tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59496452877222437522024-03-14T02:07:22.891+00:00Stephanie Young - Artistic DirectorShe's artistic. She's direct.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-31305837207471612112014-07-23T13:05:00.000+01:002014-07-23T13:05:32.827+01:00Moving On Up and Down Under<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]-->I’ve got some good news and some bad news. The bad news is
Chris and her handsome family are upping stakes, leaving London and moving back
to Australia in September of this year and we’ve finally decided, after months
of deliberating whether to keep the company going (difficult at 10,500 miles)
make it dormant (paying Companies House an annual fee for what?) or close it
down (sad face goes here), we are closing it down.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sad face goes here.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The good news, however, is that Chris is going home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wants the sun in her face and grass under
her feet and while that is gloriously possible today in Hyde Park (28 degrees,
mid-July, blue sky, blazing rays) don’t try it in February.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
London is not the place for a barefoot, outdoor life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my generous moments – which I am feeling increasingly – I
am thrilled for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She will be close
to family, her children will grow up as she did, near beaches and relatives
and, get this, her husband will KEEP HIS JOB (have computer programming degree,
will travel). Of course I have known far less generous moments in which I’ve
wept into my chai and stared forlornly out café windows, imagining my life
without Chris and MYPC. And tried to her run her over with a car (‘THIS will
keep you here!”).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But there is no question these four years have been a
kaleidoscope of huge pleasures and accomplishments. These are the highlights:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Developed and held four table-reads of<i> Torches</i>, the
full-length play about two couples deciding on Guy Fawkes’ night whether to
reunite or separate forever, ready for production;</div>
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<br /></div>
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Developed full TV mini-series adaptation and held two
table-reads of a Virginia Woolf novel and attracted Billie Piper, now attached;</div>
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<br /></div>
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Two table reads of <i>Sirens</i>, first produced as a one-act now a
full length play;</div>
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<br /></div>
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Official selection at In Short Film Festival and the London
Independent Film Festival for our first scene of <i>Home Movies</i> for which we
raised £4,000, a project which now boasts a fully-developed on line pilot
episode;</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two drafts of a film adaptation of Fiona Leonard’s novel <i>The Chicken Thief</i> (published by Penguin South Africa)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First completed draft of <i>Constance Over The Hill</i>, the novel
that began as part of MYPC on line.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In all of these creations and achievements we have been
supported by our Board of Directors – a high-octane collection of passionate, endlessly
enthusiastic and inventive businessmen and women who loved us and our mission
to promote women over 35 in all media. The projects live on and the Board, wonderfully, will keep an open door for me and my questions (do I enter this option agreement? can I expand my USP? where is the best place for croissants aux amandes on the South Bank?).</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in spite of how
my throat clenches and my face tightens into deeply unappealing twitches at the
thought of saying goodbye to Chris and our company - I know her going is a
blessing. She is forcing me out of the nest. Already, I am finding the
confidence and vision that comes from having to stand alone on the new heights
to which she introduced me (we have pitched at all the highest levels of
television, theatre and on-line production in this city, because of her).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am becoming the next version of myself as
an artist, borne of these four delightful, hilarious, wildly energetic years of
us working together.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During our last routine meeting, ensconced in her
comfortable and well-loved sofa in the living room that has passed for our
office since 2010, I asked Chris what the company had meant to her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She tilted Tick Tock tea down her throat and thought about
it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I discovered work
can be fun.’ She looked over the generous green of the high trees in the park below, her voice deepening in a way I recognised as meaning
I’m-about-to-say-something-like-totally-awesome. ‘You don’t have to check your
soul at the door. If you do that, you’re ripping yourself off, because this – <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">spreading
her hands out</i>) - this is it.’ </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And she’s right. Isn’t she right? Isn’t this it? Meaning time
is what you’ve got and fuck, make the most of it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I got to be on a shoot. Nothing is more fun than that. And
so many people said “yes”’.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which is also true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chris
and I were consistently moved, awed and gleeful at the number of people who met
and worked with us – from supporters, directors and musicians to producers,
publicists and performers. We met some of the most talented and appealing good
old people in this good old town. ‘If you’re in a happy world,’ she said, ‘you
attract wonderful people.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
More tea and gazing. The sofa sagged, quietly, beneath us (I’m
thrilled it will live on in Australia and remind them how often I contributed
To That Sag). She looked at me and I could see her examining old mental files,
comparing then and now – the time of our deciding to launch the company because
it was just too much fun not to. Her leaping out of full-time paid work into
full-time freelance life. The most risk, the most glory.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She pulled back the final curtain on her past. Laid it bare.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I was sleep-walking through life,’ she said.<br />
<br />
(See why I love her? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Which of us has the courage to admit we’re
sleep-walking? Then the greater courage to wake up?)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘And now I’m not. I’m
taking all this with me.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a good last meeting, if sad – we finished bits of
admin, prepared to close the bank account – and went out for a celebratory chai
tea. And if I’m struggling now, as I write this, feeling that lumpy-throat
sensation and the hugely oh-so-attractive face-twitching -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it is because as always, in her quiet,
consistent, perspicacious way Chris put her finger on the most important fact
of what these four years have been about. What, hand on heart, life is about.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘It’s okay to be
afraid. As long as it’s exciting, too.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s been wildly exciting. And because of her and Mofardin
Young Production Company and everyone who has joined us on the journey, I’m
less afraid.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that’s good news.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR5rcHzEFP_TropKJvl2mvsnue6e8uUAC4MYhZ54rzDDkmThGDUsLj-eXeCX5zZtGLq0q98GYSdMh0a2nTwRmN4Qy4kUD9chqxjYBdsokpwlisW4q-_hmpncmJgVz8OuYUyrqynC8jjNvM/s1600/IMG_5350.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR5rcHzEFP_TropKJvl2mvsnue6e8uUAC4MYhZ54rzDDkmThGDUsLj-eXeCX5zZtGLq0q98GYSdMh0a2nTwRmN4Qy4kUD9chqxjYBdsokpwlisW4q-_hmpncmJgVz8OuYUyrqynC8jjNvM/s1600/IMG_5350.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Final Board Meeting and Farewell Lunch for the Mofardin Young Production Company Board of Directors, from back left: Richard Baudin (Chair); Julian Eardley (Secretary); Stephanie Young Alison O'Neill (Treasurer); Chris Mofardin, Jenny McCarthy; Della Hirons and our best production yet, Joshua.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-49023779295760613342014-03-21T10:45:00.000+00:002014-03-21T10:49:00.045+00:00Future Truths<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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In these chilly, grey, late-winter days, Christine and I
inspire ourselves by living future truths. There is a West End production of my
play <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Torches</i>. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Home Movies </i>is a series on line. Our televised adaptation of a
Virginia Woolf novel, to which actor Billie Piper is attached (present truth,
yipeee), is green-lit.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These are professional plans. And, for me, there is romance.
These latter months I have been on dates and gathering ‘date-a’ (thank you,
Woking, I’m here all week), knowing more and more clearly what I don’t want in
a lover. Which, of course, is only half the equation. That’s fine, Chuckles,
the universe says – but what <i>do</i> you <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">want?</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I consider myself profoundly blessed
among women, lucky enough to have had a glimpse of a model for a future married
bliss, an image I received four summers ago, that still serves:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the possibility of a life that hovered in
warm August sun, over a French lake, on a fast boat as I gazed at a movie star.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For 30 seconds.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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You gotta start somewhere.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It began innocently enough. ‘Do you want to come to France?’
my dear friend Jennifer asked. ‘We’d love to have you.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did not have to consider this request for long. Did I want
to come to their Swiss chalet on the lake with bedrooms that opened onto a
veranda whence one could see mountains and still, turquoise waters?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I am not sectionable, I said yes. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got on a plane, was driven 40 minutes through the dark
from Geneva airport to arrive at the huge Heidi-house – green-shuttered,
window- boxed – and was led into the dining room where a table that could seat
25 was seating – well – 25 and groaning under the biggest game of poker I had
ever beheld.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was greeted warmly, introduced to the heaving mountain of
breads, cheeses, condiments and pastries that were on offer throughout the
week, was led to the BEST bedroom in the house – complete with piano - and
forced into my bathing suit for a night swim.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I awoke the next morning to the smell of croissants and
coffee.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At 11:00 am we cycled, en masse, ten minutes along the lake
– parents, adolescents, single friends – to arrive at a marina. Our host had
arranged for all the kids and anyone else who fancied a go, to learn to wakeboard.
The kids were hysterical, their parents delighted (there were drinks in the café).<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif";"> You could hear mater and pater
chuckling to themselves as they ordered their pale beers and delicate
cocktails, pushing their children into life jackets and onto the boat.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I have a healthy respect for my corporeal self, I passed
on the wakeboarding and asked the driver, in French, if I could join the
spectators in the back of his vessel and WATCH these under-age maniacs flirt
with their untimely ends.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Mais bien sur,’ he said, gallant. ‘A pleasure.’</div>
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<br /></div>
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The sky was Chagall-blue and the water jade green. The day
was hot, and soft and mossy trees flanked the mountains. The boat went fast and
the younger kids hung on to the sides, shrieking with delight, as brothers and
sisters rose slowly from the water, like Neptune’s children, up for a sight of
the dry earth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two hours and 14 laps of the lake later, the last eligible
child had run her course, was peeling off her wet suit and the boat – with me
in it like a dog, almost panting, hoping for another go around the block - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>sat idling at the dock.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Quelqu’un d’autre?’ the thickset, dark-haired driver called
out, looking at the unpromising collection of adults, doped with the heat on
chaises longues. ‘Enee one elss?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Yes, I’ll have a go.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The voice was resonant and clear. I turned from my spot in
the back to see one of the house guests rise, spry and limber, holding a
daughter by the hand as he came to the edge of the dock.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a Uni mate of my hostess. Just another friend invited
with his family for the summer break. Well, that’s what he was to everyone
else. To me he was, and is, the cripplingly charismatic and unendingly charming
actor Jason Isaacs. Lucius Malfoy to you H.Potter followers, alumnus of the
National Theatre, a new NBC series out this spring. Good actor, good guy. This
hot August afternoon he was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sans</i> long,
white wig and Flintlock pistol and just having a quiet week with his wife and
kids. Just quietly hanging around being cripplingly charismatic and unendingly
charming.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I find him so charismatic, in fact, that I choke on my own saliva
when I try to speak to him, my knees forget their purpose is to hold me up, turn
to blanc mange and I blotch. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
JI doesn’t notice because he is modest as well as unendingly
charming, probably just turns and murmurs to his wife as I lurch out of the
room’ Who is that woman with the speech impediment?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He arrived at the edge of the dock, handed his daughter and
her camera into the boat then turned to suit up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wheeled away. I spoke as much French as I could to the
driver who was surprised but polite in the face of my sudden interest in his
working life. ‘Vous travaillez chaque jour? Et c’est comment, vous aimez votre
metier?’ I kept my eyes fixed on his face, willing myself not to watch Jason
getting into a wet suit. This just wasn’t something I needed to see as a single
woman sleeping alone in a chalet on an Alpine lake. He called out ‘Ready!’ and
as the boat slowly turned I could see him poised on the wake board,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>grinning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Haven’t been on skis in seven years!’ he shouted to someone
on the deck.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘We’ll all enjoy watching you drown,’ someone called back,
lifting a glass of a light French wine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But after four and a half seconds<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- ‘No, no never done this before’ Jason
confirmed to the driver who then throttled up and hurled us into the middle of
the lake<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- it became patently obvious
that Jason wasn’t going to drown. He was going to dominate. And with style.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Within moments he was standing. Within moments of standing
he was traversing the wakes. Within moments of traversing the wakes, he was
doing it all with ONE HAND.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His daughter laughed and filmed, calling out to him in his
wet suit – oh.my.god. in his wet suit– flanked by fountains of water and a sky
split by mountain tops.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I breathed in. I felt the beauty of the created world around
me, the melting warmth of the sun and the sting of water on my face and hands. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watched this poised, strong, fit, athletic,
cripplingly charismatic man navigate with unbridled joy the peaks and valleys
of the lake under his feet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The driver glanced over his shoulder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Il va bien,’ he shouted, nodding at Jason. ‘’Ee iss good.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Oui, oui!’ I said with the alacrity of someone who wants to
share her obsession. ‘Il va tres bien.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Et c’est sa premiere fois? It is a first time? Magnifique.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Oui!’ I shouted. Not wanting the conversation to end.
‘Formidable!’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jason, still grinning, veered off to the far side of the
boat, throbbed on the waters for a moment before turning to the middle of the
wake where the waves were highest, flexed his knees and, with the ease of a
young cheetah, leapt into high into the air. And there hung for breathless
minutes, a scuba-suited Baryshnikov, frozen immortal in the mind’s eye, before
landing, upright, chest high, head thrown back in glee.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The driver had been
watching too and, at the sight of my mute, admiring face, nodded, smiled and
then called out <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Il est votre mari?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wasn’t sure I’d heard properly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Pardon?’ I said, squinting in the sun that, combined with
the effect of Jason’s <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- animal spirits <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- was making me dizzy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Lui, la bas. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Him. Il
est votre mari? He iss your ‘usband?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My brow furrowed. The clouds tilted. I clamoured for
traction in this wholly unexpected and impossible world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not so much aghast at the reality suggested
by this question, playing out on red carpets, hotels and opening nights across
the world, over croissants where I am The Wife of Jason Isaacs but more in the
thought that arose directly after: do I present as someone who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">could</i> be the wife of someone who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> Jason Isaacs??</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And is she someone I could be? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*** </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Christine and I are extremely excited at the future truths
we are plotting now, the scripts that are the blueprint for productions to
come. The readings will be riotous fun, the pitching is a hoot. We are meeting
directors for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Home Movies </i>and at this
point it is a mental game. The work has been developed, the scripts are sound
and our job is to move forward into the realities we have already created. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Through all of this, in my quiet moments, I choose to be just
as excited by the thought of the romance I am drawing to me – the colleague who
is hilarious, loves Tolstoy, hockey and sex on the kitchen table, a helpmeet who
adores my family and shares his with me; a companion on a bicycle who quotes
Seinfeld and knows Austen and as I prepare to meet him<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>my heart is warmed and inspired, knowing all things
are possible. Knowing, whatever else is going on in my love life, on a green
lake under a blue sky in high French summer – <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>at least in the mind of a friendly and conversational
boat driver – I was the wife of Jason Isaacs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a wet suit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that’ll get me through to spring.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="http://nd05.jxs.cz/660/340/d1a4b007c6_86979225_o2.jpg" class="decoded" src="http://nd05.jxs.cz/660/340/d1a4b007c6_86979225_o2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ever-lovely Jason</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-43652233354371304952013-10-04T15:31:00.000+01:002013-10-04T18:44:58.566+01:00Fear and the Ducati
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’m
dating a 6’2” Glaswegian with a motorbike. Three weeks ago I sent him an email
with the subject heading </span><br />
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br />
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">‘I Am, Like, So Superficial’</span> </span><br />
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br />
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">and wrote<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">'I
want to see you in your leathers’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He
showed up three days later on a big, motherschtupper of a bike, kitted with
gear and a spare set of leathers he demanded I put on. Well, mine weren’t
leathers – they were reinforced Gortex with more zips than an Air Force
jumpsuit – but I managed to catch a glimpse of myself in the window of a Land
Rover, ostensibly to clip on the helmet, and although no one would have
mistaken me for Lucy Liu in Charlie’s Angels, neither would I have been taken
for a black nylon, moon-suited incarnation of the Michelin Man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Why
do you have such tiny clothes?’ I asked as the wrists, waist and collar all
snapped snugly into place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘For
my daughter,’ he said, putting on his helmet. He paused and grinned. ‘And my
girlfriends.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Contrary
to received ideas on this subject, I like hearing men I’m dating have had other
girlfriends. Multiple girlfriends, even.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Heck, wives. I benefit hugely from all the awareness my sisters have
infused into the vocabulary, attitude and sexual confidence of the guy I’m
going home with.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I wish
one of those girlfriends or wives, however, had carved a little message onto
the back of the Glaswegian’s helmet that I could read before I was riding
pillion on the M25 going 70 mph: ‘This man is a maniacal speed freak and he
will try to kill you.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I must
say, at the outset, that there is nothing more relative than the experience of
speed and time. Einstein knew it and pointed it out and we’ve been toasting him
in our GPS-equipped vehicles ever since (apparently without Einstein’s special
law of relativity the satellites could not coordinate accurately with your car
and would be narrating your journey to Brighton with the cheery announcement,
as you pulled into a disused lay-by at Chorlton-cum-Hardy, that you had Reached
Your Destination.) I understand the fly sees the world in slow motion and
that’s how it’s able to avoid the swatter. One woman’s saunter is another
woman’s dash. I get it. However.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This
awareness did not make for a less gut-quakingly, bowel-clenchingly,
artery-hardeningly terrifying experience when the Glaswegian, who up till this
point had obviously just been puttering along, now decided,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>crouching over the engine of his royal blue
Ducati, to make good use of a bit of open motorway and speed up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I could have sworn that he started to hum. Some tuneless
little melody speed freaks obviously sing as they trifle, murderously, with the
psyche of their passengers. All of me pressed up against quite-a-bit-of-him
could feel his shoulders, back and legs quivering with increasing delight. He
was in heaven.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Whereas
I couldn’t hear the traffic around us because of the throat-rending
screams inside my head. I couldn’t feel my arms around the Glaswegian’s waist
because my body was sending all useful blood to my vital organs. I was on the
verge of losing consciousness, not because I was somehow channelling the airman
whose uniform I seemed to be wearing and was pulling G, but because going that
fast so close to the ground was an experience I just wanted to get away from.
How could I make this stop? And suddenly, in a blinding flash of insight, the
answer occurred to me:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jump
Off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It’s at
this point in the narrative that I’m reminded of what it’s like, at times, to
be a writer co-running a production company.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
Christine,
my producer and I, are rather ambitious. Very, in fact. In truth, our desires
for our work hurtle at breakneck speed across the cosmos of our lives. <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We adore
developing scripts. We thrill at the casting and hiring of actors, are gleeful
producing films and working with directors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We are passionate about our mission to showcase women over 35 and have
attracted a board of directors (with credentials up the wazoo) who support us. </span>And
want a worldwide audience for the stories we love to tell.<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">These
dreams are fast dreams. And if we don't keep up, if we look down, we can tense up, get scared and want to abort. In mid leap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Yesterday
I dropped off a script we’ve been refining for the whole three years of our
incorporation (and that I’d been redrafting for the seven years previous)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>at a good London theatre with West End
connections. The day was weirdly warm, I had to take off my coat and scarf
after dismounting from and parking my bike, and as I strode up to the theatre,
glancing at the five star reviews on the posters in the window, sporting names
like ‘Anthony Sher’ and ‘Anton Chekov’ and before I opened the doors I
thought<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘What if they don’t like it?
What if they say ‘No’? What if I <em>fail</em>?’ Part of my brain shouted ‘Get back
on the bike! Go home! Go to bed! Go to sleep! FOR YEARS.’ Because sleeping is
something I can do quite well. And no one ever tells me my sleeping isn’t what
they’re looking for or something they’re already producing, but many thanks for
letting us see it and good luck elsewhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But.
