mean...
We ate hot cross buns for lunch with cups of tea and bits of Ēostre eggs. Nathan's Mum had an operation on her back earlier this week and looked remarkably well. She is still in some discomfort from the operation scars, but the chronic pain she's been in for months has entirely gone. She says she got out of bed yesterday and, for the first time in ages, felt entirely alive. Bravo!
Later on, we travelled to Sam and Julius' where there was a proper family gathering going on. At least ten of us sat down for a full roast with all the trimmings. The great joy about a roast meal (apart from the glorious tastes) is the veritable rainbow which arrives on your plate. The oranges of carrots and mashed swedes, the yellow of sweet corn, the deep reds and purple of cabbage, the greens of leeks, asparagus and broccoli. I bloody love food I do.
I fell asleep on the most comfortable sofa in the world after lunch whilst Nathan taught his niece Jenny how to knit. It was warm. The sofa felt like silk and velvet. Nathan's voice was soothing. It was glorious. I felt like my Grandpa.
We travelled home in a massive storm (named Katy, I later learned) listening to the news, which was a catalogue of stories relating to Muslim extremist violence: a bomb which killed scores of children in Pakistan, tales of Isis carrying out mass killings in ancient amphitheatres in Syria, news that right wing extremists shouting anti-immigrant slogans had stamped on flowers and candles at a peace vigil in Brussels. I am proud to report that the extremists were greeted with shouts of "we are all the children of immigrants." As a man with Welsh, Jewish, Gypsy and Huguenot ancestry, I entirely second that.
We've had another lovely day, which started with a road trip up the A1 through rain, sunshine and rainbows to Lisa and Mark's house where we dropped off birthday cards for their children George and Rosie. Two of Lisa's children were born on the same day, which, rather oddly has collided with Easter this year. They were all out. We didn't actually expect them to be in, so delivered the cards, left a couple of Easter eggs on the doorstep, popped to the local churchyard to say hello to George, and continued our journey along the A14, the M6, the M54 and the A41 to Nathan's Mum's and Ron's house. Again, way too many apostrophes, but you know what I mean...
We ate hot cross buns for lunch with cups of tea and bits of Ēostre eggs. Nathan's Mum had an operation on her back earlier this week and looked remarkably well. She is still in some discomfort from the operation scars, but the chronic pain she's been in for months has entirely gone. She says she got out of bed yesterday and, for the first time in ages, felt entirely alive. Bravo!
Later on, we travelled to Sam and Julius' where there was a proper family gathering going on. At least ten of us sat down for a full roast with all the trimmings. The great joy about a roast meal (apart from the glorious tastes) is the veritable rainbow which arrives on your plate. The oranges of carrots and mashed swedes, the yellow of sweet corn, the deep reds and purple of cabbage, the greens of leeks, asparagus and broccoli. I bloody love food I do.
I fell asleep on the most comfortable sofa in the world after lunch whilst Nathan taught his niece Jenny how to knit. It was warm. The sofa felt like silk and velvet. Nathan's voice was soothing. It was glorious. I felt like my Grandpa.
We travelled home in a massive storm (named Katy, I later learned) listening to the news, which was a catalogue of stories relating to Muslim extremist violence: a bomb which killed scores of children in Pakistan, tales of Isis carrying out mass killings in ancient amphitheatres in Syria, news that right wing extremists shouting anti-immigrant slogans had stamped on flowers and candles at a peace vigil in Brussels. I am proud to report that the extremists were greeted with shouts of "we are all the children of immigrants." As a man with Welsh, Jewish, Gypsy and Huguenot ancestry, I entirely second that.
Sunday, 27 March 2016
Ascension
I found out today that Jesus didn't actually rise up to heaven on Easter Day! That's fairly mind-blowing information. I thought he died on the cross and got put in a tomb on Good Friday (or is it Black Friday?) and then appeared to a few people like Mary Magdalene in dreams on Easter Saturday before ascending to heaven in a blaze of glory on the Sunday. Apparently there's something called Ascension day which happens later in the year, which means Jesus was actually a zombie for quite a long time. Why do we not celebrate Ascension Day with some pagan ritual? Why did I not know any of this before? I guess this is what comes from having a card carrying atheist for a father!
Today has been delightful. We spent a completely impromptu day at Julie's house after dropping the cats off at Abbie and Ian's in Wandsworth.
We arrived in Catford at 1pm and spent a full twelve hours playing games. I love days like this when no one is rushing off and there's a sense of timelessness hovering in the air. We watched a film at some point: a rather unconvincing animation called 9, which wasn't the famous musical by Maurie Yeston but something about rag dolls in a post apocalyptic world. It didn't thrill me if I'm honest. It felt like a series of action sequences for the sake of action sequences with no narrative to link everything, or as Julie put it, "an attack, defend, attack, defend film..." There were way too few female characters as well.
We played a game of Trivial Pursuits which we discovered in Julie's loft. The questions were written in 1986, which made for rather hysterical inaccuracies. "Q: Which is the nearest communist country to Italy? A. Yugoslavia." Some of the questions simply made no sense to a 21st Century mind! Poor Abbie and Ian were 2 and 1 years old respectively in 1986 so didn't stand a chance!
Sam appeared in the evening, having been to see his new nephew who is so young his name has not yet been announced. They're presently calling him "monkey", because this is the year of the monkey and the lad is half Cantonese. I wonder if it might stick as a nick name. My Grannie used to called me a cheeky monkey. In fact, when Nathan and I went to visit her, right at the end of her life, when she was in a state of advanced dementia, she used the term to describe me again.
We drove home through Hackney and I had a lovely moment when I looked at the Empire with it's shiny marquee and thought "Brass is happening there in a few months..." It was a rather fine thought.
Today has been delightful. We spent a completely impromptu day at Julie's house after dropping the cats off at Abbie and Ian's in Wandsworth.
We arrived in Catford at 1pm and spent a full twelve hours playing games. I love days like this when no one is rushing off and there's a sense of timelessness hovering in the air. We watched a film at some point: a rather unconvincing animation called 9, which wasn't the famous musical by Maurie Yeston but something about rag dolls in a post apocalyptic world. It didn't thrill me if I'm honest. It felt like a series of action sequences for the sake of action sequences with no narrative to link everything, or as Julie put it, "an attack, defend, attack, defend film..." There were way too few female characters as well.
We played a game of Trivial Pursuits which we discovered in Julie's loft. The questions were written in 1986, which made for rather hysterical inaccuracies. "Q: Which is the nearest communist country to Italy? A. Yugoslavia." Some of the questions simply made no sense to a 21st Century mind! Poor Abbie and Ian were 2 and 1 years old respectively in 1986 so didn't stand a chance!
Sam appeared in the evening, having been to see his new nephew who is so young his name has not yet been announced. They're presently calling him "monkey", because this is the year of the monkey and the lad is half Cantonese. I wonder if it might stick as a nick name. My Grannie used to called me a cheeky monkey. In fact, when Nathan and I went to visit her, right at the end of her life, when she was in a state of advanced dementia, she used the term to describe me again.
We drove home through Hackney and I had a lovely moment when I looked at the Empire with it's shiny marquee and thought "Brass is happening there in a few months..." It was a rather fine thought.
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