There just isn’t that much uninhibited, heart-launchingly, spirit-quickeningly,
life affirming joy in sleeping. And desire and ambition as intense, as fuelled,
as large as ours require another technique. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
Glaswegian slowed down to neatly duck the cluster of cars ahead and I gasped a
whisper of air into my lungs, allowing some blood to flow back to my brain
which gave me the resources to question the wisdom of avoiding terror by
leaping under the oncoming rubber, chrome and steel, leaving my heart – and
lungs and kidneys - in Buckinghamshire forever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We took the
next exit and, idling at a traffic light I lifted my visor with a shaking hand
and whimpered ‘That’s a bit fast for me.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He put a
warm, gloved hand on my thigh, nodded, and from that point on we had a
leisurely motor through green and pleasant countryside. Over a sapid pub lunch,
apologising for my wimpiness, I reconfirmed we Wouldn’t Go That Fast Again. He
was receptive and kind and assured me we wouldn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘I
was just trying it out,’ he said smiling. ‘Different passengers, different
speeds.’ I wondered if he was thinking of other, racier girlfriends. I imagined
them, clutching his middle and urging him on to greater and wilder miles per
hour. I saluted them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘How can you enjoy it?’ I said, my lunch all
the tastier after the adrenalin rush. ‘How come that doesn’t scare the fuck out
of you?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He
didn’t have to think about it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘I’m
relaxed,’ he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Which,
in the face of both raging artistic desires and land-speed-record-breaking
motorway journeys, seems like a pretty good choice.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdx76n0UreL6xTYYA0iYUqc1MDet3mk4UQfXwmpw0CU7WseF4jnIr9JCUtisPpZbIjTh-mqDUQCJaOYDnxlqimSZryxfETpdC22pFQWpi1HJVnoccS7ZEnRNpZVDysWrrA6ovRTikdxmwh/s1600/Fear+and+the+Ducati+relativity+equation.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdx76n0UreL6xTYYA0iYUqc1MDet3mk4UQfXwmpw0CU7WseF4jnIr9JCUtisPpZbIjTh-mqDUQCJaOYDnxlqimSZryxfETpdC22pFQWpi1HJVnoccS7ZEnRNpZVDysWrrA6ovRTikdxmwh/s320/Fear+and+the+Ducati+relativity+equation.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The equation used to get you to Brighton. From outer space.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-69417027461871975382013-08-15T11:09:00.000+01:002014-04-10T12:22:12.274+01:00Awards<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]-->I like awards. I think they’re fun. They’re fun to get and
they’re fun to give.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I believe in the
innate justice of the universe, I figure anyone who gets an award has put
themselves in the position to receive it and<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
should </i>get it. Bravo I say.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The friend I know with the most awards –<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>his office shelves are in danger of
collapsing onto the head of the receptionist and knocking her unconscious in
the middle of ordering his lunch – laughed about what it would be like if
EVERYONE got an Oscar. Just for showing up on the red carpet in front of those
art deco columns.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Hello, welcome, here is your Oscar. Aaaaaaaaaaaand -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>one for your husband! He does what? Data
entry? Fabulous! We <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">love</i> his work.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Obviously there are some who think that universal award-giving
deflates the value of the award. But I don’t agree. Universal oxygen does not
deflate the value of having it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This posits that winning an award is tantamount to
breathing. When in fact what I want to suggest is that breathing is tantamount
to winning an award. We just don’t think of it that way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not until someone has shoved a pillow over our face or our
SCUBA gear has packed up at six fathoms deep. Then, if Jack Nicholson were to
show up in a designer submarine, brandishing an Oscar and mouthing the words
‘Congratulations!’ while offering <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">air </i>to
the schmuck in the suit next to you – you wouldn’t feel like a winner. You’d
think ‘Jack! Throw me a tank! I don’t NEED the statue! I don’t WANT the statue,
it’s HEAVY, I’ll take the Air!!’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But no, you hadn’t been nominated for oxygen. Only for Best
Supporting Actor in Best Short Film Live Action (Two Reels).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Awards are in the eyes of the beholder. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I worked in prisons on and off for three years. I
facilitated workshops for The Forgiveness Project, a glorious organisation that
explores forgiveness through real stories – stories of people who have
experienced criminal trauma and made the decision to forgive. The guys who took
the course often lived on the ragged edge of life, exposed to treatment that would have levelled creatures of a lesser species. At the
end of the three-day workshop every participant got a certificate of
attendance. An award. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We sat in a circle, 25 of us. We’d bonded, after our three
days of hearing and telling stories, doing role play and reading journal entries,
and no one wanted to leave. The prison governor stood at the front of the
room calling names. One of our staff stood beside him, giving the certificates
and shaking hands. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The men would rise from their chairs as their names were
called, to huge applause. They beamed. Some cried. One confided, gazing at the paper that had been printed off in the
Forgiveness Project office two days earlier, ‘I’ve never won a thing in my
life.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We get to decide what counts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was in Paris last month, visiting the city with my family
who had flown from Canada to spend the season in Europe. I don’t see them often
enough and every moment in their company is a joy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Strolling down the streets of Montparnasse en route to an
evening by the Seine, my sister asked ‘What’s on your bucket list, Steph? What
do you want to do before you die?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve thought about this. My answers were quick to hand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I’d like to learn to tie knots,’ I said. ‘You know, good
ones. I want to speak fluent French. And I’d like to win a BAFTA.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That is an award from the British Academy of Film and
Television Arts. I think it would look good on my desk. Well, I don’t actually
have a desk but if I had a desk, it would look good on it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My sister was two steps behind. She quickened her stride
to catch up. She looked down into my face, her eyebrows raised. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘A <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bathtub</i>?’ she said. (She’s from Canada.
They have different awards.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two days later we were ascending the charming and
history-steeped streets of Montmartre, six of us looking for a café with a
view and good food, maybe tables in the shade. I was arm-in-arm with my bilingual
nieces, trying to get them to speak French so I could pick it up, when I felt a
hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw my sister pointing straight ahead.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘There it is, Steph!! Just what you wanted!’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked in the direction she indicated. I saw what she
meant. I ran up the hill, my family followed, I stood before them and made my speech. And as humbled and
honoured as I was to win what you see on the bottom right of your screen –
a life’s goal, my heart’s desire – I think the greatest achievement I could
ever hope to know is the love and faith of the six hilarious, kind-hearted,
generous-spirited supporters and fans recording the event for posterity:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEircWwiJCBl61DTapRx3T_ntaJgpKSLcV0Kg_9QEc_KmLc5OZ1-HovVmTe28I-w5jJxeubXEz5FHBDxamBl7zVRF2KXUeq2NSOg0ontTLxT_IX76QOZt4Yiw_XQqDjifGMilDptT9BMv7XM/s1600/2013+Paris+Steph+Wins+BAFTA.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEircWwiJCBl61DTapRx3T_ntaJgpKSLcV0Kg_9QEc_KmLc5OZ1-HovVmTe28I-w5jJxeubXEz5FHBDxamBl7zVRF2KXUeq2NSOg0ontTLxT_IX76QOZt4Yiw_XQqDjifGMilDptT9BMv7XM/s1600/2013+Paris+Steph+Wins+BAFTA.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stephanie wins her first Bathtub. (Photo by Graham Young)</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-52191737338672106572013-07-15T18:25:00.000+01:002013-07-15T18:25:13.526+01:00Summer Romance (Some Are Not)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]-->The nights are long, the air fragrant and summer is finally
swishing its skirts around us in London , which means MYPC is about to
celebrate its third year of incorporation with a Board of Directors’ picnic on
Saturday.<br />
<br />
We will drink champagne and eat innumerable chutney and
pickle sandwiches. Settling back onto the gingham blanket, dodging French
tourists and kicking the prams out of our light, I will tell the Board my most
recent <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Urban Tale of Men and Music</i>. As we pass the cheesy snacks, I will turn to their six well-fed, attentive
faces and begin the story of<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 class="MsoSubtitle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Guy in the Grey
Tailored Suit</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’d met on line last autumn. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d exchanged quirky details. He took my cue
and refused to use emoticons in our instant messages but described the
emoticons we, in the free cyberworld, SHOULD have. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For instance, I’d mistakenly referred to
Highgate as being in Zone Two and he wrote</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Wait, isn't Highgate
Zone 3? (insert ahem-cough-cough face here)</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Me: That was one of the best verbalised emoticons I've ever seen.
(Eyebrows-raised-head-nodding-respect face here.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Him: Why thank-you (insert
hands-in-pockets-while-avoiding-eye-contact-and-kicking-softly-at-nothing-in-particular-in-a-golly-shucks-kinda-way
emoticon here)</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was American, cripplingly well-educated, adored opera <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> thrash and, when he sent a photo,
jolly nice looking. He was a former professional athlete, loved dogs and wrote
well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What was not to like?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll tell you what. He lived in New York. Do you know how
difficult it is to get home in time for the last chai tea at Starbucks in NW8 when
you’re cycling from New York?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had emailed intensely for the best part of a month before
I realised, sadly, I wasn’t going to meet him any time soon and, with a
weakness for three-dimensional relationships, I told EmotiLogos Guy I was
leaving the site and sent him my email address, in case he wanted to stay in
touch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t hear from him again but that seemed fair enough. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every now and then I wondered how he was. When I heard about
stem cell research or the mapping of the genome (Geneticist, PhD) and that we
are more closely related to mice than any of us had ever been willing to admit,
I was sorry not to have him to ask. But he’d become a corporate lawyer and
wasn’t in London and I had to wade through Science Daily on my own – (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Novel Nanoparticle Delivers Powerful RNA
Interference Drugs!</i> – how was I to make s sense of THAT without HIM?)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then out of the blue, five months later (three weeks ago today)–
he wrote. It seemed a shame we’d never met. He was in town. Would I like to
grab dinner?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I said yes, immediately. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Any guy who puts nineteen hyphens in one sentence just for a
yuck is someone a girl wants to meet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
**</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I recognised him immediately from the photo. Tall,
blue-eyed, full mouth. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stood up and
went to kiss me but the table was too big between us, so we settled for a very
firm North American hand shake.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I wanted to get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>
table’ he said, indicating a place on the other side of the restaurant, ‘but
they’ve said it’s reserved. No one is sitting there now. If no one sits there
all night, I’m going to take issue.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You should,’ I said, sitting down and putting the starched
white napkin in my lap. ‘Take issue, take umbrage. Take as much offense as you
can get and hold onto all evening. That’ll be fun. For <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">both</i> of us.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He smiled. (He’s North American, he lives in New York. They
are down with the insults.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
After asking him if he wanted to hear a geneticist’s joke (“Why are tertiary
structures selfish? Because the amino acids are all wrapped up in themselves.”)
and seeing him duck his head to laugh I realised we were going to have a nice
time.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because even by this point<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>- and we’re talking three? four minutes in? - I was pretty sure that he
didn’t find me actively repulsive and wasn’t quietly texting his axe-wielding ex-girlfriend
to say All Is Forgiven Please Call. There were tell-tale signs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tell-tale signs I confirmed on Google the moment I got home
(‘Body Language To Tell if A Man Likes You’), having caught <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">myself</i> in mid-meal <b>stroking my own ear lobes.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, dear reader. I was looking at him and unconsciously
having foreplay with myself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was
just after dinner. We were onto pudding that he had craftily arranged for me to
have by promising to have some himself and then not having any, which was just
as well because I really wanted all of it, and I found myself leaning on the
table, listening to him and stroking my ear lobes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Holy frajole,’ I thought to myself. ‘This is body language.
I am expressing a great deal here without verbalised emoticons or genetic jokes
and I Had No Idea.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He kept ducking his head, adorably, to laugh when I was
hilarious – almost as though he didn’t want to be seen to be vulnerable in the
face of my comic genius – and when I spoke of something I knew no one on earth
had ever ventured to discuss (‘Dude, a fight between a cave man and an
astronaut would definitely go to the astronaut!’) he raised his eyebrows and
soaked me in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A slightly surprised, quizzical expression means he finds
you fascinating,” the web site confirmed. I get that a lot. I’m going with
fascinating and not abnormal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He is an epicure and managed to convince me, as no man has
in almost ten years, to have a drink after dinner.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I don’t drink when I’m with other people,’ I confessed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Up with the eyebrows. There I was, being fascinating again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You drink – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">alone?’</i>
Ah. Maybe I was just sociopathic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Well, no – yes, I guess, but only to sleep. If I am going
to have a drink, it’s not wine. That brings me out in hives. You don’t want to
see that. It’s not a good look.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You don’t know that. I might find your urticarial disorder
compelling.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course. PhD. Geneticist.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Welts?’ I clarified.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He shrugged in a ‘seen-a-million-of-em’ kind of way and showed
me the menu.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Risk this.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He pointed to a Scotch with a French-sounding name that cost
more than my week’s grocery budget. He must have seen me blanch because he took
the menu away and said one of the most alluring things I’ve ever heard from a
man I’ve only known for 87 minutes. He looked at me across the table cluttered
with glass and silverware, every surface reflecting gold in the dim light,
leaned forward slightly and asked <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Do you trust me?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
**</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two and a half hours later he leaned back in his chair and
said ‘This is what a dinner should be. Relaxed, good food, good conversation.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘And a great deal of jewellery-fiddling’ I thought to
myself. Apparently women have a collection of almost thirty gestures indicating
physical interest (men have 10), but <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it
is a sure-fire, tell-tale sign that she likes you if she plays with what she’s
wearing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn’t keep my hands off the choker around my neck, even
when I knew I was doing it. As though I was imagining his former-professional-athlete’s
hands on the skin at my throat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We left the restaurant and emerged into the warm,
cobalt-blue night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now that we were walking together I could see he was tall –
taller even than I’d thought at dinner, although lusciously, he had perfect
posture. A guy who sits up straight rocks my world (my dad was in the military)(which means I also respond well to a fly-past) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> it can be
evidence of interest. When a man likes you, he stands taller, extends his chest.
Even in three-inch heels my head was well below his shoulder. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Wow, he must <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i>
like me,’ I thought, a little excited, feeling I was in with a chance (forgetting,
conveniently, that he’s 6’2”: no matter how much he likes you, he can’t
actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gain height</i> during the
evening).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We strolled easily together and every now and then I glanced
at him and was able, for the first time, to really absorb and apprehend what he
was wearing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a grey tailored suit. Or I assume it was tailored as I'd never seen anything like it in the window of a shop. The jacket
had seemed nice enough while he was sitting down but now that he was walking I
could see the effect of the whole and as we strode down the pavement towards my
bicycle I underwent a most perplexing and disorienting experience.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was becoming aroused. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it was the suit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It owed a great deal to the ‘mod’ retro look, now popular
but without seeming trendy or flash. It was fitted and he filled it out. The
trousers were narrow and his shoes tapered – but not annoyingly so. The jacket
was almost tight. The cut was deeply pleasing, as though the tailor had just done
away with everything that didn’t fit and was left with this perfection of a
garment on what, by the time I was unlocking my bicycle and trying to speak
coherently, was beginning to look like the perfection of a man.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I fumbled with the key and prayed not to drop it or
accidentally re-lock my bike to my leg. For the first time that evening I felt
nervous, self-conscious. Here was a new and surprising truth I had to admit to
myself: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was sexually attracted to his
clothes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Describing the experience to Our Publicist a week later I
said ‘I – I was moved. I felt this rush – this thrill – right in my thorax.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I don’t think it was your thorax darling,’ he said.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
He watched me liberate my bike then bent down to help with
the cable. It was the closest I’d been to his silk-blend slim-fit sleeves. I
needed a distraction and how, before I lunged for the shirt-collar or tried to
steal his socks (also stylish). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Aren’t these shoes great? Do you like the sound?’ I clopped
eagerly across the street, slapping my wedge heels on the pavement. ‘I’m
recreating 19<sup>th</sup> century London. I’m a minute I’ll rear up and try to
pound you into the cobblestones. How <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">authentic.</i>’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was a very good sport and said yes, he liked that horse-hoof
sound, gosh - wasn’t I entertaining? But as I walked him to his hotel, now,
perhaps, getting carried away -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>clicking
my tongue, chomping my teeth – I tried to head butt him into traffic at one
point, just for verisimilitude - I panicked. What information was I communicating?
Does the extensive research into female mating rituals include ‘Animal
mimicry?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We stood for a moment under a lamp standard, the handsome
facade of his hotel silhouetted against the twilight of a late spring sky and
after very swift kisses, one to each cheek, he said ‘I’ll call you when I’m
back in London.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was a month ago and he hasn’t rung. I half-suspect he
won’t and again, I would understand. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s possible he clocked the ear-rubbing and
the necklace-fondling but a woman overwhelmed by the sensuous appeal of a
perfect lapel evinces behaviour no website is going to describe. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m telling myself it’s just as well. (‘Come on. What guy
isn’t charmed by a horse impersonator?’ Chris, my producer has asked.) He lives
in New York, we are worlds apart and - let’s face it – it’s hard to progress in
a romantic relationship if you’re begging the guy to keep his clothes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">on</i>.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-43596693446235370672013-05-24T16:51:00.000+01:002013-05-24T16:51:08.105+01:00Dreams and Joss<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I’ve been struggling a bit recently. I’ve been losing faith.
Things seem to be taking too long: romantically, professionally. Financially.
Not in a wandering-in-the-wilderness way, I’m not in the boggy slime of
despair, I see possibility, still. It’s all just - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">qualified</i>. So, for instance, I love someone who loves me, but we
never seem to love each other at the same time. My work is being considered at
the highest levels of commissioning in the Queendom, but no word yet. And I
have money coming in but I can’t buy the yacht. </div>
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<br /></div>
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True, a month ago I had the best birthday ever in my whole
life, I found out a talented actor of fame and renown is attached to one of my
scripts and in January- remember team? -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I flew back to London from Canada <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">first
class.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Still, I showed up at the MYPC office yesterday,
struggling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Christine, my producer, fed
me tea and lunch and shared my chocolate and listened. She heard how discouraged I felt, how I was losing confidence. She was sympathetic and she didn't give advice (best producer, best friend, best <i>choice</i>).</div>
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<br /></div>
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The next day I found an email from her entitled ‘For moments of doubt’. I opened it and read:</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Print it out, pin it
on your wall. It's all we need to remember:</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFc3qWmq9tbCOvYgL4OhbnuIw73nSetO64qtfyPWkSRcoCcTWlicoXWLF5FOYNwSdO-aLcqX84STXtzo_VRrZtNbfX8jWjo1emBseyC05lcysxiEAcVE5GzYb4miRwH7HeMxxuZku682Qj/s1600/Joss+Inspiration+Photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="481" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFc3qWmq9tbCOvYgL4OhbnuIw73nSetO64qtfyPWkSRcoCcTWlicoXWLF5FOYNwSdO-aLcqX84STXtzo_VRrZtNbfX8jWjo1emBseyC05lcysxiEAcVE5GzYb4miRwH7HeMxxuZku682Qj/s640/Joss+Inspiration+Photo.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I cried. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because this is a photo of Joss Whedon. Do you know who Joss Whedon
is? He directed <i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Avengers Assemble</span></i> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(third biggest grossing movie of all time,
over $1bn worldwide) and his adaptation of <i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Much
Ado About Nothing</span> </i>opens in UK cinemas on 14<sup>th</sup> June. He created,
wrote and directed <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><i>Buffy, The Vampire
Slayer, Angel, Firefly, Dollhouse</i> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and the galactically brilliant model for all
superior web-series to come, <i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dr
Horrible’s Sing Along Blog.</span></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So he’s a talented writer, director and series-launcher. But
the world is full of them. You throw a dart the width of a laser-beam in Soho
and you hit 20 talented writer/director/series-launchers. Joss is more than
that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He’s a visionary who bets on love. And he wins. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He hasn’t always. He has had series cancelled (<i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Angel</span>, <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Firefly</span></i>), his original film script for <i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Buffy</span></i> was so extensively re-written that he disowned the movie and was
kept in the dark about the producers’ plans for his non-realised version of <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><i>Wonder Woman</i>. </span>He said in an interview
with <i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maxim</span></i> magazine:</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I wrote a script. I
rewrote the story. And by the time I’d written the second script, they asked
me…not to. [</span><i>Laughs</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">] They didn’t tell
me to leave, but they showed me the door and how pretty it was.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His experience in mainstream cinema was chequered, his
desires for his stories on television felt constrained by studio decisions. He
was and, in the UK still is, a cult figure who has to be introduced. But he <i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">has</span></i> to be introduced. And I’m
introducing you to him now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because Joss never gives up. He has kept his eye, his heart,
his cosmic-sized energy on the stories he wants to tell. He is in love with
feeling. He revels in the human struggle to be whole, to be known. He sets
things on space ships and in mutant worlds of super heroes and vampires but he cares
most about how a teenage girl feels the night after she makes love for the very
first time and the guy never calls back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If Jane Austen finds the extraordinary in the ordinary, Joss
finds the ordinary in the supernatural, and they meet in the same still point
of the turning world: where the human being gropes towards her unseen greatness.
Felt, but hidden, the heroine battles monsters, machines, cold-hearted
bureaucrats and malevolent institutions, all to discover there is something no
one can hurt and that she need not defend: the bigger, stronger, better self
who calls to her on the other side of the pain.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joss knows you don’t give up on that self. What would be the
point? It’s all there is. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I subscribe to a series of inspiring on-line quotes that
arrive in my in-tray every morning. I like them. They cheer me,
focus me and remind me what I’m doing. After I received
Christine’s JossPoster, I opened the <i>Quote for Today</i>:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When a child has a
dream and a parent says, "It's not financially feasible; you can't make a
living at that; don't do it," we say to the child, run away from home...
You must follow <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">your</span> dream. You
will never be joyful if you don't. Your dream may change, but you've got to
stay after your dreams.</span> <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You have to.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">**</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
About ten months ago I dreamt I had left my bag on the top
floor of the London Film School. I was in a bathroom in the basement washing my
hands when I realised the bag was missing (though luckily, not my valuables),
and I knew, annoyingly, I would have to ascend flights of stairs to get it back.
When I glanced in the mirror I saw to my amazement that I looked like -Joss. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, you might think it isn’t cool for a woman to look like
the guy in the photo above: hirsutely-challenged and growing a beard, but I was
thrilled. ‘I look like Joss’ I said to myself in the dream. ‘I love this, I
love looking like this.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I stared at my Joss-Face I thought of all the work I wanted
to produce and the people I wanted to produce it with, all the characters I
love and the reality I wanted them to have; I thought of my desire to feel the
joy of telling the story of a heroine who doesn’t give up, who only knows
herself because she has breathed through the pain, no matter what monsters or
bureaucrats or fears arise. I thought all of this as I looked, fixedly,
pointedly at my JossSelf in the mirror. I felt better. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, because of this dream, ten months ago, I realise I am now able to answer Christine's deathless question 'What would Joss do?' for, as I felt better, my Joss-reflection smiled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then winked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
********</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Favourite Joss moment:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=98HJzNC3I3s">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=98HJzNC3I3s</a> </div>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Daily Quote from A. Hicks workshop </span>San Diego, CA on February 7. 2004</i></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-84834960923928090822013-03-06T14:15:00.001+00:002013-03-13T15:53:18.211+00:00First ClassMofardin Young Production Company has a publicist. Yes, a
publicist. We didn’t even know how to spell it last summer and this winter we
attracted a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">publicist.</i><br />
<br />
If you think this didn’t make Chris and me dance in the
streets of Soho and sing ‘Everything’s Comin’ Up Roses and Daffodils’ then you
don’t know us.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Actually, you’re right about Chris. She whipped off her cap,
threw pennies in and shouted ‘Roll up, roll up’ (ever the producer) (we made
£1.20). But we were both high with feeling.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We met Our Publicist (OP) in Soho House last October. The
entrance to this private members’ club is so exclusive that you could mistake
it for the goods’ entrance of Tesco if you didn’t know better. And I didn’t
know better, having to ask directions not once but three times on my way to the
meeting – twice inside the club itself. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The House is a renovated 19<sup>th</sup> century building, a
rabbit warren of half-landings and mysterious floors that vanish when you look
away, reappearing at another level, doors that lead to screening rooms, dining
rooms, the kitchen or possibly Tesco (I haven’t opened them all yet). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘It’s this way,’ Chris said that Wednesday autumn afternoon,
standing half-way up the stairs on the second floor, looking towards a
roped-off room. ‘We’re meeting him in there.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘It’s roped off,’ I said, vaguely.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I peered through another open doorway at handsome
people leaning over good-looking drinks and better-looking computers surrounded
by muted green walls, leaning on soft linen table cloths.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I don’t think that’s it,’ she said, unsure. ‘It’s too dark.
We wouldn’t meet him in a room that dark. Let’s ask someone.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was about to interrupt one of the friendly staff in starched
white shirts moving past us with trays and clipboards when I stopped her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘What are we going to say? “Where’s our publicist”?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(We realised two meetings later that Opie spends so much
time in Soho House that you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can</i> ask
for him by name. They run a card through the computer, look at the screen and
say ‘Ah. Third floor. Say hi.’)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the end we closed our eyes, held our breath and fell into
a room of scrubbed oak floors and teal furnishings, heaving with animated
conversation and casual designer jackets and jeans. A table by the window was
free.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We sat down and ordered tea from the pretty girl who waved
the menus towards us then, courteous, pulled them away again when it was clear
‘tea’ was it for us. We’d budgeted 20 minutes max. Opie was a busy guy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘What does he look like?’ Chris said, glancing across the
room at the heads lowered over Notepads and iPads and lined yellow pads,
everyone writing and drinking and talking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You don’t know?’ I panicked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘How could I ask?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You say “What do you look like?”’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris sneered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘What if he has a club foot or something?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘He might just not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mention</i>
the foot. He might say ‘Oh, I’m 5’10’, blue eyes, slim. A tattoo of a snake on
my face.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I’ll look for the snake,’ Chris said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seven minutes later a slim, blue-eyed, attractive young man
– 5’10”, no snake on his face – showed up at our table, smiling, warm, eager,
asking if I was Christine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘No,’ I said. Accurate as ever. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A pause threatened.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I am,’ Chris said quickly, smiling and we shook hands.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He led us upstairs - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘much roomier’, he said - ascending by way of ladder-like
steps, as though we’d emerge into someone’s attic or the deck of HMS Victory , but
instead finding ourselves in a smaller but emptier room with French windows
that looked onto a terrace.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our tea had mysteriously followed us up and was placed,
lovingly in front of us by invisible hands as Opie ordered a coffee, beamed at
us and said</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘So!’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, reader, I was in love. His dynamism, enthusiasm,
open-heartedness – all of this was evident in that monosyllable. ‘So!’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(He is also cute which every man ought to be
if he possibly can.)(Yes, yes, he’s gay but gayness has never kept anyone from
enjoying cuteness.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wanting to make the most of our twenty minutes, we charged
into a <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>history of the company, described
our half-dozen projects, and got ready to show Opie our new tag line and
mission statement, expecting an ‘Oh yes, fine’ or ‘Maybe a larger font?’ Instead
he looked us brightly in the face and said ‘Right. Which is your favourite
project?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took a small breath. This was unexpected.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next to ‘Do you want chocolate sauce on your chocolate ice
cream with chocolate chunks?’ this has to be my favourite question. Like a
mother being asked, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">asked </i>I say, to
talk about her children. Which of the half-dozen scripts in development was our
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">favourite?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We spoke at the same time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘The stage play,’ I said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘The telly adaptation,’ Christine said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Opie smiled, enigmatically.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Ah. Not the same. Fine. Tell me why. What are these
stories?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We gabbled for a delicious quarter of an hour (so much for 20 minutes), taking turns,
regaling Opie with the two plots we loved – romantic longings, twists, the
human spirit indefatigable. He ‘oo’ed and ‘aaah’ ed appreciatively, sitting
forward, putting his hands to his face, shaking his head. We finished. He
looked from one to the other.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘All right. I’m going to say something you might not want to
hear.’ I steeled myself. Was it my lipstick? My hair? (Couldn’t possibly be the
scripts.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I think you’re both right.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(Wasn’t the scripts.) ‘These are good stories. Shelve the rest. Focus on
these two. I’ll do what I can to help.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
**</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two months after we met Our Publicist – who since then has
placed the stage play with a West End and television actress talented and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fameuse</i>, is introducing me to agents and
has got the telly adaptation to an international producing house – I was in the
departure lounge of the Ottawa airport preparing to fly back to London, having
spent Christmas with my family in Canada.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The flight is only 6 ½ hours but still, in economy, it’s
6 ½ hours you want to spend comfortably. Inspired by an exercise Chris and I
practised when we formed the company, I opened my journal and wrote ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wouldn’t it be nice if’</i> and described
every luscious thing I wanted to happen: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wouldn’t it be nice to
have a great trip?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wouldn’t it be nice
to have lots of room, to sleep easily and beautifully and wake up hugely
refreshed? Just be easily, comfortably, sweetly, wonderfully asleep for the
whole flight?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I put my pen down. I looked about at the families and
couples filling the lounge. I tried to calculate the fullness of the flight – what
were the chances of an empty seat beside me? There were a lot of people. Why
were there so many people? It was the second week of January. Shouldn’t they
all be home by now? Maybe the guy who was supposed to sit next to me had
changed his mind and decided to spend an extra day with his ailing mother in
Petawawa and I’d be able to put my feet where his bum was going to have been. I
went back to my journal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wouldn’t it be great
to sleep easily and beautifully the whole<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>- </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Stephanie Young. Will passenger Stephanie Young please approach the departures desk?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 59.25pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 59.25pt;">
Hel-<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lo</i>. What was this? Was there some formality I had to go through,
having booked on line? Did they need to confirm my passport? I shoved my
journal away, wheeled my carry-on bag to the desk and stood in a queue. A woman
behind a computer looked up and waved me forward.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 59.25pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 59.25pt;">
‘Ms Young?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 59.25pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I passed the half dozen people waiting. The attendant took
my boarding pass. I had a moment of mild anxiety. Was she going to give it
back? Had I been moved from the window I’d purposely chosen so I could sleep? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Was I being kicked off the flight?</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She casually ripped up the document I had printed off, so
efficiently, the night before and handing me another, said, in quiet tones, some
of the most agreeable words in the English language:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘We’d like to upgrade you to business class.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
**</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After choosing between champagne and orange juice, finishing
my seared salmon steak and risotto main course and using the operating
instructions to get my seat to transform into six feet of cushiony, blanketed,
pillowy space – I slept for five hours.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was right. It was nice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
**</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I got home I found the notebook in which Christine and
I had written, eighteen months before, ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wouldn’t
it be nice if</i>’’ about MY Production Company:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wouldn’t it be nice to
meet eager, open-hearted, enthusiastic people of means and influence who will
help us launch these stories we love into the world? To love our colleagues, to
co-create, with hilarity and joy and enthusiasm these stories that inspire and
move us? So we can inspire and move other people? Wouldn’t that be nice?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I tap-danced on Old Compton Street that sunny October
afternoon and Christine sold tickets, both of us feeling that Opie would invite
us to up our game and prospects, I thought to myself, as I expect to think
again and again throughout the course of my professional life, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>meeting
like-minds, making, promoting and celebrating art with them, ‘Yeeeeeeeeeeeess. I was riiiiiiiiiiiiight.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is nice.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-14933459455868332302013-01-18T10:07:00.003+00:002013-01-18T18:35:45.534+00:00Snow ProblemIt is snowing in London. They predict more snow and travel
havoc for the UK all weekend. This morning I walked half an hour to see
Chris, my producer, at a café in Notting Hill because cycling in this weather
is as much fun as putting on wet socks and standing naked (except for the
socks) in the fridge.<br />
<br />
I sucked back the peppermint tea I’ve started to drink since
I decided that chai tea latte was giving me baggy eyes and mentioned the
forecast. Chris looked stricken. I saw the look and feared what it meant.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Is it my eyes?’ I said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Is what your eyes?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘That look. Is it my baggy eyes?’ I patted the sensitive skin
under my lower lids where the puffiness swells.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: center 225.65pt;">
‘You don’t have baggy
eyes.’<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Yes I do. I have small balloons where my cheekbones should
be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am redolent of – a - bloated
corpse.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris narrowed her gaze.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You don’t have baggy eyes.’ She paused. I breathed in. Was
there something worse? Was my skin bad? Was this lipstick wrong? She studied me
carefully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘You <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">freak</i>,’ she said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smiled, coyly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Don’t smile, you fuh-<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">reak,</i>’
she said, emphasising the part of the sentence I’d been ignoring, concentrating
on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You Don’t Have Baggy Eyes!</i> ‘I’m
thinking about the board meeting and the weather. What about the board meeting?
We have the MY Production Company board meeting tonight, we have two members
coming from out of town.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tsked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘They’ll be fine.’ </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pulled out a bar of 7,000% chocolate I’d brought to
ameliorate the tedium of the non-chai tea. I know chocolate hasn’t been giving
me baggy eyes. I KNOW it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris continued to panic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Our financial director is coming from Farnham, the
secretary from Kent, from KENT, my god it really snows in Kent.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘It’s not a problem.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘How do you know it’s not a problem? It could be a problem.
What if it’s the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wrong kind of snow on
the tracks?’</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sighed. I looked at Christine in a kindly yet, it has to
be said, condescending way. And that’s because – </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
CUT TO:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Interior. A car.
Canada.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
SY, ie. Muggins, is driving to see SKYFALL with my sister
and her husband. It’s been snowing on and off all week, and now it’s snowing hard.
We are on the highway, passing trees, hardly visible, rising out of three-foot
banks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My brother-in-law is moving what looks like the sedate family
car rather swiftly<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>through the
driving white.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Do you have new, high-tech snow tires?’ I ask, curious. I
know about these high-tech, urban assault snow tires. I’d seen my
sister-in-law’s glee the week before, storming a white, two-foot barricade
at the end of her street, singing out ‘Snow tires!’ as we rose over the drift like
a dune buggy over sand. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My brother-in-law turns and looks over his shoulder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Sure. And get a load of this.’ The street is clear in front
of us as we’ve passed all the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sensible</i>
drivers. He jams his foot on the gas, steers the car wildly into the adjacent
lane where we skid for six blocks before he swings it back. My sister rolls her
eyes. My brother-in-law grins. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Four wheel drive!’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
CUT TO:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Interior. Café.
London.</b> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
SY shrugs and dips the chocolate <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">into </i>the tea, making a gooey mess that threatens to drip onto
Christine’s new (fake) Moleskin 2013 diary.<br />
<br />
‘They’ll be fine’ I say, inhaling the goo and glancing outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> It was damp but only with rain and the streets were clear. '</span>There’s no snow.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘But there will be by noon.’ She chewed her lower lip. ‘I
can put up two of them if they are stranded.’<br />
<br />
‘No one’s going to be stranded. It will be a few flakes.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris thumped the table.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I don’t know how you can be so cavalier!’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before you dismiss Christine for her timidity at the
prospect of chilly weather (HA! CHILLY! it was -27c on the way to SKYFALL) (but
never mind) you have to remember that she is Australian. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was raised with dingoes in tropical heat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She has never lived like this:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r_7IgAal3Qs">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r_7IgAal3Qs</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I don’t think you’re sympathetic,’ she protested.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Au contraire,’ I said, pulling my six layers tighter about
me and re-fastening my scarf. ‘It’s bloody freezing in this country. I’m never
this cold in Canada. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">insulate</i> our homes.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was mollified.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Oh. So you don’t think I’m a wuss…’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Do you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really </i>think
I don’t have baggy eyes?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ate another bar of chocolate (it makes me feel better about the bags). And waited.<br />
<br />
As teeeeeeny white pellets sprang up and darted across the window...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-75763784379631935542012-12-10T16:39:00.000+00:002012-12-10T16:47:04.476+00:00How The Gimps Stole Christmas<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:RelyOnVML/>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I had a total hip replacement last December and
couldn’t fly to Canada for Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The surgery was to correct a sporting injury, not to offset the effects
of being really, really old. Although Chris, my producer here at MYPC, thinks
it suspect that I refer to tobogganing as a sport – ‘Where’s the skill? How
long did you train? Do you get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">points</i>?’</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Not flying meant Christmasing in London which, if
all my friends had been in town, would have been a joy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">But they weren’t. The selfish lowlifes were in
Ireland, Germany, Hastings and North Africa (yoga retreat). I was panicking when
Emma, the ingrate skipping off to Frankfurt within days, said ‘What about Lisa?
She’s great at Christmas. Spend it with her.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Lisa is great at many things. She is great at friendship,
evidenced by her rubbing my back as I threw up five times within twenty minutes
upon getting out of recovery two weeks before; she’s great at laughing because
she weeps when you’re really funny and I test myself to see how long it takes
me to ruin her mascara; she’s great at singing, composing,
conducting. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And yes, she’s great at Christmas. I lit up like a
bulb, rang, invited her and she agreed. She’d come for Christmas Eve, stay the
night, and wake up to presents with me the next morning.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I ordered all our feasting on line - I could only
carry one bag at a time on crutches, and it banged repeatedly against the metal
as I lurched – and the groceries arrived on the Eve itself. I threw myself into
making my sister-in-law’s irresistible spinach-dip-in-bread-bowl, a salmon-dill
starter and put out enough Christmas cookies to choke a reindeer. I found the
edited copy of <u>A Christmas Carol</u> Lisa and I had agreed to read aloud (with
our friend Melissa, - who miraculously had materialised in London - if she were
free), yanked up the volume on the Spotify Christmas channel and felt the waves
of excitement and transforming joy the season inspires in me, something that other
people find delightful and infectious or sick-making and repulsive (in almost
equal measure) (maybe 60/40).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I also put a ‘Happy Birthday’ sign on the door. Not
as a message for Baby Jesus, if he happened to drop by, but because, Christmas
Eve is Lisa’s birthday.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She arrived just as the sun was setting, the lights
on the tree making the front room glow, standing on the doorstep like the Elf
of the Season (she’s even shorter than I am): bright-faced, dark-haired,
green-eyed, timeless. We embraced. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I noticed as she made her drooling way towards the
birthday cake, ready for her on the table, that even her speedy glee could not
disguise the fact that she was limping. If I were someone who could raise an
eyebrow I would have. Instead I said </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Lisa?’ and pointed at her leg. She looked down.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Oh, yes, yes’ she said brightly. ‘My knee. I was
painting rather a lot. I might have strained it. Up and down ladders. And
steaming wall paper. A bit of sand-blasting. But I’m fine.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She propped herself up on the sofa. We put pillows
under the offending joint. I plied her with gifts and all the cards that had
been sent to her, sang ‘Happy Birthday’ and the holiday kicked off.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In the midst of our second piece of cake and my
third verse of the song<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>-<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘How ooold are you,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>how oolld are youuuuu’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- we heard a knock. Our heads shot up. Dared
we hope? Could it be? I hobbled to my feet, opened the door and screamed ‘Melissa!’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Melissa??’ Lisa shouted</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘MELISSA!’ I hollered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And Melissa, slightly deafened, it was. She hugged
me and dived head first into the spinach-dip-in-bread-bowl, stopping en route
to notice that Lisa had her knee propped up. She pointed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘What’s going on? You look worse than her. And she
has a titanium spike in her thigh.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Nothing. Bit tender. Too much plastering.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Melissa narrowed her eyes, unconvinced.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Is it swollen?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Yes.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Does it hurt?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘A little.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Can you walk?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Not much.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘You should see someone.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Lisa scoffed. I paused. It hadn’t occurred to me
that Lisa should see someone. Anyone who didn’t actually need her rotting femoral
head cut out and replaced with a ceramic ball and socket shoved into her
through an incision 20 stitches long didn’t seem to me, at this point, to be
someone who needed to see anyone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Should she?’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I asked, feeling negligent.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘She should see someone.’ Melissa stood in her
jacket, looking ready to carry Lisa to the lift if necessary.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘I’m fine,’ Lisa said. ‘Have a cookie.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After ten minutes of protesting, remonstrating and
finally accepting that Lisa was refusing to go anywhere further than six inches
away from her cake, Melissa sat down with a red-frosted reindeer and a cup of
tea, her eye warily on Lisa’s knee. I handed out the salmon and dill starter,
picked up the edited Dickens and said, full of delight ‘Shall we begin?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It is doubtless, dear reader, that you have heard
of Charles Dickens and I am sure I may attest, without contradiction, that you
have had some experience of his <u>Christmas Carol</u>. But if you’ve only seen
this story adapted for stage or screen, only watched it on the telly in any of
its deservedly famous versions, then, my beloved English-speaking comrade - you
have got to read the fucker. It is unalloyed genius. It rolls from one perfect
sentence to another. I challenge you to career to the final chapter without
feeling uplifted and changed. Melissa, Lisa and I took turns, beginning </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt
whatever about that - ’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And moving on through every exquisite,
pulse-quickening, heart-gladdening phrase. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘The writing, the writing’ Melissa would murmur
between chapters.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We saw Scrooge through to his redemption, finished
the dip, the salmon and most of the cookies and it was almost 11, time for
Melissa to go. She took a parting glance at Lisa’s leg.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘If you need a doctor – call me.’ <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(She said this not because she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> a doctor, but because she has a car.)
(She could drive us to one.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I hopped on my good hip to the door, pooh-poohed
the suggestion, wished her a Merry Christmas and said good night.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Lisa and I settled into the final hour of the day,
Perry Como asking God to rest all gentlemen merry, the popcorn strung on the
tree looking like a localised white Christmas. I kept my hand on Lisa’s knee,
wishing it better, and she was comfortable enough to try to stand unaided and
stagger to the kitchen (the home of more spinach-dip-in-bread-bowl).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I rose at the same moment, adjusting the volume on
Perry – I love a good, loud ‘Joy to The World’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>- when I was nearly toppled backwards on my crutches into the tree,
hearing Lisa scream as though someone had just gunned staples into her eyes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘What!??’ I shouted.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She was pale.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘It – it- hurts,’ she whispered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I got her to sit back down and together we lifted
her trouser to look. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A large, red throbbing mound was rising out of her
leg where her knee should have been. It extended down to her shin. Resting and
elevating hadn’t seemed to have helped it at all.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was 11:10 pm.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Lisa and I looked into each other’s eyes and knew
there was nothing for it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Within twenty-five minutes of going – Melissa was
back. The doctor we rang gave the name of the local A&E, open at midnight
on Christmas Eve. Melissa knew the way.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I gave Lisa one of my crutches to make it to the
car.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘I got my hip replaced for this reason alone!’ I
shouted as we made our slow, gimpy way to Melissa, standing outside her idling
vehicle, all doors open for us and our support devices.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The streets were lit and quiet. We arrived at the emergency
room of the all-night clinic in under 12 minutes. Whether it was because of the good
humour in the car, the delayed healing effects of Dickens or knowing we’d
only eaten half the cake and still had half to go, Lisa was feeling better. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was able to put weight on her knee and
could even manage the stairs by herself. Melissa and I exchanged looks over her
short, dark-haired self. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Had this been necessary?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">If it wasn’t it was too late to ask because suddenly we were
in reception, being met by a nurse who told us a doctor would see us shortly.
The waiting room was empty but, sure enough, within moments a doctor emerged from his office, escorting out a
mother, father and baby, closing the door behind them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The young family sat and smiled at us, we smiled at
them. They spoke Arabic amongst themselves: a remarkably handsome family, the
little boy almost irresistibly alert and intelligent-looking. Lisa leaned
across me to Melissa and whispered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘We’re the Three Wise Guys,’ and sure enough, we
looked like nothing so much as attendants on this Holy Waiting Room Family. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The doctor re-emerged and called Lisa’s name. ‘I’m
coming with you,’ Melissa announced and Lisa beamed her gratitude, walking
suspiciously well across the room.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The Family and I continued to smile at each other. I
couldn’t take my eyes off the boy who kept swivelling his head around to grin
at me. I heard them exchange one or two words of English. I was emboldened.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘What is his name? He’s very beautiful.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Oh thank you! Thank you’ the father said, stroking
his son’s face.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘He had a cough but he’s fine.’ The mother looked
at the little boy who, obligingly, gurgled healthily.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘He is Philo,’ said the father, ‘”he who loves his
father”’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was enchanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I wanted them to keep talking. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘And – and does Philo like music?’ I asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was the right question.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘He LOVES it, he loves music. We sing and he tries
to sing along, he dances.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘What do you sing?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘We sing Christmas carols. Arabic Christmas carols.
He loves them.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘No!’ I shouted, in delight. What a thought. An
Arabic Christmas hymn.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Yes!’ they shouted back, laughing. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Sing them, sing them for me!’ (You can see on which side of the delighted/repulsed scale I was hoping they felt.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After a few moments of shyness and conferring with
his enthusiastic wife, Philo’s father agreed. He would sing. (Delighted!)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘This is a Christmas hymn he likes. We sing in
Arabic, but it is a famous English hymn as well. It is about the joy of
Christmas, “Ring bells, announce the love of Jesus Christ”.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I leaned forward. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Christmas hymn from the Middle East. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was going to be good. I anticipated the
aching beauty of an ancient chant, that spine-thrilling sound of the Muezzin’s call
to prayer or a Jewish cantor. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Philo’s
Father cleared his throat and began, in a sweet voice, his rhythmic Arabic lilting
with the tune.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And he was right. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I knew the song. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i>
famous.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But it wasn’t a hymn.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was ‘Jingle Bells’. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I blinked rapidly, trying to keep my composure as
mother and father sang the chorus together and baby Philo grinned and flapped
and cooed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">They finished and I applauded wildly. Philo’s
father was radiant.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘You see? the same as in English.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I didn’t have the heart to tell him that ‘Jingle
Bells’ in English is the 19<sup>th</sup> century equivalent of Eminem’s ‘Shake
that Ass’ – advice on how to pull, basically – so just thanked him, thanked his
mother and laughed with Philo who, I could swear, winked at me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Lisa and Melissa emerged, moments later, Lisa,
unless I was much mistaken, looking slightly-shame faced. I introduced them to
the family, we all wished each other Merry Christmas in English and Arabic
(wishes all the more satisfying when you know Melissa is Jewish). As the
automatic doors opened, letting us out into the cool, damp night, we turned to see
the father holding up his baby son’s hand. Waving.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I asked Lisa if she wanted one of my crutches.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘No, no. I seem to be better.’ She hobbled expertly
down the steps.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘What did the doctor say?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Melissa pressed her car keys. The door unlocked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Not enough cake,’ she said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I raised both my eyebrows (yes, this I can do). I
inhaled sharply.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">'<i>No.</i> That's my fault.' I said. 'I bought the cake.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Melissa shrugged. 'She needs more.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Lisa limped to the car. 'He seemed a bit put out. I
think he thought I was wasting his time,' she admitted.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We were home in ten minutes. Melissa freed us –
and our crutches - from the back seat. I hugged her, back lit by the twilight-blue snowflakes
suspended from the lamps lining the empty street. It was the last moment of
Christmas Eve. Something imaginary and powerful was happening in the minds of
most children (and the adults who had minds like mine) at that very moment. I
held Melissa tighter and felt a surge of all things possible, of what people
can do when they feel hopeful and loved.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">'Urgent Care Department of St Charles's Hospital,’
she said, getting back in the car. ‘That's where I want to spend <i>my</i>
birthday.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">'I'll book it,' I said, waving as she drove off.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Lisa and I tottered towards the building.
Trees left on all night were blinking in one or two windows. The sky was close
with clouds. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Alright. One of us has to say it,’ I said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think that’s true.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘You’re more tiny than I am. And you look, I don’t
know, more Dickensian.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She laughed (I think this was her way of agreeing). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And she asked for blessings on us, everyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Then we went home and finished the cake.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">***</span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Click here to listen to Philo's favourite carol:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z-AYz_VvtYc">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z-AYz_VvtYc</a> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Click <i>here</i> for my sister-in-law's famous spinach-dip-in-bread-bowl. Add enough mayo to smother a very big Elf to death. (Not that you'd want to, of course.) (Unless you're one of the 40%...)</span><br />
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://www.tablespoon.com/recipes/spinach-dip-in-bread-bowl-recipe/1/">http://www.tablespoon.com/recipes/spinach-dip-in-bread-bowl-recipe/1/</a></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-2531816335510991792012-11-10T11:46:00.000+00:002013-04-25T10:35:26.054+01:00Pitch PerfectChris and I are on the verge of worldwide recognition. Well,
verge may be misleading. ‘On the way to’ is more precise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Heading towards.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes,
we’re ‘heading towards’ worldwide recognition. <br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you want to be a stickler perhaps ‘Planning for’ could
describe most accurately our relationship to worldwide recognition. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘We are planning to prepare for worldwide recognition.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, having said that, we are closer to worldwide recognition in the great scheme of the evolution of the universe than the first oceanic life
forms were to growing feet and walking out of the water. That took 4,666
million years. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’re closer than that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I’ll tell you why. It’s because our pitching <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- and our attitude to pitching<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- has got better. We are pitching to people
who are more likely to catch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For those of you not hip with industry lingo – unlike Chris
and myself who are on the verge of preparing for worldwide recognition -
pitching means to throw an idea into the mind of an
editor/developer/commissioner and see how it blooms. Watch it come to life behind
their eyes, blossoming into a fragrant and life-enhancing garden of hilarity,
eroticism and poignant observation. The possibilities of the idea reach into
the gullet of the developer and grasp her, asphyxiate her, knock her
unconscious until, 18 months later, a fully-fledged runaway, worldwide hit is
born. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know that in this scenario, our idea is like the alien
gestating in John Hurt. Maybe with happier consequences, but still not pleasant
for Mr Hurt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Forgive me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
distracted, preparing to plan to be on the verge of worldwide recognition.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had our most recent pitch yesterday. I won’t say it was
at an internationally recognised broadcasting corporation based in Britain that
rhymes with - KGB; I’ll say it was at the… Schmee-Schmee-Schmee. We were met by
what looked like a (tall, handsome, warm, friendly) 12-year old in charge of
development. Midway through the meeting I found myself leaning forward, looking
desperately for a line in his face. Some indication of life etched on his brow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Like a baby’s was his skin!’ I shouted at Chris through the
foam of a chai tea latte at our debrief an hour later. ‘As though he’d just
been ripped from his mother’s womb.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Uterine skin,’ Chris agreed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This pre-birth look didn’t keep us from liking him immediately
– his clarity, his eagerness, his focus, his attention and the fact that he was
obviously competent and probably, now we listened to him, over 21. He said yes,
there was a home for our project. Schmee-Schmee-Schmee 2 did this sort of thing
all the time. He’d been ‘entranced’ by the pitch, said it was convincing and I
was obviously passionate. He was funny, present. Very nice smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘But,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to mislead you. The bar for
the writing is very high. For the spot you’re pitching, we are going with big
names. Well known names. The biggest.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He said a few well-known names. We knew the names. I won’t repeat
the names but one of them was Schmom Schtoppard. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He went on. ‘Not that a famous person can’t write a bad
script. It happens. And someone no one knows can write something fantastic.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked at us. ‘And that’s exciting. That’s what we want.
How far have you got? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Is</i> there a
script?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t look at Chris.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘There’s a script.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His eyes lit up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘May I read it?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘No,’ I said. ‘You may not read it.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He blinked at me. Here was an editor at the Schmeeb <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">asking</i> if he could read my writing.
Asking for a copy of the script that I had written, presumably, for this exact
purpose. And I was saying ‘No’.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t tell Wunderkind that that first draft of the
script inspired the kind of comments that, in the most constructive way, tell
you to treat every page as you would, say,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>a waste oil: combustion, storage. Interring. Anything to prevent uncontrolled
discharge of the words.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked him in the eye, steeling myself, as though he might
reach into the nuclear waste compartment of my mind and retrieve the script. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘You will never, ever read that draft,’ I
said. Icily. ‘No one I respect will ever read that draft.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Ah,’ he said, negotiating the waves of defensive hostility
rising from me like heat from a reactor. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was very still. Then broke into a smile. ‘At
least you respect me.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a luxuriously generous 50 minutes, he walked us to the
door, saying he looked forward to reading my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">next </i>draft. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he meant it. He
said it several times. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We exchanged
goodbyes. He had a nice hand shake.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Did you notice, Chris, he had a nice handshake.’ I sucked
back a wave of tea and wiped away the foam moustache (the foam of the chai isn’t
necessary but it adds the opportunity to impersonate Jerry in episode
157 of <u>Seinfeld</u> when George suggests they take a vacation from
themselves and grow facial hair).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘He had a nice handshake?’ Chris bit her lip. ‘That probably
means mine was crap.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I gasped.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You give crap hand shakes? Why would you ever give a crap
hand shake?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Because I’m distracted. I’m not thinking. I’m wondering
where I’ve left my umbrella.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You know, the crappest handshakes I’ve ever got, you know
where they were?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris downed her chai and shook her head.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘In prison. When I worked in prison. These guys had broken
and entered and stolen and committed grievous bodily harm and they had the
coldest, weakest, flimsiest handshakes in the world. You’d think they had the
cojones to rip off a bank, they could give a firm grip.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I used the long spoon to stir the chai powder that gathered
at the bottom of the cup.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘One of the ex-offenders I worked with said it was because
they didn’t trust me yet.’ A horrible thought occurred to me. ‘Maybe the
prodigy thinks you didn’t trust him.’ </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘He’s on our side, he liked us.’ She downed the dregs of her
tea. ‘You just have to write a fantastic script.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For whatever reason – the great confidence my parents had in
me, the fine schooling I received, the support of my teachers, the fact that my
friends still like to read excerpts from FLAXY: THE STORY OF A DOG, my first
novel, at dinner parties – I know I’ll write a fantastic script. I’ve almost
just told you, dear reader, ‘I’ve written a fantastic script.’ As it feels
already done.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What is new is that I know I will allow this script, and
from thence, all subsequent scripts, to burst out into the world and live. Do
its job. Entertain the masses. I’m an entertaining-the-masses kind of girl.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I thought to myself, biking home from the meeting, of
the reason why I am only now ready for this new chapter to begin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s because to negotiate worldwide recognition takes a
degree of mental and emotional health I am only now capable of. Not to be
overwhelmed by attention, demands, expectation – not to be cast into despair
after you’ve reached the pinnacle of your profession and there’s nowhere better
to go, not to be anxious as you break with old ideas that you’re not lucky, not
deserving, that it’s dangerous to aim so high and to desire so much, that all
this attention is immodest and obviously not lady<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">-</i>like – takes a self-awareness I have only begun to know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I had blasted forth, my hugely populist self, at any
moment before now I could have – no, probably would have - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>followed in the steps of Janis Joplin. Or
Karen Carpenter. I would have ended up putting unwanted things into me (heroin)
and keeping wanted things out of me (food). I would have thought external
recognition had something to do with my worth. I could have been launched forth
on the strength of one or two ideas then left twiddling my thumbs at the top of
the tower thinking ‘Well, what the fuck do I do now?’ Devoid of further
content. Panicked. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every single pitch this year has been enjoyable; every
single commissioner/developer/editor has been friendly, receptive, intelligent,
funny and kind. We have gone from ‘It’s very well written, but too dramatic for
comedy’, to ‘It’s very well written, but too funny for drama’ to ‘It’s very
well written but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tonally</i> not right’
to‘ Go on. Show me.’ </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The real reason guys in prison don’t shake your hand with
more confidence is because people full of self-regard don’t hold other people
at gun point and demand their money. People who know and like themselves don’t
break into other people’s houses, don’t beat up other people and don’t do
heroin. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just as people who know and like themselves know worldwide
recognition isn’t the same as success. That success is something else altogether.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris and I are verging on preparation for plans to head
towards worldwide recognition. Because right now we’re enjoying success.
Everything else is foam.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Because all the writing and pitching and succeeding at MYPC is taking priority, this blog will now appear monthly. Thank you for reading and being part of the story.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-41231076855274005002012-08-25T12:32:00.000+01:002012-09-04T10:34:12.660+01:00Ode To Joe<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<h1>
</h1>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve just come from the Munch exhibition at Tate Modern. I
went with my ex-boyfriend. We hadn’t seen each other since November 2007. I
asked him, standing at the bar of the Members’ Room, how long he thought it had
been. He looked at me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘It’s been a couple years,’ he said. He read my face. ‘Maybe
three. Or four.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Four years and nine months,’ I said. ‘But who’s counting?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Well, well,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I have stories to
tell <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i>.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After coffee we went to the exhibition. I took the pamphlet
the steward handed me at the door and read, as I strolled through the familiar
images of heightened colours and obscured faces, that Munch<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>belonged to a bohemian set whose first
commandment was ‘Thou shalt write thy life.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A thrill charged my spine. I looked at my ex-boyfriend and
said to Munch, silently and you might think incongruously, amidst the tortured
self-portraits and sick-green evocations of illness and despair, (incongruous
as I’m basically an artist who wants to write about jokes and sex) ‘Mon
semblable, mon frere’.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My ex-boyfriend – I’ve got to make up a name for him, it’s
getting tiresome writing m.ex.b, I’m calling him – Silvius. No. Guillaume. No.
Joe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s Joe. JOE has been the
inspiration for two, count ‘em, two stage plays and a screenplay, stories with
which I’d spent more time than I had him (we dated for just under two years).
And ninety minutes into our reunion, a meeting which involved me seeing, for
the first time in my entire life, outside of bad situation comedy, someone take
a mouthful of tea and laugh so hard she spat it up over herself, her skirt, the
table and the leather seat while Joe calmly handed someone a handkerchief from
his pocket so she could mop it up and wipe her face as she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">continued </i>to make gasping noises, keeling over on the banquette and
not caring if she stained the only summer wardrobe she owned – ninety minutes
in, I say, Joe had already said half a dozen things I tried to type into the
iPad of my mind; remarks and insights and passionate expression of belief
-<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘It is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not your job</i> to get in your own way; that is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">other people’s </i>job’ that reminded me why I loved him so much and
why the scripts had to be written.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If Munch had known Joe, his picture would have been here. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
**<br />
<br /></div>
I had started writing my life just before I met Joe.
I was commissioned to create a one-act for the Bridewell Theatre in 2004, a
play that became the first half of <u>Torches</u> -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a story about what happens when you sleep with a good friend (you fall
in love, cry a lot and escape to Greece for a week if you must know). Both <u>Date With Dillon</u> and <u>Sirens</u> are autobiographical stories I’ve performed as what I called
‘Stand Up Tragedy!’ And in the summer of 2006 Joe and I broke up and the second half of <u>Torches</u> was born. It is now a full-length play about two couples who meet on the 5th November to reunite or part forever, as bonfires go up all over town.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These stories have been performed and broadcast in fringe
theatres, small cinemas, and read a few thousand times on line. My first radio
play, they told me, reached an audience of 300,000. I clutched my chest and
swooned until my producer said that was just very slightly average. And average just isn't good enough.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have
always been hugely ambitious. I have always imagined a world-wide forum for
every story I tell. I want an intimate conversation with as many people as
possible.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not that I don’t I think my producer and I are on the
right track. Chris and I have met commissioning editors at Sky, the BBC (Comedy and Drama), Channel 4 in September, The Royal Court. The Soho is in the
offing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That public, intimate
conversation is swirling, in the potential universe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But seeing Joe at the Tate Modern, the site of our very
first date in 2004<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(a date in which I
sat opposite him, knowing after five minutes that we’d have amazing sex)
(reader, we did), me still single in 2012 and not yet having the world-wide
conversation, drop-kicked me into a vertiginous spiral of feeling that I was very
unchanged from the woman he charmed eight years ago and wondering just what the fuck I
had accomplished since.<br />
<br /></div>
<a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?num=10&hl=en&biw=1366&bih=665&tbm=isch&tbnid=2zN4mZNABxI2-M:&imgrefurl=http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Munch_Ashes.jpg&imgurl=http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/1/14/Munch_Ashes.jpg&w=925&h=795&ei=hro4UK2gBKmN0AXKhYGIBA&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=186&vpy=149&dur=887&hovh=208&hovw=242&tx=91&ty=123&sig=106025660298364628340&page=1&tbnh=148&tbnw=174&start=0&ndsp=18&ved=1t:429,r:0,s:0,i:76">http://www.google.com/imgres?num=10&hl=en&biw=1366&bih=665&tbm=isch&tbnid=2zN4mZNABxI2-M:&imgrefurl=http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Munch_Ashes.jpg&imgurl=http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/1/14/Munch_Ashes.jpg&w=925&h=795&ei=hro4UK2gBKmN0AXKhYGIBA&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=186&vpy=149&dur=887&hovh=208&hovw=242&tx=91&ty=123&sig=106025660298364628340&page=1&tbnh=148&tbnw=174&start=0&ndsp=18&ved=1t:429,r:0,s:0,i:76</a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 175.5pt;">
**<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I arrived, they were evacuating the building for a fire
alarm. I had a panicky clutch in my chest, ‘Oh no, maybe this is an omen!’ (An
omen of what? Joe and I already broken up. And got back together. And broken
up; there was no more blood under this bridge) but within ten minutes I was
walking up the six flights to the Members’ Room, wondering if I would recognise
him. I wondered if I would know him <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">right</i>
away or only eventually, after that shocking moment when you think ‘Fuck. I
used to kiss <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you?</i>’ I was happy on the
settee, watching what seemed like a parade of Italian-looking men (Joe is American but his last name is <i>Guidicianni</i>), thinking he
might not recognise me<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">,</i> when there he
was, coming out of the lift, a little wet (it had bucketed during the alarm),
but smiling, and walking towards me with open arms.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked good. His face entirely unchanged in five years;
freakishly young, like he bathes in the blood of virgins or loaned his soul to
Beelzebub. In his late fifties, he could pass for early forties. His hair is a
bit thinner (‘I am glad that I can still chew <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">most</i> of my own food; not much dribbling either’), a bit more silver
but it all suits him and he was in a white cotton shirt that set off the slight
darkness of his skin and brown eyes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He flashed his pass at the desk. He was frustrated that
they’d renumbered the floors. Had been six, now it was five.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘This is why I don’t carry a gun.’ He held open the door to
the café. ‘I said “Is it the same altitude? Is it the same number of floors?”
Oh yes they said. ‘But now we have a floor ‘Zero’. For the Olympics. It’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">better.</i>”’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was funny about his frustration but I remembered it was
this kind of intensity that made me nervous when we were dating. A GUN,
already? I am the product of a white, Anglo-Saxon Protestant culture in which
you inhale your negative feelings or feel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very</i>
bad if you express them. Joe had neither of these reservations, which had resulted
in pyrotechnic misunderstandings more than once.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But. It had made for great material.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We ordered our drinks. As he expressed his views about bad
committee decisions that you wish you could have heard to shoot down in the
planning stages, rather than watch die slowly and painfully, about the
absurdity of a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fire drill </i>I knew, as
I hadn’t known when we were dating what was bothering him. He had told me to meet him on the 6th floor, it was now the 5th; he had arrived on time, more than on time, half an hour early, but they kicked him out and he was late. He had made a commitment, honoured his commitment, and then, beyond his control, had not been able to keep it.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His heart leapt out against the externals. He’d done
everything he could to be the man who keeps his promise. Not being that man was
untenable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Munch understood. Joe felt kinda like this: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.ovaering.no/filer/ImageArchive/image.asp?imageid=184116">http://www.ovaering.no/filer/ImageArchive/image.asp?imageid=184116</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew, instinctively, this was true. And wondered why I
hadn’t known it when it mattered most, when I was sleeping with him and wanting
him to meet my family? Was it another instance of experience being what you get
just after you need it? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I remembered. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d written three scripts about Joe, two stage plays and a
screenplay. In every one of those scripts Joe is a huge-hearted, clever,
powerful and erotically-motivated man who wants to keep his promises.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d written my way into knowing Joe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ten minutes later I was spitting tea.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>4:00 we walked
my bike along the Embankment, towards Waterloo and his tube. We discussed
dating. He’s recently single (I’m still single, get the distinction?) and
remembering his un-partnered self.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told
him how I’d been found on line by someone I’d fancied hugely when I was 18,
when I’d thought of myself as a greasy schlump with bad skin, only to discover
the guy had actually liked me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Well of course,’ Joe said. ‘There are two things you have
to know. You have to realise the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">profound
effect </i>you have on people. And you have to go back and readdress that
story. The story of the schlump.’ </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We entered Blackfriars’s pedestrian tunnel, me wheeling my
bike behind him. He called over his shoulder, his voice echoing off the tiles.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘And you can do this. You recreate yourself every morning.
You wake up and you say ‘Hm. Which Stephanie am I going to be today?’ It’s a
playwright’s job, of course. Not a problem for you.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I kept my eyes on the crowd, ostensibly to prevent my pedals
from impaling children in push chairs, but mostly because I couldn’t look him
in the face. I laughed, in a fake way, and confessed that these days I felt
slightly less able than usual. I didn’t mention the lack of world-wide
recognition and sky-scraping income but thought I could talk about dating. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I seem to have a stamp emblazoned my forehead,’ I shouted,
threading through a French family of six, all eating ice cream. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘It says “Are you married? In a relationship? Chat
Me UP!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We emerged into the sun.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Every guy who’s liked me for the past 36 months has been
involved with someone else.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe kept up his steady roll beside me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s not tall which suits a woman whose
friends have taken to calling ‘Hobbit’. His shoulder felt familiar, just above
mine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Last week four of them checked in,’ I said, sadly. ‘Within
36 hours. Three of them had DREAMS about me.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(This is true. My astral body is getting a lot more action
than any other body I’m connected to at the moment.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I told Joe this couldn’t be coincidence. I must be putting
something out there. A vibe. Something in my less sanguine moments I call ‘The
Chump Frequency’.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘No, no, it’s them,’ Joe observed, loyally unequivocal.
‘Married guys. I have no moral objection, I have no philosophical aversion to
what married guys do with women who are not their wives. But it just seems So
Hard To Focus. It’s like – you’re at a meal. You’re at a wonderful meal and
someone has slapped a nice, juicy steak down in front of you. And you’ve got
your knife and your fork and you are just about to bite into this luscious
steak and you look over there, over there, and you see, someone has shrimp scampi
with linguini and you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">reach over,</i> you
lunge and you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shove it </i>in your mouth!
and as you’re shoving you look over there, and some guy has ravioli -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and you jump up, grab the ravioli and shove
THAT in your mouth. And I’m just saying, guys, eat what’s in front of you. You
don’t want to be grabbing food off someone <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">else’s</i>
plate.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The day was hot but the river, whipped in small waves, looked cool. We
approached the Hungerford Bridge, watching the sun ping off the water. I felt
an ease rising under my ribs. The air, the light, Joe’s warmth. The sense that
he’d said something of huge importance, if I could metabolise it, or if he
could just say it again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Now, this is all here for you,’ he said, waving his hand in
the direction of either the Shell Building, the National Theatre or a man in a
stall selling bratwurst. ‘You know that right? You would have no
trouble, seeing an opportunity and leaping? making like the cobra? You have
this effect, you will meet so many men in your world and business, you’re not
stuck at home writing by yourself, and god knows you’ve got the goods.’ He
looked away and inhaled sharply, remembering our intimacy (which he said I
enjoyed at particularly high decibels). ‘Jesus Mary, my left ear still hasn’t
recovered. I was sure the cops would break down the door. “Sir, are you
responsible for this noise?” “No, officer. Well, yes, officer – “'</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We stood near the steps to the bridge.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I want you to change your perception. That schlumpy girl,
you see? she had it wrong. And next time I see you, I want tales of how you
have implemented this wisdom. All right? You change your mind. Let the game
come to you.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We embraced with a promise to meet in the autumn.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was too beautiful a day to go home so I sat at the
counter on the Riverside Terrace of the Royal Festival Hall and watched the red buses, gleaming on the hot bridge. I had the beginning of a feeling, difficult to describe but
undeniable and strong, that from now on my plays would be better produced, and probably better known. My focus was shifting, and shifting fast. Joe had given
me the key to my own desires. Which is to value them. Value the woman, not a
schlump, who has those desires. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A woman he has always made feel valuable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ease in my chest rose higher, sped up and turned into
joy. Maybe, in an alternate universe, Munch had known Joe. And they’d had tea. So
he painted this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.google.co.uk/imgres?imgurl=http://www.edvardmunch.org/images/paintings/sun.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.edvardmunch.org/the-sun.jsp&h=500&w=854&sz=91&tbnid=gVURQiWQSUL9xM:&tbnh=70&tbnw=120&zoom=1&usg=__UdSffw9jnOSSAoPZ-N9PrN8Np5s=&docid=Gfvwn_sfipqZ4M&sa=X&ei=3nAyUKPsOoWY1AWQl4HwDA&ved=0CFUQ9QEwAw&dur=32">http://www.google.co.uk/imgres?imgurl=http://www.edvardmunch.org/images/paintings/sun.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.edvardmunch.org/the-sun.jsp&h=500&w=854&sz=91&tbnid=gVURQiWQSUL9xM:&tbnh=70&tbnw=120&zoom=1&usg=__UdSffw9jnOSSAoPZ-N9PrN8Np5s=&docid=Gfvwn_sfipqZ4M&sa=X&ei=3nAyUKPsOoWY1AWQl4HwDA&ved=0CFUQ9QEwAw&dur=32</a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-5726006297509318682012-07-27T10:36:00.000+01:002012-07-28T01:51:53.674+01:00127 Hours (actually, I think it was 12 minutes)<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was just trapped in a lift.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s not accurate but I felt as though I was trapped in a
lift because my bike was trapped in the lift. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve had this bike in this lift 1,347 times but today, as I stood in a reverie of how to solve act
two of draft 11 of my play SIRENS, the door opened slowly on the 9<sup>th</sup>
floor, the back wheel of the bike caught, rose up with a deathly squeal and
jammed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could see the wide, verdant world beyond, through the
half-metre of open door. I could have slid out but <i>sans bicyclette</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As those of you who own bicycles know, those of you who
cycle your way through a happy, free-wheeling life, this was not an option. You
do not leave your wounded comrade on the muddy field of Passchendaele; you
don’t leave your bike in a lift. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not if it seems remotely possible that you can get it out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will confess to you now, there were some very long moments
– feeling like 127 hours and giving me a stab of almost unbearable sympathy for
Aron Ralston who cut his own arm off rather than die in a remote crevice in the
badlands of Utah – because, let’s face it, the decision was of precisely
the same import – a bike, an arm, THE SAME, RIGHT? - there were moments when
I thought I could not get it out. When I believed my bike and the lift would remain in
this fused state, like an abusive domestic relationship, for their rest of
their physical lives.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The countdown to panic began.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tried brute force for a while (three minutes). Just
yanking the fucker as hard as I could in the hopes that it would lodge
free. I’m stronger than I realise. One vital tug, one painful screech
later and I’d managed to push the lift door off its rails.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The automated voice began to speak.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘This lift is out of service. Do not operate. This lift is
out of service.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She sounded calm. Not furious, not blaming me. Not saying
‘You slobbering moron, why were you worrying about the end of act two of draft
11 of SIRENS and leaning, unwittingly, against the handlebars as the lift door
opened?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took comfort in her neutral tones and plotted my next
move.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I fiddled with the release bar on the back wheel, I
couldn’t help noticing that the situation in which I found myself was, in fact,
precisely where my characters had ended up at the end of act two. They were
stuck in the virtual lift of their own neuroses and I had no idea how to get
them out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I loosened the locknut and fed out the skewer. The back
wheel didn’t budge. It was pushed into the body of the frame. I leaned on the
frame, trying to jiggle it back and forth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No jiggling happened. If Vesuvius had erupted and set the
bike and lift door in stone there could not have been less movement.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I leaned against the mirrored back wall of the lift and sighed. And,
because thinking about my bike wasn’t working, I thought about my play.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It had a history of feeling just like my bike looked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two years ago Chris and I had hosted a reading of SIRENS at
a friend’s mansion in Connaught Square. We had invited friends and guests, asked
someone to film and gathered under a chandelier to discover the script was nine
drafts away from being ready for this kind of publicity. The audience, expecting
a much more finished piece, were accurate in describing everything that didn’t
work. ‘I was disappointed’ one of the actors said. ‘You have to ask yourself
why bother?’ someone else said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I realise I’d been heading for this. The company was only
four weeks old and I wanted Chris and me to have a charming success on our
hands. I wanted the charming success more than I wanted a useful night
for the play. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The notes came thick and fast and I felt like an anaconda
swallowing a goat. I thanked everyone as best as I could and said it would take
me a while to digest.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went home and wept until 3am.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two years later I was ten days away from the next public
exposure of the story. Chris and I, wiser now, had booked only actors and a
script editor. We kept expectations low. There were no cameras, no
chandeliers. Everyone knew it was a work in progress. I was writing eight hours
a day, moving the story moment by moment to where the three main characters had
lost faith in themselves, their desires and their ability to realise their
dreams.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I had no idea what to do next.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Do not operate’ my incorporeal buddy said.
‘This lift is out of service.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I leaned on the door, seeing if I could ease it back on its
rails. A huge gap extended between where the wheel was and where it should be.
I was going to need 13 men, a winch and a hydraulic jack (what they used to
remove the 800lb boulder and free the remains of Ralston’s arm) (it’s THE SAME,
RIGHT??) to get it back on track.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘What do I do?’ I said out loud. My voice was blanketed in a
half-sob. ‘I don’t know what to do.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You and your bike are going to be fine,’ a voice said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
looked up to see if it was coming from my automated friend. The words OUT OF
SERVICE moved peaceably across the display screen. Nothing else. Silence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘It’s all going to be fine.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I glanced to see if anyone stood in the lift door. No one
was calling from the floor above. I was alone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I realised, then, it was not an external voice. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was Me. Talking to me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I calmed down. And listened.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You’re getting out of here. Just imagine you’re out of
here. Feel as calm as you’d feel if you were out of here. Then do something,’ I
said to myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt even calmer. On purpose. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I thought.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps there was more give in the loosened back wheel than
I’d found. What if, counter-intuitive though it was, I pushed it closer to the
frame?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I gently straddled the back wheel and put my hands against
the tyre. I pushed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a quiet ‘pop’ and the frame slid to the side. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I picked up the locknut and skewer, hoiked my bike on my
shoulder and eased everything out of the half-metre of open door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The air was sweet. I noticed the vibrant green of the summer
trees. Constant rain in July had made London fresh.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A friend rang the service contractor – who was paid a yearly
fee and always on call - I re-attached my bike wheel and knew what my
characters needed to do. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They needed to ask for help and listen for the answer. They
needed to be calm - on purpose.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
**</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Addendum: We had the reading. Reactions from actors below:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
<b>I thoroughly enjoyed it and I
really like the play..</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>..the lovely script to read, the splendid food and
company.. I really enjoyed it and was sorry to leave</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b>There's never enough time at these things but I could've quite happily told
you 300 things that were good about it. There's so much good in there...</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">It was an absolute pleasure
Stephanie, just glad to be of assistance.</b><b> Really enjoy where you're going
with this.<br />
</b><br />
(As Chris and I share a collective sigh of relief..)</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-76601356037380797922012-04-20T19:57:00.000+01:002012-08-31T17:26:02.908+01:00London Independent Film Festival: Small Film, Huge Joy<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris and I attended the London Independent Film Festival, Saturday 14<sup>th</sup> April to see HOME MOVIES projected on the big, silver screen. The foyer was teeming with well-wishers, supporters, punters and film-makers. Our director, DaveAnderson showed up with product in his hair because he was going to answer questions at the end. He looked extremely handsome but kissing the top of his head was like shoving one’s face into the quills of an excited porcupine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know this because I kissed the top of his head.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was almost as excited as the virtual porcupine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were a party of ten and as we sat, happy sunshine streaming through the plate glass windows of the trendy-yet-unpretentious ShortWave cinema café, I thought to myself ‘I’m here to see a film we’ve made. I have a company. We made a film.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friend Lisa turned and beamed at me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Hello. Film-maker’ she said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I almost burst with joy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I thought of the accomplishments of some of my dear and admirable friends. I rub shoulders with Oscar-winners, Hollywood feature-producers, actors who star in American telly series and I am two degrees of separation from Joss Whedon. (I worked with an actor who worked with him.) (I KNOW!!!) (When the credits rolled at the end of the Buffy episode and I saw the actor's name I screamed. I screamed. ‘CHRIS I WORKED WITH THAT GUY!!’ JOSS AND I ARE LIKE <b>THIS!</b>) These are all artists of huge achievement, fame and renown. And here I was waiting to see seven minutes of a movie that we’d filmed in a day and produced for under £5,000, giddy and high as if there were a red carpet, evening gowns and Ferne Cotton on the mic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And of course, just as yours has done, my mind went to the 1980 winter Olympics and the men’s ice-hockey tournament when the underdog Americans, with a team built of college players and amateurs, beat the potent, dynamic and skilful Soviets who had won nearly every world championship and Olympic tournament since 1954.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(There’s a fabulously stirring moving, <i>Miracle on Ice</i>, that you can watch on-line for free. Do it now. No thanks necessary.)</div>
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And aside from the glory of watching sheer will power and self-belief overcoming unthinkable obstacles, I am moved and entertained by the looks on the faces of the Soviet players as the Americans celebrated. Grown men were weeping in joy, flinging themselves into each other’s arms, gappy smiles splitting their faces. The Soviets, who were used to winning, were expected to win – one could even say, at that point in their troubled history, <i>HAD</i> to win – stared at the delirium breaking out at the other end of the ice with a bemused fascination. They do not look like athletes mourning the loss of an important match. </div>
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They look like players astonished at the joy their opponents feel at winning.</div>
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It is a marvellous lesson in relativity. There was no gap between what the Soviets wanted and what they achieved. They wanted to win, they did. The Americans wanted to – and never had.</div>
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Until Friday, 22<sup>nd</sup> February 1980 when, by a single goal scored with only ten minutes left in the game, they beat the Russians 4-3. In that moment they caught up with what had seemed impossible, a cosmos away. And the achievement of the desire that you have set your sights on for years, that you have dreamed of, hoped for, imagined and planned, is where all the combustible, bone-quaking rapture in the world exists.</div>
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When I lived in Toronto, just two years after the Americans won their Gold Medal, I went to the movies a lot. I was working as an actor which meant not working as an actor very much at all, but my ambition was huge. As credits rolled by on screens across the city I remember the audacious thrill with which I would think to myself ‘Someday my name will be up there. I’m going to make movies. I’ll succeed.’</div>
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You can do the maths and figure out how many years it’s been since I declared this to myself. And I don’t know what my Oscar-winning, telly-series-starring, Hollywood-film-producing friends feel as their names come up on the screens around the world, but if it is only half the gleeful delight I felt in one cinema on a Saturday afternoon in southwest London, they are gloriously fulfilled, gratified and celebratory. Because people laughed in all the right places and clapped at the end. </div>
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And that's gold.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-37514887322039035992012-04-06T10:42:00.000+01:002012-04-06T10:42:15.229+01:00We Got Into the London Independent Film Festival And We Know Why<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-GB</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal">MYPC’s first short film, HOME MOVIES, has been accepted into the London Independent Film Festival and is screening at the Shortwave Cinema, SE1 on Saturday, 14<sup>th</sup> April at 4:30 pm.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I think it’s because we have an office.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We moved into this office last week. It has a view that overlooks tree tops and listed buildings. You can see the London Eye.<span> </span>Chris put up a poster for SIRENS, our first show, and has a shelf for filing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There is a sofa where I can sit and make stuff up. Then show Chris (nine inches away) after which I’ll make up even better stuff.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is very exciting.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And it is in Christine’s flat.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We have all the amenities to hand – water, kettle, Christine’s husband to make the tea.<span> </span>We have a chair for our delicious office manager, Nathalie, who can wander down the hall to make her telephone calls to our local council in pursuit of funding <i>if she wants.</i><span> </span>But she doesn’t have to. She can stay in the office and have us sitting right there. On her lap. Listening.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It doesn’t get better than that.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We think the LIFF knows we have an office. They know we could offer them coffee. They know we have Nathalie to take their calls – in English <i>or</i> French, thank you very much (we’re all bilingual at MYPC)(I want Chris to translate my plays into Croatian but she’s dragging her heels). They recognise how serious we are about our work. They recognise how serious we are as people. And that is why they must never, ever come to our office just on the off chance they heard an exchange like the following:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Very warm spring afternoon. NATHALIE, dark haired, petite, French, sits at the computer finding prices for the books Chris has to sell so we can fit files on the shelves of what used to be her son’s bedroom. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CHRIS, on the floor, is surrounded by receipts, folders and memos.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">SY is on the sofa. Making stuff up.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Nat:<span> </span>Forty-five pounds.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM:<span> </span>What??</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Nat:<span> </span>Forty-five pounds for this book. (<i>she holds it up)</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM:<span> </span>No! No <i>way!!</i> For that piece of <i>crap??</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Chris leaps up and grabs the book – <u>Damien Hirst Live at the Tate</u> - a new respect on her face. A glint appears in her eye.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM:<span> </span>Do you think they’d buy this?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Nat:<span> </span>No, Christine.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM:<span> </span>Come on, hardly used.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Nat:<span> </span>Chris, put Stephanie down.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM:<span> </span>A little worn at the edges – </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Nat:<span> </span>But you can get £30 for this.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM:<span> </span>(<i>dropping SY)</i> No! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM examines another hefty tome about modern art, hoping her husband Richard doesn’t come in and see her selling off his library, as a buzzing noise sounds in the room, growing slowly louder. CM looks up.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM:<span> </span>What’s that?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">SY:<span> </span>(<i>face in her laptop, trying to write)</i> I don’t know.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM:<span> </span>What is it, what is it? It sounds like a dive-bomber.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Nat:<span> </span>It is a bee.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM:<span> </span><i>WHAT????</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM drops the book. A phone rings. </span></i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Nat:<span> </span>MYPC, Nathalie speaking. Yes. Yes, thank you for calling back. Just – just a moment. (<i>covering the mouth piece)</i> I will go into the other room to take the call.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM:<span> </span>A <i>bee? </i>Do you know how big a <i>bee</i> would have to be to make that noise? Where the hell is it? I can’t see it and it sounds like the Luftwaffe.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">SY:<span> </span>(<i>not looking up)</i> Why would you leave, Nathalie? Don’t you want the local council to know our managing director is lily-livered, spineless weenie-girl and is scaling the wallpaper because there’s a molecule shaped like an insect in the room?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM:<span> </span>IT’S NOT A MOLECULE. IT COULD EAT MY CHILDREN.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Nat:<span> </span>(<i>on phone)</i> Thank you for waiting. That sound? It is our managing director who is – oh. That sound? (<i>exiting down the hall)</i> We think it is a bee.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM:<span> </span>Ha! They can hear the molecule in Camden!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">SY:<span> </span>(<i>sighing, getting up)</i> All right, all right. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">SY stands and sees the bee, roughly the size of a lemur, hovering near the blind.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">SY:<span> </span>Hm.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM:<span> </span>(<i>seeing it)</i> Aggh!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM charges, backwards, out of the room, clutching the Damien Hirst as, newly, one of her most prized possessions.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM:<span> </span>What is it <i>doing </i>here? We are seven floors up!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">SY:<span> </span>(<i>positioning herself behind the bee)</i> There is life seven floors up. We are not above the tree line.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM:<span> </span>(<i>pointing)</i> Above THAT tree we are!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">SY:<span> </span>(<i>slowly retrieving plastic tub)</i> You’re from Australia. I thought you ate these sorts of things for breakfast.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM:<span> </span>We have mosquito netting. And vaccines. <span> </span>And guns.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">SY:<span> </span>We’re not going to shoot the bee.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">CM:<span> </span>See? You know what to do. As a Canadian. You’re brave. You’re informed. You’re – aggh!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">The bee moves slowly away from the blind and into the room. SY follows it with the tub, finds it and coaxes it out the open window.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">SY:<span> </span>It’s gone. You’re safe. You can – Chris?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">SY glances around the empty office. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Voices off:</span></i><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Book Antiqua","serif";">Nat:<span> </span>(<i>on phone)</i> <i>And we are eligible for</i> – Chris? <i>I’m sorry – just a minute</i><span> </span>- Chris? Do you need a cold towel? A hot drink? A warm hug?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As we do not plan to answer the door if the representative from the London Independent Film Festival comes to call, I think we are safe. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We will shove his tea through the mail slot.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">**</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As always, Chris and I are overjoyed with the response and enthusiasm of our friends, followers and supporters, and are proud that a film you helped us make is being shown at such a prestigious festival. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If you live in London, or close enough, please, please join us. HOME MOVIES is in the slot starting 4:30 on Saturday 14<sup>th</sup> April at the Shortwave Cinema, London Bridge. Tickets are free; first come, first served. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.londonindependent.org/">http://www.londonindependent.org/</a> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(This is the coolio venue: <a href="http://www.shortwavefilms.co.uk/">http://www.shortwavefilms.co.uk/</a> )</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-88015331974780152782012-03-23T15:16:00.004+00:002012-03-23T18:13:40.478+00:00Selling Your Boyfriend: the art of stealing for art's sake<div class="MsoNormal">I read once that people write in order to overcome an obstacle; there is something within that needs unpacking. There is a fence, a rock, a brick wall between one’s self and the self one wants to be, and the fastest route to the improved, aware, expressed self is to write stuff down.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If this is true, the obstacle for me was loneliness. I moved around a lot as a kid and the first year of every new posting was often friendless. Hugely lucky in the love of my family, I was encouraged to read and sing and I was left alone, for hours and hours, to write.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t have <i>real</i> friends. I had the friends I made up. And one of them was a dog. I’d never owned a dog but I figured the best friend you could possibly have was one who would do everything you asked, miss you like crazy when you were gone and lick you all over when you came back. (These are qualities I tend to attract in men, as well.) (Yes, I’m a lucky bitc - uh- pooch.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">From the age of ten I spent every waking hour, and some hours I was meant to be sleeping, reading about dogs; ‘How To’ books and novels by the dozen. <u>Lassie Come-Home</u>, <u>Follow My Leader</u>, <u>Big Red</u>, <u>The Fox and the Hound</u> are titles I am shocking myself by remembering now, and my night-time fantasy was imagining a shelf above my bed, extending along the length of the wall, full of the novels of Albert Payson Terhune, probably a second-rate writer who sentimentalised the owning of collies, but who was the god of my idolatry and inspired my first novel – <u>Flaxy: The Story of a Dog</u>.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I still have the manuscript. I read from it at dinner parties and reduce my audience to incontinent wrecks, sharing the adventures of Jenny, who is ten when she gets her puppy, and Flaxy, who is 18 when the story ends (Flaxy is shot to death by a babysitter) (don’t ask). Jenny stays an adventure-loving 10-year old girl throughout the 204 pages. It was my father who, hearing me read my juvenilia to a boyfriend at lunch one Sunday afternoon when I was home from University, remarked that if Flaxy was 18 at the end then Jenny should have been 28. She didn’t need the babysitter who ended up killing her dog (the babysitter was a burglar) (I’ll tell you later).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This inconsistency in time had never occurred to me, not while I was writing, not in those eight years since. And it did not occur to me because, primarily, I had been stealing the tone – and sometimes plot - of all the books I loved. The Master and Mistress of Sunnybank Lad never grew older in Terhune’s books. And Lassie comes home before Joe turns 12.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was my first experience of all art being theft.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I’ve been true to the maxim ever since.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Never more so than when I started to write directly about my own experience and put it on stage (or on line) (or on film). I now steal from myself and change the names to protect the innocent, using my own name because I can never be sure of just how innocent I am.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This risky tendency began on 30<sup>th</sup> November 2007. I invited my ex-boyfriend out for a cup of tea. My feelings were not straight-forward. He was (still is) a fabulous guy – intelligent, warm, literate, passionate – he understood ice hockey – and although we hadn’t dated for well over a year contact with him was still charged for me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We admired the lights and the bell-ringers in the Christmas Market on the street where I lived. We repaired to a Lebanese tea shop. He was healthy-looking and energetic. And told me he was seeing someone else.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I wasn’t prepared for the deluge of anger and sorrow that rose up from my ankles. We ended the evening shortly thereafter, I cried all night and went to a party the next evening, where I danced maniacally to soul-rousing music, met a very tall young man and brought him home.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Not having much time to befriend this – tall – young man, I found out at approximately 3:00 the next morning that he whom I’d taken to be ten years my junior - which is, you know, manageable - had been born the year I got married. There were 22 years between us.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I felt Nabokov was watching. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t see him again.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Not because I didn’t want to. But possibly because he saw me freak so intensely when I found out his age (Me, head under the pillow: No, no no no no!! Him: What, what what, what, what? Why? How old are you? Me: Old enough to <i>cut up my own meat</i>.) that he didn’t think it worth the aggro. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No one wants to convince a lover to love.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Over the next week, the responses of my friends to this story made me stop and consider my motives. He was 25. It was <i>legal.</i> Was I keeping myself single, in some way, in the hopes my ex-boyfriend would reappear? Did I want a man old enough to care for me, because I wasn’t capable of caring for myself?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And what about that soul-rousing music?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All of these questions, questions that felt like obstacles, gave rise to the first play of Mofardin Young Production Company: <u>Sirens</u>, at the Canal Café Theatre, a show combining action on stage with live music and film. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All about the night you find out your ex-boyfriend is seeing someone else.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It struck a chord. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Some people obviously have the same questions I have.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We promoted the show with a comedy video about the fact that I seemed to have done nothing more than transcribe the events of my life and sell tickets to watch: my ex-boyfriend had a podcast so I gave his new girlfriend a podcast; we hired the band who played at the party (where I met the tall guy) to play in the play; I cast a tall guy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We thought the hilarity of this mock interview (entirely scripted and produced by us), in which I was accused of ‘gossiping’ not writing, was obvious.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was wrong.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And this is where theft gets dangerous.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My father wrote, full of sorrow that I should be so maligned. He offered support and a veiled implication that he would hurt the ‘journalist’ interviewing me if given the chance (the interviewer is a fab actor, Jeff Mash – reading the lines I’d written for him). A director mate rang, full of umbrage (and, it has to be said, Scotch), outraged on my behalf, a friend from Canada emailed asking who <i>was</i> this interviewer and what kind of irresponsible journalism was he practising?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had gone too far. The life that had become art that I was promoting as though it were life really <i>looked</i> like life. I had to back pedal, reassure my family and friends and try to understand what it says about me that my comedy face looks like my real face to the people who know me best.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">MYPC has launched a YouTube channel and uploaded these videos to finally appear under one company roof. You can see an edited version of our original comedy video -</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVUNOXahmPArvs3CWlxNLkmfn5GgGWJAi_LPcCyKSy0xTwMAAPhOPA6Qmxma_gJJlhFoSCGUjUrkxi5K5WtfRfgdICXDjHLpqanEaesbzQF1xGF4WjibqfViqxmN96TDiNGNHAXjdCRWHI/s1600/SIRENS+-+SY+GOOD.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVUNOXahmPArvs3CWlxNLkmfn5GgGWJAi_LPcCyKSy0xTwMAAPhOPA6Qmxma_gJJlhFoSCGUjUrkxi5K5WtfRfgdICXDjHLpqanEaesbzQF1xGF4WjibqfViqxmN96TDiNGNHAXjdCRWHI/s320/SIRENS+-+SY+GOOD.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WEZqTlnhoqA">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WEZqTlnhoqA</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">a previously unseen (also comedy) interview -</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcLbrxas8L55QGZeVpca9FseoQcsZRmbnrgLVrnvgQty-A_EbOf-qLbwAV9kKv5hPVNyf203oaloK5Hai_7vAR9fxgmWEtRT-6QUm_v81ZWaWAAz5cc-aDoLJI57B7k5F_odqYfYYMWWYD/s1600/SIRENS+-+Emma+GOOD.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcLbrxas8L55QGZeVpca9FseoQcsZRmbnrgLVrnvgQty-A_EbOf-qLbwAV9kKv5hPVNyf203oaloK5Hai_7vAR9fxgmWEtRT-6QUm_v81ZWaWAAz5cc-aDoLJI57B7k5F_odqYfYYMWWYD/s320/SIRENS+-+Emma+GOOD.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_wu7cQW_3sk">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_wu7cQW_3sk</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">and the film that was shown on stage:</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tB2nucnDNi8">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tB2nucnDNi8</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhItDFf7rM2P1-xtWiRtl3VA3c039Qg3SfqFPEaW0yOp41ESjufVJODb8tw0XJEnl2G2Lq-DWoT7Wb1r2UCtsvHO2NoSlIVbf6xvN-0ofcbzbvP1TWJ1B_ItpZdRdRelKBJfR6ZQhDzzBGE/s1600/SIRENS+The+Still.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhItDFf7rM2P1-xtWiRtl3VA3c039Qg3SfqFPEaW0yOp41ESjufVJODb8tw0XJEnl2G2Lq-DWoT7Wb1r2UCtsvHO2NoSlIVbf6xvN-0ofcbzbvP1TWJ1B_ItpZdRdRelKBJfR6ZQhDzzBGE/s640/SIRENS+The+Still.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="MsoNormal"><i>This is the film being shown on stage. ‘Stephanie’ is listening to a band and remembering her ex-boyfriend. The band (runningclub.com) is the actual band I was listening to the night I found out my ex-boyfriend was seeing someone else, yes the ACTUAL band – and although that isn’t my actual ex-boyfriend in the film he is an actor I had a huge crush on for yuh-ears and eventually had the great honour to get to – know – so you can see how it is all getting verrrrry, very blurry…</i></div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">Whether it’s other people’s plots or my own, I haven’t ever cared what I use to get through the obstacles in my heart. If the poignance of life was revealed to me by reading the death of Lad, a Dog, I was entitled to try move other people with the murder of Flaxy (the bullet was heading for Jenny; Flaxy got it - BANG! - right in the brain pan) (obviously an early penchant for drama). And if narrative truth demands I get together with the Tall Guy when I never saw him again, it’s possible art may lead me to a version of myself that even I haven’t yet dared hope to create.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-43708481524506225602012-03-09T17:40:00.000+00:002012-03-09T17:40:17.354+00:00Chapter Thirteen<div id="yui_3_2_0_1_133128304053226641" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: times new roman,new york,times,serif; font-size: 12pt;"><div><b>Chris and I were thrilled to think that Constance was in a huge country house re-starting her film career as a costume drama heroine. Even a fake costume drama heroine. As long as she got to wear those clothes - we didn't care.</b></div><div><b><br />
</b></div><div><b></b> </div><div><b>Chris looked up from reading and gasped.</b></div><div><b><br />
</b></div><div><b></b> </div><div><b>'Do you think she's going to fall in love?'</b></div><div><b>'I have no idea. Keep reading.'</b></div><div><b>'I'll bet she is. What do you bet? Everyone in costume drama falls in love.'</b></div><div><b>'Everyone not in costume drama falls in love.'</b></div><div><b>'Not everyone in DieHard 7.'</b></div><div><b>'All right. No. I don't think she's going to fall in love.'</b></div><div><b>'I do!'</b></div><div><b>'I know. I've said I don't so you can be right. Keep reading.'</b></div><div><b><br />
</b></div><div><b></b> </div><div id="yui_3_2_0_1_133128304053226640"><b>She did. Smirking. (I think she'd read ahead.)</b></div><div id="yui_3_2_0_1_133128304053226640"><b><br />
</b></div><div id="yui_3_2_0_1_133128304053226640"><b><i><b>Constance was still in what we think was Wiltshire, waiting for Agent John Wood to show up.</b></i></b></div><div><b><br />
</b></div><div><b><br />
</b></div><div><b></b> </div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">27 June 2010</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">We’ve finished our first bout of filming. Jennifer has gone crazy and costumed everyone in the household. Sheer lunacy. It was that attic of clothes. Fiona is deliriously happy to be on set again, even if it is just her own front garden. She has enough breeches and stomachers and <i>fichu</i>s to put her three children and herself as well as Jennifer and me in full 18<sup>th</sup> century regalia.</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">I don’t know what we're doing or if it looks good. We’ve shoved pins in our hair and slapped foundation on our cleavage as Jennifer runs around with her little video camera filming everything. I had to force her into a chair in the library to ask exactly what the point of it all was. She frowned.</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"> <br />
'You know the point, it’s your career. Your comeback.'<br />
<br />
‘Yes, but what exactly am I coming back as? Someone in fancy-dress at a badly-attended house party?'<br />
<br />
‘You’re in a costume drama. This is a film set, it’s perfect, the house is perfect.’<br />
<br />
She looked gleefully around at the unrestored library, corners of which, it is true, are completely accurate to the late 18<sup>th</sup>century. And look just as grimy, cobwebby and decayed as you’d expect.<br />
<br />
‘I still don’t understand,’ I said, persevering. ‘What will people see? what am I supposed to be doing?’<br />
<br />
She sighed and put her camera down. She spoke quietly as though we might be overheard. And as though anyone cared.<br />
<br />
‘We are pretending that this is the set of a film. A new but fictitious costume drama starring Constance Hill. I am getting footage for ‘the making of’ and we will see you in the corners of the house, in the gardens, in this <i>glorious</i> costume and agents and producers will think “Oo, she’s still got it!” and hire you.’<br />
<br />
I was becoming less and less convinced. Maybe there is something about Jennifer McIntyre’s enthusiasm that I mistrust on principal. Which is pretty ungenerous when you think about it – but maybe she just has some really bad ideas.<br />
<br />
‘Aren’t they going to be suspicious when there is no actual film?’ I continued.<br />
<br />
She shrugged.<br />
<br />
‘It’s been delayed. Films are delayed all the time.’<br />
<br />
‘Shouldn’t we have something that looks a bit like a film going on?’<br />
<br />
‘What? Why?’<br />
<br />
‘When you have a ‘making of’ it is usually attached to an‘of’. It can’t just be me smoking in the garden between imaginary takes, it’s naff.’<br />
<br />
She took in a long breath and gazed down at her lap. She was, it has to be said, glorious-looking in the corseted red riding dress, cinched at her waist and extending, with the panniers, beyond her knees to the floor. She fingered the petticoat.<br />
<br />
‘Is it? Is it naff?’<br />
<br />
‘I think so, yes. I’ve been on film sets, I have to say usually some sort of film is going on. And I think, if this little project is going to have any credibility, we’re going to have to have at least the semblance of a script.’<br />
<br />
She looked up, a new light of hope in her eyes.<br />
<br />
‘Do you know anyone who writes scripts?’</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">I thought of John Wood, barrelling down the M3 even as we spoke.</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">I obviously did.</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">28 June 2010</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">Hilarious! Hilarious! John Wood arrived and was thrust into the costume of a naval hero (had to admit he looked very fetching) but only <i>after</i> he spent the afternoon making up cod-period-speeches for me to deliver to him, his back to the camera, as Jennifer films.<br />
<br />
It is too, too divine. And ridiculous. But we are all loving it.</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">**</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">Very impressed that John is game for this. He’s even offered to put the footage <i>on his web site.</i> I think it’s tantamount to perjury but he says ‘I’ve just written scenes for a costume drama, we are filming those scenes, you’re in a costume drama’. </div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">Desperation makes us all very willing.</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">**</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">Here is a bit of the scene between my character and John’s. I am playing <i>Philadelphia Deane</i>, isn’t that splendid? I am about to fall in love with <i>Lancelot East</i>. No one could accuse John of timidity. </div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">We emptied the library, used candles in the sconces, all very Dogma-filmic. I was in that perfect pink confection of a dress, the character ‘glowing a bit’ from a dance. John pivoted, keeping his back to the camera as Jennifer moved around us, doing a serviceable job. I memorised the lines, they were that good. </div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">You must imagine that Philadelphia and Lancelot have escaped from the ball room to the library. She looks up at him, coyly but - confident - and says</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><i>PHIL:You are an enthusiastic dancer, Mr East.</i> <i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>LANCE:I am an enthusiastic man.What I do, I do with my whole heart.</i><br />
<br />
John Wood had learned his lines too and shrugged. As Lancelot.<i> </i>Philadephia smiled.<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>PHIL: Do you never fear excess might lead to ruin?</i><br />
<br />
<i>LANCE: (</i>smiling back) <i>Excess of what? Happiness?</i><i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>PHIL: Unbridled feeling does not lead to happiness.</i><br />
<br />
<i>LANCE: I cannot think myself into behaving. I behave and grope my way through consequence.</i><br />
<br />
Lancelot sat himself, easily, into a chair and stared up at Philadelphia. In her pink gown.<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>PHIL: And spend many hours confessing your apologies to offended sensibilities.</i><br />
<br />
<i>LANCE: I had not looked for censure from you. Even risking your good regard, I say it is better to attempt and fail then never attempt at all.</i><br />
<br />
<i>PHIL: (</i>laughing)<i> I have never met anyone like you.</i><br />
<br />
<i>LANCE: And I have never seen anyone like you.</i><br />
<br />
At which point he stared at me with a gaze that I’m sure burnt holes through the wall behind my head.<br />
<br />
He wrote this in the kitchen with a scabbard on his knee, inhaling two packs of Jammy Dodgers and half-a-cup of Fiona’s bad instant coffee.<br />
<br />
Philadelphia is falling in love with John Wood. I mean Lancelot. Lancelot. Did I say John Wood? Good God.</div></div><div id="yui_3_2_0_1_133128304053226641" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: times new roman,new york,times,serif; font-size: 12pt;"><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><i> </i></div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"> <br />
</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><i> </i></div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">**</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">Fuck.<br />
<br />
Malcolm is here.</div><div class="yiv830374032MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div><br />
</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-7466460262637742982012-02-24T11:51:00.000+00:002012-02-24T11:51:34.782+00:00Chapter Twelve<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:RelyOnVML/> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-GB</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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</style> <![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormal"><b>Chris and I felt hugely sorry for Constance, running into her ex-husband in an off-licence. </b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>‘Working there,’ <span> </span>Chris said, her eyes wide. ‘He’s the guy you ask for cigarettes or a Thunderball ticket.’ She thought again. ‘Although she’d always know where he was.’</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>I’d run into ex-boyfriends in the street, lost the use of my legs, needed to be sat down and poured a stiff drink before I could speak coherently. We were impressed with her sang-froid in being able to ask for a Radio Times.</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>We then spent twenty minutes talking about who still buys the Radio Times, will radio factories all close down, are there radio factories? If so, where are they? before we realised Constance made for much better conversation. </b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>The next entry was made two days after running into Malcolm. </b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>27 June 2010</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I write overlooking fields and sheep and listening to someone play Mozart, quite well, on a piano two floors down. I am in my darling, huge-hearted, easily-manipulated best-friend Fiona’s second best spare room, Jennifer McIntyre is in the best room across the hall and we are here, filming for our series.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have two nights off from <u>Nora.</u> I feel like I’m on day release.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know it’s mad and will probably go nowhere but I’m actually very excited. Fiona has kept wardrobes of costumes from her decades of designing and building. The workmanship is exquisite and I marvel at how even the lure of children and country life could keep her from exercising her gift. Her costumes are works of art.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She threw a pile of brocade and satin on the futon in the attic. Jennifer, arms draped with three other hermetically-sealed wardrobe bags, gasped. Fiona unzipped a cocoon and revealed two decades of 19<sup>th</sup> century fashion: corsets, panniers, bustles. Fiona treated them casually but with affection. Like dogs.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘This one, look at this, industrial support. Our heroine was very well-endowed. We had to keep her assets from escaping during the ‘Song of Revolutionary Fervour’. Ah, this. This was Jane Bennet’s cloak, for getting sick on her way to Netherfield. <span lang="EN"><span> </span>Look at the seaming on the bottom edge.<span> </span>Fabric is a half-circle, we wanted it full; very full cloak.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">She peered intently down at the neat row of perfect stitches. I saw Jennifer drool.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">I looked about the converted loft, at the half-dozen wardrobes stuffed with garment bags, all labeled like specimens in a laboratory.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">‘Isn’t this illegal? Have you stolen these?’ </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Fiona laughed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">‘They get left behind. Some I bought back. They are always more value to me than the company. They move onto Pinter. No corsets in Pinter. Right, here we are. 18<sup>th</sup> century. That’s what we want.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">She relieved Jennifer of the third and heaviest bag. The zip undid slowly, liberating a pearly-pink gown, ruffled and petticoat-ed and, beneath it, a deep red riding coat-dress. I fingered the cloth. Fiona put on her glasses.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">‘There’s a light gown underneath, you can see the boning, lovely work, I had marvelous help and - ah, yes, she spilled her coffee, just here. She was very talented but clumsy as a mule.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Jennifer had taken the riding coat over to a mirror. I could see her reflection. Her face softened and I noticed for the first time that she might be seen as attractive. Her eyes are a bit close together and she has the hair of a stenographer but her face has quite a good shape and her smile is lovely. Beautiful, even, if she’s in the right mood. Which she was now.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">‘My mom will just - die,’ she said with difficulty.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Fiona turned, beaming, pleased to see the effects of her artistry.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">‘Well let’s get you in it,’ she said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><span> </span>‘And knock her dead’ I said, standing up and clapping Jennifer on the back.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">Sometimes it’s good to have an inner-American to channel.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"> ***</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">I hadn’t thought that Jennifer was taking time off from being an abused secretary to help costume and film me but when I saw a call coming through from Agent John Wood I remembered that we were both working for him now. Or supposed to be.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">I was being laced up into the pink froth by Calla, Fiona’s eldest, when I answered, and was deafened by the sound of John shouting at 180 decibels ‘Where the fuck are you?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">I excused myself from Calla, pulled up my panniers, and shuffled into the hallway.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">‘I’m in Wiltshire,’ I said, glancing out at the sheep, spreading across the grass, forming and re-forming like flocks of birds. Or <span> </span>- roaches, actually.<span> </span>I’ve spent some time in New York and I once saw a wall go black with stampeding cockroaches. That’s when I decided never to live on the east coast. I was wondering if there was some universal force that shaped the wild kingdom into predictable stampeding patterns when I was yanked back into the present by John yelling<span> </span>- </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">‘What the fuck are you doing in Wiltshire? You have an interview.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">I panicked.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">‘With whom? When?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN">‘With me, now.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I swallowed. John had mentioned he wanted me to do some promotion on his web site but it was – just his web site. It wasn’t real promotion. It wasn’t Friday Night with You Know Whom. Which I’ve done. Half a dozen times. At least. I was thinking of You Know Who, how he is completely, wholly and utterly charming<span> </span>and adores his children when John bellowed</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Are you <i>listening??’</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Yes,’ I lied.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘With me, now so that I can post it tomorrow morning when I have <i>said</i> I will post it. An exclusive interview with Constance Hill, live at JohnWood dot com. People have signed up. There are members waiting. You are <i>not</i> going to let me, or them, down.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I felt tears rise up and I don’t know if it was the fact that, like Desdemona, I am a child to chiding or that there were actually people, wonderful, lovable, glorious people who wanted to hear me and whom I didn’t want to let down so I said ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, what can I do?’ and didn’t even mind when John Wood said he was driving up to see me that very minute and we’d interview this evening.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> ~</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>From the next instalment:</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</style> <![endif]--> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>28 June 2010</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Hilarious! Hilarious! John Wood arrived and was thrust into the costume of a naval hero (had to admit he looked very fetching) but only </i><i>after</i><i> he spent the afternoon making up cod-period-speeches for me to deliver to him, as Jennifer films.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>It is too, too divine. And ridiculous. But we are all loving it.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-62227311397733875212012-02-12T12:54:00.000+00:002012-02-12T12:54:04.109+00:00Chapter Eleven<div class="MsoNormal">25 June 2010</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I need a drink. Whisky. That's what people drink. Do we have whisky? Where would we keep whisky?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Why do I say we? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">**</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was in the lower kitchen cupboard, behind a faulty salad spinner and a macramé plant-hanger my Auntie Betty had given Malcolm when he was on parole. We called it his Better Homes and Gardens period. He was improving everything, not just his relationship with roulette. All the spider plants died, nicely suspended, in our kitchen window.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Funnily enough, it’s because of Malcolm I need the drink. I am writing while holding the glass in my other hand. Like Hemingway. I assume.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was driving home from the gym in Cricklewood – now that I’m working I can afford yoga again, thank god – and stopped on a side-street to get a paper from a news agent. I haven’t been in before but I’ve always clocked the shop and thought ‘Ah, if I remember I can park on that street, jump out and get the paper’ and felt it was testimony to my new-found clarity, the self-reliant and organised life that doesn’t depend on agents or managers to buy things like papers and – food.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I found a space just outside the shop. I leapt out, feeling more like Mallory Queen, Girl P.I. than I had in twenty years. I liked the sound my boots made as I strode across the pavement. A woman in control.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I picked up the weekend Guardian from the display just inside the door and peered about, recklessly, to see if there was anything else that caught my eye. Now that I’m working again, I impulse shop. Which usually means an extra packet of biscuits to go with my pint of milk.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There were fig bars on sale, two for one, and I grabbed them both, anticipating the pleasure of the Weekend Magazine with my tea, made my confident way to the counter and looked into my bag for change as I heard a familiar voice say</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Connie.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I looked up. It was Malcolm. I recognised him immediately. And why wouldn’t I? We were married for over twenty years, companions, lovers, friends. I’d seen him only seven weeks ago, there had been no drastic change in his appearance since then.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This did not keep me from staring at him as though he were an envoy from another planet with purple skin and a round, hairless head.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He was in the shop. Obviously. As I was in the shop. But with one significant difference.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He was working. In the shop.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was no mistake. He wore a name tag and a green polo shirt like the pale-faced, black-haired girl behind him pricing stock. She didn’t ask him to return to the other side of the counter and stand in the queue with the other customers – well, customer, I was it - as she would undoubtedly have done if he wasn’t an employee.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Our eyes locked. I lost the power of speech. He seemed to colour slightly but recovered, grabbed my fig bars and lit them up with the sensor. Then the Guardian. Then the milk. The total flashed up on the cash register. He put everything into a bag and I handed him a five pound note.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Hello, Malcolm’ I gargled, eventually.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Here’s your change,’ he said smiling. Rather unpleasantly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘What – what are you doing?’ I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He put his hands square in front of him on the counter. He looked like a cowboy ordering a double bourbon in a dodgy saloon. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘I’m work-<i>ing</i>.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He said it in two syllables. As to a child. And I reacted like a child. I think I batted my eyes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘But why?’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Why do most people work, Constance? Bit of dosh, kids need food.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He was speaking through gritted teeth. His colleague glanced up at what felt like a sudden scrum of customers behind me. I kept my eyes glued to Malcolm. In case he vanished.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘But – but you work at the bank.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘No. I did work at a bank. Then I embezzled funds, remember?’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The crowd behind us became quiet.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘For the gambling. You remember. The gambling.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Malcolm, don’t – I’m sorry – let’s – ‘</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But he was warming to the topic. It was as though he’d prepared the speech and had been waiting for his audience, who turned out to be me, an elderly couple with a bag of white bread, a young man in shorts clutching a bottle of Lucozade and a Jack Russell at the back of the shop that had wandered in off the street.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Malcolm’s voice was clear. He was projecting to the dog.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Someone caught embezzling funds is never able to work in the financial industry again.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He reached for the couple’s loaf of bread.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Having a criminal record bars you from any position of responsibility or role that requires regulatory sanction.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The woman hung onto her Kingsmill. Malcolm waited, leaning one elbow on the counter.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> ‘In addition, regulators have a high standard of permissible conduct that extends far beyond being found guilty of such charges. They perform background checks and investigate people very conscientiously.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He extended his hand to the couple again and it was obvious she didn’t want to release even the food she hadn’t bought to someone confessing a criminal past.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Luckily, they are not so discriminating at You Go Mart.’ He wrestled the bread from the woman, beamed its price into the cash register and finished his oration with ‘That’s £1.25’, holding out his hand for the change.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘For a bloody loaf of bread,’ her husband muttered. ‘Talk about embezzling, we’re being embezzled.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Malcolm took the money and handed the bread to the couple who seemed rooted to the spot, watching him as though he were a good episode of reality television. He asked ‘Is there anything else you want to know?’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There were a thousand things I wanted to know. How long had he been doing this? Had he never gone to the bank when I had thought he was leaving every morning to go to the bank for the past two years? Was this enough to support him in his new way of life? Had he started gambling again?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Instead I said ‘Do you have the Radio Times?’ he said ‘No’ and I left the shop.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-44148585850921303332012-01-27T12:18:00.002+00:002012-01-27T12:23:39.447+00:00A Hip Chick - Part Two<div class="MsoNormal">Anna was terrified that I would die on the operating table or that Mr Who would replace the wrong hip. I didn't know. Given her fears, the fact she was about to leave me in the cubicle that had been our home these past seven hours for a prior appointment meant she was either very brave, trusting my life to the medical gods – or cavalier. Heartlessly callous even.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I had no idea she didn't give a toss about me, I hugged her happily, waved her off and within 30 seconds the anaesthetist arrived, outlining the options. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had the choice of light sedation ('Are you out of your f****! mind?' I said) (no, but - thought it), heavy sedation (not really conscious but might hear some hammering) or general. Out. Under. Gone.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He was selling the sedative – fewer side effects, the recovery time is faster. He shrugged, politely.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘If you’re in distress, we can ask how you are and switch to the general.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I stared at him. I said, blinking 'Ask how I am? I could TALK?' and he said 'Yes, more or less.' </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I reached out, grabbed his collar in both of my fists, brought his face very close to mine and said, very slowly and very loudly - <b>'I don't want to be able to talk.'</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That clinched it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And as I was taking the Trip to the Bathroom they told me I Should Take, thinking about my happily-general anaesthetic, I suddenly had a revelation. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All along, without knowing it, I had been associating this experience with my original injury. The injury that happened the December I was 22, on a perfect winter afternoon - a quiet snow falling, sunlight dim through white clouds – when my sister, then-husband and I went tobogganing down a popular local Ottawa hill. Conditions were ideal and we had two hilarious runs. Our third attempt saw me, recklessly, crossing my legs under the bend of the sled (rookie mistake) and when we hit a bump and went over, my husband landed on top of me and my leg stayed behind. The head of my femur was shoved up into my waist. And stayed there for several hours because I was too stoic to scream in the ambulance or the halls of the hospital.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Even though I enjoyed a full recovery, the cartilage started to disintegrate four years ago and by the time I was walking to the bathroom at the Whittington Hospital at 2:40 pm on the 29<sup>th</sup> of November, the ball of my femur spent most of its time resting on the bone of my pelvis. Which doesn’t feel great (When Mr Who had first seen the x-ray of my hip he had squinted, breathed in deeply and said ‘Aarrrrrgggghh!!.’ I said ‘That’s not very professional.’ At which point, still staring, he said ‘Oooooooggghh!’ ignoring me completely. Things were obviously worse than I’d known.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I washed my hands in the loo, remembering the accident and the agony of the medics trying to pull my leg back into place without pain killers and it occurred to me, out of the blue that - THIS WAS COMPLETELY DIFFERENT. I was going to be DRUGGED THE WHOLE TIME. I wasn't in pain now (well, only when I walked), I would not be in pain during the surgery and - I HAD DRUGS FOR THE PAIN AFTERWARDS.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I almost laughed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I emerged and was met by the nice-but-firm Polish nurse who escorted me down the hall. We passed a sign that said 'Theatres' and I felt immediately at home. An orderly smiled at me and said 'Good luck!' I said 'Thank you. I'm going to a theatre!'</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The nurse left me with the anaesthetists saying 'Have fun' and waved. The assistant anaesthetist was smiling under his mask, preparing things in the room. The head honcho anaesthetist – let’s call him Dr Feelgood - arrived and said, very jolly 'So - we're going for the light sedation are we?'</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'No, we most certainly are not,' I screamed. Well. Said firmly with as much authority as someone on her back, naked under a gaping hospital gown can muster. 'It's all there in that form.' I pointed. He looked and said 'Oh yes, I see. The general. Well, that's fine, we'll do that then.' </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I decided not to be alarmed by this apparently casual attitude to my most fervent wishes, and instead allowed myself to be distracted by the expert small talk he launched into, pretending we were having a friendly chat at the canapé table before drinks at the opera. He asked what I did for a living. 'I'm a writer,' I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'Aaahh!' said the two men who were preparing to insert needles into my wrist and spine, in hushed and respectful tones. Men in masks who performed life-saving jobs every day of their lives. Like. 'You're a WRITER. That's - important.' </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Dr Feelgood said he had 25 years of experience he wanted to write about but never found the time. We talked about Ian McEwan's <u>Saturday</u>, had he read it? 'Yes, about the neurosurgeon? Yes. But I'm not much of a novel reader. By my bed at the moment I have <u>How to Tie Knots</u> and <u>Training Horses</u>.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'I want to learn to tie knots!' I shouted, trusting him immediately.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'Do you?' he said. 'I'll show you, I'll do one here now.'</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The masked assistant raised his eyebrows but the chief seemed to have no inclination to actually make good on his promise. Instead he moved behind me and put a swab on my back.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'What do you write?' he asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'Plays,' I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'Ah! And where have your plays been put on? - Hang on, let's have another go, it didn't take there. Just try up here. Good thing you're thin, makes it easy for us.'</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They moved the needle up a bit, although I didn't feel it go in.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'I've had plays at the Arts Theatre in the West End. And Theatre Royal in Bath,' I said. I could feel their attentive care, their interest, and thought to myself 'Yes, well, why not? I'm a verrrrrrrrry interesting person.'</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was enjoying this conversation, this sense of myself as someone to reckon with in the world. I was enjoying everything - did he just say I was thin?? – I wanted to hear more about training horses. Maybe he made the knots in the ropes he used to train the horses. There was much more about my writing I wanted to share. I liked these men. I liked horses. I liked knots.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then I woke up.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">***</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Someone was holding my hand, very lovingly. Three doctors in blue surgical gear were at the foot of my bed, beaming. BEAMING. I suppose every day someone doesn't die on your watch it's a good day. I recognised Mr Who, even without my contact lenses. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'It went very well. No complications, we're very pleased. You've done very well.'</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And weirdly - I thought 'Yes I have.' As if I had anything to do with surgically removing calcified and arthritic bone, inserting a titanium spike holding a ceramic ball into a ceramic socket into the pelvis of a living body. 'Yes, I've done WELL.'</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The post-op nurse was still holding my hand as he said 'It's been a joy caring for you.' </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I would like at this point to say if I ever hear anyone breathe a word of anything even remotely critical of the NHS I will follow them down the pathways of their life, reading my testimonial in a loud voice in public places, shouting out my unqualified devotion for everyone who is a part of this efficient and humane system. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘It’s been a joy’ he said, squeezing my hand.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t think health gets any better care than that.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I was trolleyed away. I felt no pain. I had been surgically-and-post-operatively loved. It was over.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Apparently I waved at the nurses in reception when I got to the ward. I only know this because my friend Mark was on the phone with the nurse at reception at that precise moment, asking if I'd arrived. 'Ah, that might be her now. She is - she is - waving,' the nurse at reception said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'Yeah. That's her,' Mark affirmed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Five minutes later, having been set in place by a huge window, another friend - let’s call her – Lisa – because that’s, like, her name - walked in, disguised as a ministering angel. Straight to my bedside, she put her arms around me and I almost cried. She sat with me for two hours, holding my fingers and, get this, putting her hand lovingly on my back as I proceeded to vomit not once, or twice but FIVE times in 90 minutes. At one point I turned to her and said, weakly 'Are you squeamish?' 'Not in the slightest' she said. 'Barf away.'</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She stayed until visiting hours were over. I fell asleep. And slept so deeply, so profoundly that when I woke and saw it was 12:53 – I assumed it was the next day. FAR into the next day. Seventeen hours into the next day. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But it was very dark. On the ward – and on the street. And even in my morphined-state this darkness was a clue; that and the fact<b> </b>there was no noise of people running to and fro, and making a great stir, as there unquestionably would have been if night had beaten off bright day, and taken possession of the world. As Dickens might have said. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’d only been asleep for five hours.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The lamps outside glowed orange across my blankets. I lay, sighing, in a stupor of peace. Perhaps drug-induced peace, but, more convincingly, a product of every single wonderful, loving, prayerful thought that had been broadcast to me over the past 24 hours. A cloud of beneficence surrounded me and I felt bliss. And saw how my physical life had been given back to me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mr Who came with the same clip board attendant the next day to check my progress. I turned to the ghostly assistant this time and said 'Hello. I'm Stephanie.'</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'Oh yes,' said Mr Who, looking at his colleague. 'We ALL know who you are.'</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I decided this was a good thing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Outside of two setbacks the next day when I passed out, trying to walk - scaring everyone around me apparently - 'It's always the young ones who give you trouble!' a nurse said later - I was sailing. Forty-two hours after surgery I was on crutches, doing the stairs. The physios grinned, my surgeon grinned. This was a conversation between the x-ray technician and me, the Thursday before I left hospital:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tech: (<i>hauling machine around</i>) So when did you have the op?</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: Tuesday.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tech: A week last Tuesday?</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: No. This Tuesday.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She stopped.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tech: Tuesday?? 48 hours ago? And you're WALKING??? I've NEVER, ever seen anyone walking after two days.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: Really? Oh thank you. I've been wanting a prize and no one has suggested I deserve one.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tech: The nurses will all be talking about it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She saw me manipulate my leg on the table to get it back on the floor for the crutches.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tech: Does it hurt badly?</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: Nah.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tech: (<i>quietly</i>) You must have a high threshold of pain.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I thought 'Honey, until you've been tobogganing and shoved your hip up into your waist - you don't know from pain.'. NOTHING is even remotely as bad as the original injury. No where near. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I got home to my bed, 72 hours post-operation, and was already forgetting I had the surgery, it all felt so good.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was able to walk with only one crutch - so I could carry tea to my room.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had been given enough chocolate to re-sink the Mary Rose.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And Anna agreed – Mr Who <i>was</i> cute.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpAherMo1bGtKLS2MOSBM-dfr5gFN7Om4Rpn5g4te2jHgHueoGxwv01n7o7BoYrZchePgmICLMwc-nrfNPvXKHXuOCWwX3aT9HKAY-cBIrvsDk2xAHU6nHvtRXdeVzxIixZqVbo5TrmoDn/s1600/2+Dec+2011+-+out+of+hospital+%28photo+by+Jenn%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpAherMo1bGtKLS2MOSBM-dfr5gFN7Om4Rpn5g4te2jHgHueoGxwv01n7o7BoYrZchePgmICLMwc-nrfNPvXKHXuOCWwX3aT9HKAY-cBIrvsDk2xAHU6nHvtRXdeVzxIixZqVbo5TrmoDn/s400/2+Dec+2011+-+out+of+hospital+%28photo+by+Jenn%29.jpg" width="305" /></a></td></tr>
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-32221414027615399472012-01-13T12:34:00.001+00:002012-02-10T13:33:04.039+00:00A Hip Chick - Part One<div class="MsoNormal">When my friend Anna found out I was taking a bus to the Whittington Hospital the morning of my hip replacement, she called me names, shouted and said 'She was hiring a £”!!! car.' I said this wasn't necessary. She told me to - well - to be quiet - and when the cab picked me up in the darkness outside my flat on 29<sup>th</sup> November, Tuesday morning, 6:30 - I was very glad to know we were getting her next.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had no idea just how glad I could be until she was still with me at 2pm. We waited for seven hours in a curtained cubicle for me to be taken into surgery. I was naked under two hospital gowns and wore purple slippers. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">I do not use the term ‘friend’ lightly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">Driving north from Bayswater in pre-dawn London, I felt a combination of mild hysteria and exhaustion. I hadn't slept more than about twenty minutes, although I put that down to the intense carbo-drinks they get you to ingest in the 24 hours before the operation. 'It's what athletes drink, before a marathon' a pre-op nurse had told me. I had taken mine religiously the day before, downing two more before the cab arrived. When we got to Anna I was buzzing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She slid in beside me, smiling, took my hand and asked me how I was. I shouted 'High!' she said 'Good!', and we drove a dark, circuitous path to Highgate, arriving at 6:55 - five minutes early.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We walked up to the Day Centre and there were already a dozen people waiting to be admitted. 'Oh my god, maybe you're right Steph, maybe it's first come, first serve' Anna said. We tried to seat ourselves so we could elbow the more elderly-looking out of the way to make sure I got a good place in the queue. When the desk opened I was the last to be ticked off the list and I don't know if this was pertinent, but I was last in line for surgery that day. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We were escorted down hallways to the aforementioned cubicles. I changed into my two blue gowns (‘Good colour on you!’ Anna cried) and sat while she played me songs on her iPod and read me poetry. She brought work and marked papers; I did a bit of writing. We eavesdropped on the doctors speaking to the patients beside us and I recognised my surgeon's voice as he did his rounds. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'That's him, he's coming' I said. 'He has that – shy-but-friendly-scientist thing.' I’d also told Anna he was cute so this was our chance to see if she thought I was right. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In fact, it’s probably why she came.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We heard 'Stephanie Young?' and both looked up as – I’ll call him Dr Who - pulled our curtain back.. In actual fact he is <i>Mr</i> Who because, in the UK, once you’ve reached the illustrious heights of consultant status, you drop that title you’ve worked most of your bloody life for and are no longer referred to as ‘doctor’ but ascend back to ‘Ms’ or ‘Mr.’ So orthopaedic surgeon, Mr Who, attended by someone so deferential as to hardly be corporeal (Anna and I agreed later we had no recollection of any discernible features or recognisable human characteristics in this ghostly attendant but who must have been there because we saw a clipboard) Mr Who, I say, smiled and asked how I was.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'I'm fantastic, I'm buzzing!' I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'Oh?' he said, smiling more broadly but also more unsure.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'Yeah, those drinks. I'm high as a kite.'</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anna nodded beside me. He glanced at her and seemed relieved. I was obviously demented so it was good to have someone coherent in the room. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He told us what the day might hold. He looked well-rested, his blue eyes were sparkly and he was wearing a suit. (I said to Anna that I hoped he'd change before operating. I had visions of pus and guts and effluvia all over his – well. Anyway. The dry-cleaning bill could be pricey.) He outlined again the risks of the surgery but confirmed I needed it, asked if I understood, got me to sign some forms - all of which I read. He started to describe what I was signing, assuming I was reading because I didn't understand.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'No, she does this,' Anna explained. 'She also reads terms and conditions.'</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'Oh?' Mr Who said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anna gestured 'crazy' beside her head.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'Yes,' I said, not looking up. ‘I don't want to commit myself to loaning you £300...'</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He is shy but laughs.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He said the procedure could take two hours, probably more an hour and a half. He asked if I still wanted to go through with it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was so keen at this point, if he'd had a Swiss army knife and a bottle of gin I would have suggested we have a go then and there. Instead I consented, he said 'Fine' and told us unfortunately there was a bit of a back log and I might not go in until after lunch. It was 9am. I felt bad for Anna but I knew she would hit me with the oxygen tank under the table if I suggested she leave me so just nodded, philosophically, at Mr Who. He continued.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘There may have been contraction of the thigh muscles while you have been accommodating this condition and if so, I will lengthen the leg slightly.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I frowned but Anna’s eyes lit up.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Could you lengthen both of them?’ she asked. ‘Juuuuust a teeeeny bit?’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mr Who gazed at us. I sighed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘She’s always wanted me to be taller,’ I explained.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anna nodded, eagerly. Realising we must have looked suspiciously intimate – not knowing that Anna was simply tired of bending down to ask me the time – and wanting to leave all lunching, dating, dining options open in Mr Who’s mind, I said, loudly ‘Not that we are <i>actually</i> lovers.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The floor around our cubicle went silent. Mr Who cleared his throat at which I point I noticed the ring on his left hand. It obviously didn’t matter what my sexual orientation was, he and I were having a strictly professional relationship. I rose above my disappointment as he gathered himself - maybe seeking diversion from the image of the two women in front of him engaged in carnal embrace - and asked if I had any further questions.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'Yes,' I said. 'I have just one.' He gazed at me, patient, blue-eyed, and attentive. I breathed in deeply, became very still and looked into his face. Then I said, slowly</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> 'Have you done this before?'</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He laughed in a way that sounded as though he couldn't tell whether to be hugely offended or hugely amused. He almost sort of half fell over.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'No, you're the first,' he said, still making that almost-laughing almost-offended sound.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'Well, I'd like you to sign it, then' I said, indicating the scar on my hip. He looked to the intern (now a respectful vapour) and out of the mist came a felt pen.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘It’s this hip, isn’t it – you confirm that?’ said Mr. Who. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Yessss,’ I said, thinking I didn’t want him to sign BEFORE the surgery. That was cheating.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He asked me to raise my hospital gown slightly and, witnessed by the spectral presence, put a big, black arrow on my right thigh.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Indicating ‘up’. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mr Who smiled.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Just to make sure,’ he said. I looked down at the greasy-looking road sign on my leg.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Does that come off?’ I asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Oh yes,’ he smiled, opening the curtain, about to leave. He looked over his shoulder. ‘In three or four months.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I obviously wasn’t going to have lunch with him, but I’d encouraged his inner Jack Dee. My job was done.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anna and I chatted. We read. She left for ten minutes, feeling guilty for being able to eat and drink, so having her lunch, decorously, in the cafe without me. At 12:30 she came back and overheard a surgeon in the cubicle beside us say 'The lady next to you is going in now'. She turned to me, beaming, saying 'That's you! you could be next!' And I surprised myself by feeling uninterested, even slightly hostile. We'd been waiting five hours, hadn't seen Mr Who since 9:15 and I'd lost momentum. For the first time I wasn't excited, I was nervous. I’d been standing too long in the queue for the roller coaster, I was asking myself why I wanted to plunge 90 feet at 120 miles per hour. Straight down. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was going to be cut open, bits of me were going to be removed and new, fake bits put in.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know it’s something most Hollywood starlets have been undergoing since adolescence but it was a first for me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Suddenly I wanted to go home.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If I had tried to bolt, however, I don’t think I would have got past the very pleasant, not-very big-but-very-strong-looking Polish nurse who pulled back the curtains carrying her own clipboard and a machine. She took my blood pressure (which was fine) (which was disappointing – with all the ruddy cycling I wanted her to shout ‘You have the most healthy blood pressure I’ve ever encountered in my life!’ – instead Anna’s was lower) and told us it would be another two hours. Anna asked, firmly, if I might have a drink. The Polish nurse smiled, incredulous.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘No,’ she said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘She’s thirsty,’ Anna said. ‘Not even a sip?’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The nurse considered. She left the cubicle with forms and the equipment. She came back with a paper cup.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘You may have one sip,’ she told me. ‘A mouthful.’ I swished it around in my mouth as though it were a glass of Chateau Cheval Blanc 1947. I took ten minutes to swallow.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I don’t know if it was that moment of hydration, or Anna’s love or the nurse’s compassion, but my spirits lifted. I thought of my happy future. I was going to roller blade again. Do yoga bends. I could return to every sexual posture imaginable. All this was possible because of the titanium spike about to be hammered into my thigh. I chatted with Anna, buoyant; there was more reading, more poetry and at 2pm the nurse came back. I was next. She raised an eyebrow and smiled at me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She asked what tune I was whistling. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was obviously ready.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5Nkl6oc5PepJz2_uNNQk2FoslKttq9pqOWkWCQUPVbbygpjKNpdxsH4yHq37Ezb5qoR2oc18ElzGbs9C9a0tH9d8IMyJlg-Krr9W224x0frEG2fOcALelX_4QDvYKRIMXNbkG-DVG45p/s1600/Steph+in+Hospital+Gown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC5Nkl6oc5PepJz2_uNNQk2FoslKttq9pqOWkWCQUPVbbygpjKNpdxsH4yHq37Ezb5qoR2oc18ElzGbs9C9a0tH9d8IMyJlg-Krr9W224x0frEG2fOcALelX_4QDvYKRIMXNbkG-DVG45p/s320/Steph+in+Hospital+Gown.jpg" width="191" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Next instalment:</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>The anaesthetist outlined the options. I had the choice of light sedation ('Are you out of your f****! mind?' I said) (no, but - thought it), heavy sedation (not really conscious but might hear some drilling) or general anaesthetic. Out. Under Gone.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>He was selling the sedative – fewer side effects, the recovery time is faster. He shrugged, politely.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>‘If you’re in distress, we can ask how you are and switch to the general.’</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i> </i><i>I stared at him. I said, blinking 'Ask how I am? I could TALK?' and he said 'Yes, more or less.' </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>I reached out, grabbed his collar in both of my fists, brought his face very close to mine and said, very slowly and very loudly - <b>'I don't want to be able to talk.'</b></i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-74969830593572961472011-11-28T18:04:00.000+00:002011-11-28T18:04:32.311+00:00A Woman of Parts<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-GB</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal">‘Men find limps attractive,’ a good friend told me on Thursday. She was hugging me goodbye. She is a film director, back in London to pick up her visa before returning to New York. She was looking very well: blonde, green-eyed, clear-skinned. As she held me she explained the theory. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Men see a woman who limps and they think they can catch her.’ She kissed my cheek and smiled. ‘They like that.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I considered this as I cycled away. Does this explain the great success I’ve had attracting men over the past 18 months? I’d thought it was my hair.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Because I do have a limp. And it’s been getting worse. Or, using my friend’s equation, better. (The worse the limp the greater the attraction? Is a bed-ridden woman irresistible?)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I dislocated my hip in a tobogganing accident when I was 22 and had successful surgery. It healed perfectly.<span> </span>Within six months I was able to run a full marathon, cycle across the Rockies in summer heat and swim Lake Ontario. Of course I wasn’t so bloody stupid that I did any of these bloody stupid things, but I was able to.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In 2007 I was doing yoga, came out of a deep bend and screamed. And a few months later, walking with a friend in an orchard in Kent I first heard the words ‘Are you limping?’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I hadn’t known it then. But now it’s impossible to miss.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was out with a man this summer, a guy I hadn’t seen in years, and the limp grieved him. He talked about it. He mentioned it. When he held me in bed he said ‘Is this your sore hip???’<span> </span>It was more painful for him than for me. (He was the man I shocked by whistling as I came down the hall from the bathroom, returning to bed. ‘Was that you, whistling?’ he said as I walked in, his eyes wide. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Oh yes yes, that’s me. I’m sorry’, I admitted, crawling beside him. ‘My whistling is annoying. People tell me, I’m sorry.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘No, no. Not annoying,’ he said, thinking. ‘It’s kind of sexy.’ He waited a moment. ‘<i>And</i> off putting.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My producer Chris maintains that’s why I never saw him again. ‘He’s not going to ring! Why would he ring?? You know what he calls you? You’re the <i>whistling gimp</i>.’) (She obviously doesn’t subscribe to my director-friend’s theory.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I got tired of seeing the grimaces of pain on the faces of my friends, I went to see a doctor who referred me to a surgeon who within six weeks agreed to see me unconscious under his able, gifted, slicing hands. On Tuesday, 29<sup>th</sup><span> </span>November, he’s putting in a new hip.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am so excited I can hardly tell you. I am going to be walking, dancing, ROLLER BLADING again (this I <i>will</i> do, can’t wait, on my birthday, you’re invited). And before I go under the knife I have given myself a quest. <span> </span>I stand on a cliff top, shielding my eyes against the rising sun of my new Hip Life and scan the horizon. For someone. Some brave one. Some brave man, in fact – who will just put his fingers against the skin on my hip, as it is now and say ‘Ah yes. This is how it is. I will remember…’<span> </span>And promise to always remember. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Or at least lie and say he does.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s not that I mind scars. I quite like the original one, in such a discreet place that you have to know me very, very well before you see it. It’s just that I don’t like change. Or, rather, changi<i>ng</i>. Once the scar is there, I will love it because it means I can walk. However, in these days before it arrives, I feel nostalgic about the as-yet-unblemished skin. I told two friends last Sunday in a pub that this part of my hip I happen to like very much. I like most of me quite a bit, if I’m honest, but these 10 centimetres at the top of my thigh – they are jolly nice.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I want someone to recognise this.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Even if I have to pay him.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My pub companions, two young men, were very receptive. They were friendly – and charitable enough – to have sympathy for my plight and immediately volunteer their services.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘I want someone,’ I said, turning in my seat and putting my fingers on my denim-ed outer leg ‘to just – feel – this part of me, and then to – ‘</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Photograph it??’ said the handsome, long-haired musician I’ll call Bill. He’d had several beers by this point. So had his equally handsome, saturnine friend Ben.<span> </span>They gazed at me, weirdly sober seven pints in. Or behaving weirdly sober, at any rate.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Yes!’ I said, not daring to hope someone would actually be able to get a camera close enough to those ten centimetres without embarrassing us both and making it look like a home porno movie.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Bill was on it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘I’ll feel it and Ben can take a picture!’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ben scowled. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Why do I have to take the picture? Why do you get to feel it?’ </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘I have softer hands,’ Bill said. He shrugged, philosophic.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘You have softer hands?’ Ben guffawed. ‘What? You’ve been moisturising?’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘You have hands like a rhino,’ Bill shouted.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At this point I realised they were no longer acting as sober as they seemed. And neither one has since mentioned this service they were willing to offer when under the influence, so I suspect they a) don’t remember or b) have re-thought the propriety of my request and decided, understandably, all is best passed over in silence. So, sports fans, I am back on the trail. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I know what I want. I want someone sensitive, decorous, poetic – and with a camera. On his phone. That’s fine.<span> </span>Someone young enough to be around in later years when I ask ‘Do you remember how I looked without the scar?’ and have him smile at me fondly – not, you know, creepily – and say ‘Yes. I remember it well.’ And if some day he’s not there I can look at the picture he took – his sensitive, decorous, poetic picture - and remember myself.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am ready for this newer, faster, fitter me. I am ready to hike the coastal paths again, ready to skate for hours while listening to Ron Sexsmith sing ‘I’m A Late Bloomer’. It will be spring, maybe April, maybe my birthday. Trees will be bursting into blossom, light will ricochet off the Serpentine onto the sunglasses of the happy tourists eating ice cream on the benches, and I, on my roller blades, will push forward, stride after stride after stride, gaining momentum, faster and faster and faster and I will think on my director friend’s theory, about men who like women who limp. And I will realise this is irrelevant to me now. I will speed past boats and trees, past other girls on bikes sailing beside me through Hyde Park, and I will know, in my new ceramic replacement bones, that I am ready for a man who is fast enough to catch up.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>S. Young - Artistic Director will return as soon as she is conscious. Enough. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-13113000847344853272011-11-11T11:13:00.003+00:002011-11-13T12:59:16.783+00:00Getting it Right : The Art of Taking Notes<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Anna</span> (not her real name) (so I <i>could</i> I call her Pallas Athene. Jocasta. Ankehesanamun [<i>queen of Egypt BC 1348</i>]) (yeah, I could, but it’s £$** hard to type) is not only a dear friend she is my first reader. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">She receives my scripts as they appear, freshly lasered, or pixelated into early drafts on the screen. She is the source of the best comments and editorial suggestions. She confirms Christine’s opinions and, as a writer herself, translates them into equations I can solve technically. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Equations that can begin ‘I hate Gladys’ if, say, I had written a script about someone called Gladys. ‘I hate Gladys,’ she would write, and at that point I would know where she stood.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Once I was writing a mildly autobiographical piece and the sentence was ‘I hate Stephanie.’ Very bracing let-me-tell-you. And she was right. Fictional Stephanie was hateful. So I changed her name (and pretty much everything else).</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And she always begins with praise. What works and why. What she enjoys, what moves and amuses her, what engages her. She then examines, with surgical precision, what doesn’t work. Sometimes it is a very simple note with far-reaching consequences – ‘What motivates her?’ or ‘You haven’t earned this’; sometimes it’s just simple: ‘Cut that.’</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But sometimes, as in the ‘I hate Stephanie’ moment, she is inspired to comments with a full-bodied energy and passion ‘ I wanted to <i>slap</i> her, who would date THAT? She’s ungenerous and unkind’ – that, trusting her wholly, she knows I will ride as an expert surfer does the high wave to the pacific beauty of a Much Better Draft.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I don’t mind the passion.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">What I dread is the quiet.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The small sentence. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The blood-chilling phrase - ‘Shall we meet?’</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Then I know I’m fucked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">When I was at university I lived with a girl called Maureen, the only daughter in a tribe of older brothers. She described, with remarkable good nature, the abuse she underwent on a daily basis – kneed in the chest, drooled over, used for Nerf ball target practise, and, generally, the focus of casual assault whenever one of her five siblings was around.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">‘My brothers tackled me. All the time. Because I would do something – like, spit in their milkshakes – no, believe me, they had it coming – and I’d take off down the lawn and one of them would be behind me. And I’d be ripping, I’d be tearing down the grass, heading for the fence, I’d hear him behind me. I’d hear him running and I’d be running and he’d be running, thump thump thump, and that’s fine. The running is fine. The bad moment was when the running stopped. Because I know where he is. He’s in the air. And he’s in the air because he’s leaping and I know where he’s going to land…’</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">This is the dread I feel in the quiet of Anna’s brief email response. No passion, no hatred; just something in the air and I know where it’s going to land.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Last month I met Anna on a hot Saturday afternoon in her local park to get notes on the rest of the pilot episode of HOME MOVIES – the 21 minutes that follow the seven minutes we have filmed. The dread had receded and I was beginning to look forward to the relief I knew her comments would inspire. I have always said that, in art, you cross the bridge of poo to get to the grassy knoll of truth (‘Grassy knoll?’ Chris said once. ‘Do you have to evoke murder in Dallas?’), and Anna was leading me across that bridge.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We sat on our favourite hillside overlooking a verdant playing field, leaves falling weirdly in the 27 degree October heat. She glanced around nervously.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">‘Who are you looking for?’ I said, following her gaze.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">‘You know who,’ she said. ‘He lives – somewhere - here.’</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">‘Ah!’ I said, understanding. And panicking, myself. I looked down the paths for the familiar, well-built shape of Stretch Williams [not his real name].</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Stretch Williams is the only person in my whole life to whom I have ever said ‘I do not want to see or hear from you again.’ He dated my friend Carol and when she ended it, he couldn’t. He called her mates, he arranged coffees. To talk about her. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Now don’t get me wrong, I love to talk about her. I just also like to think at some point in the conversation someone is going to realise they are talking to me. Even if it is about her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">After three such coffees when Stretch rang I said I didn’t think things were working out and I ended it. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I now run into Stretch as though he is some messenger from an Underworld, the kind your mother threatened you with if you didn’t accept dates from the lanky, greasy, Star Trek enthusiast who fancied you when no one else would. ‘Sell when you can, you are not for all markets!’ my mother shouted – or would have if she had known Shakespeare said it best.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">(Lanky Tom Buskard went on to a hugely prolific publishing career as a science fiction writer. So. You know. Who’s laughing now.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I’ve run into Stretch so often it’s become a kind of parallel social reality – as though we really <i>are</i> friends and have <i>planned</i> to meet. He is always gracious but, after ten minutes, he can see the flecks of foam forming around the sides of my mouth and lets me go.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I cursed myself for choosing this patch of ground. I wondered if we should skulk off to a café when Anna, with remarkable focus given the potential for imminent social danger, turned and looked at me. Steadily.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">‘So,’ she said. Her voice resonant. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The air whistled, birds sang. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">‘So,’ I muttered.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">She kept my gaze.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And, as full awareness descended, eyes-wide and heart-pounding I was able to say ‘<i>I have to re-write the whole thing</i>,’ and feel Anna nod before I heard her voice, half-strangled, half-desperate, announce ‘Stretch.’</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And I knew this wasn’t a spiritual suggestion.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I looked up and there was the pleasant face of the gym-visiting, yoga-practising, ex-girlfriend-obsessed Stretch Williams.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Swiftly, before standing, Anna turned and whispered, intensely ‘It has to get much more real, there has to be something else between the women that accounts for their relationship, you can’t sustain a half-hour with the tone you’ve set up in the first scene, you need separate motives for what they do that keeps them connected and then we realise somewhere that’s all they’ve ever had.’</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I memorised her words as you would directions from the Troll indicating the Way Out of the Forest of Death, saw her turn to Stretch, kiss his cheek and suggest a walk.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">She took the bullet.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I transcribed the notes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I’ve said it before. Writing is a collaborative process, informed by the wisdom that a plurality of hearts applied to a question reveals an answer the single perspective would not have seen. You need your friends/editors/directors/ producers – even, or perhaps especially, if they hate what you’ve done and can tell you why.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Anna returned without Stretch. She sat down. My pen was raised for the next string of pearls but she wasn’t thinking about me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">‘He’s publishing a novel. Faber and Faber. He’s got a big deal in the States.’ She paused. ‘He didn’t mention Carol.’</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I reeled. I was full of a begrudging admiration and thought about this unfortunate tendency I have to repel men who later become hugely successful. But, even in my regret, I awarded top marks to Stretch.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">He’d obviously, somewhere inside, taken notes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-5487173529864543192011-10-28T13:16:00.005+01:002011-11-08T16:31:59.939+00:00The Quest<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Chris and I have been waiting to discover whether HOME MOVIES has been selected for screening at ‘In Short’, a film festival promoting the talent of people who live, work or study in Queen’s Park and surrounding neighbourhoods. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">There are prizes. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Of course we want to share our work, to promote our cast and crew and to broadcast the company name.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">But we really, really, really want a prize.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">First prize is good. First prize is your film shown as a trailer before the main feature at the Lexi Cinema on the Chamberlayne Road every night for a week. We could be the warm up act for Tilda Swinton.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">This is the prize we want.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">All right. Fine. Clarification: This is the prize <b>I</b> want.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Chris, probably a better person, has maintained since February - all through development, rehearsal, shooting and post-production – that she just wants the film in the festival. That would be success enough for her.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I have nodded, aping her humility. ‘Oh yes, yes – triumph,’ I’ve said, while secretly imagining what I’ll wear to introduce our movie the night they undoubtedly ask me to come and talk about our eight-minute short that features one vaguely ataxic character falling over in the street, twice, and another breaking into spontaneous yoga just before they screen ‘We Need To Talk About Kevin’.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">My big face!! Gurning into an audience who have paid to see Tilda Swinton! This is my quest.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Of course we have only been able to make the film and submit it because 31, count ‘em, 31 people have supported the blighter. Chris and I have been gob-smacked with astonishment and awe at the overwhelming support our WeFund campaign has attracted. We now have 85% of our total budget. We are the heroes racing towards the finish line, heads thrown back, chests bared to the skies, shouting ‘Aaaaaaghhh!’ And, like all great heroic quests, there is at the climactic point, the chance of losing it all. YES of LOSING IT ALL!! ALL!! LOOOOOOSING AAAAAaaaall. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Because.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">If we don’t raise the final £600 in the next two weeks and three days, WeFund will cancel all the pledges we’ve received so far.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">YES. CAAAAaaaaNCEL!!(echo: caaaaaaaaaancellllll)</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">They are the Wizards guarding the Treasure that will not be given into our stewardship until we prove our worthiness. WeFunders sit, tender, watchful, as Chris and I run, faster faster faster, keeping our eye on the finish line and on the festival (and on first prize).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Of course we knew that getting into the festival would give us juuuust that much more incentive to run that much faster and attract that much more money.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">They were announcing their selection last weekend.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Last weekend I sat at my computer (pretty safe bet, if I’m sitting actually. Chris asked me yesterday ‘What did you do for your sixteen waking hours before you had a laptop?’ and I stared at her. Before laptop? What is - this – before laptop?). I was Skyping. My friend Anna and I were texting away. A happy exchange of Skype texts. Little bits of information and humourous observations, stories and anecdotes when - another Skype text came through.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">‘Beep’ it said. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I glanced up.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">It was from the founder of the ‘In Short’ festival. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">My heart somersaulted and landed in my knees. I wanted to open it but was in mid-anecdote. What if it was bad news? I’d never finish the story. And if it were good news – well. I’d never finish the story either. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Below is a transcript of that stomach-revolving moment. Anna had just asked how I was:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">[22/10/2011 15:31:06] <b>Stephanie Young</b>: I'm really well, thank you. Having a really fun day with Chris - hardly ever have this kind of time just the two of us. She and I are talking about writing and – </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Beep.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">[22/10/2011 15:31:33] <b>Stephanie Young</b>: oh hang on, sorry - message from the founder about the flim festival!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">(Suddenly we’ve submitted our movie to a flim festival. This combined with my initials would make for a flim-SY festival to which, quite honestly, we would rather not be invited. My friend, however, understood and wrote:)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">[22/10/2011 15:31:40] <b>Anna</b>: Oooo</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">[22/10/2011 15:31:48] <b>Stephanie Young</b>: I know my heart is racing!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">[22/10/2011 15:31:51] <b>Stephanie Young</b>: she's texting me now</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">[22/10/2011 15:31:58] <b>Stephanie Young</b>: i'm nervous!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">[22/10/2011 15:32:08] <b>Anna</b>: I'm waiting</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I shifted to the other page and watched the little Skype pencil move as the Founder typed. I saw the text come up, willing the words, crossing my fingers, holding my breath.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">And at 15:32 on Saturday, 22<sup>nd</sup> October the Founder of the festival (whose intern had been unable to get to us on email) wrote to me saying:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">[22/10/2011 15:32:05] We said everyone must be told by 3pm today. We saw over 30 short films - and yours is in…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> WE’RE IN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">We’re in, we’re in. I told Anna, swiftly, that we had got into the flim festival. Again, she understood.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">[22/10/2011 15:33:02] <b>Anna</b>: Fabulo!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">[22/10/2011 15:33:03] <b>Stephanie Young</b>: I may have to run and tell Chris!!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">[22/10/2011 15:33:12] <b>Anna</b>: Go go I have to run</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">[22/10/2011 15:33:22] <b>Anna</b>: Congratulations!!!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">[22/10/2011 15:33:33] <b>Anna</b>: I'll catch you later</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I called out to Chris, working down the hall in her office.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">‘Have you checked your email today?’ I shouted.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">‘No,’ she called back. ‘Why?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">‘Just – just check your email,’ I said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I typed my thanks to the Founder while I heard Chris pull her chair up to her computer. The mouse clicked a few times. She shouted</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">‘There’s an email from [<i>HOME MOVIES director] </i>DaveAnderson, is that what you mean?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">(</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">For those of you new to the blog, DaveAnderson has become one word in the offices of MYPC. We say his name so often, it’s just easier. I could waste years of my life pausing that split nano-second between ‘Dave’ and ‘Anderson’ and, I tell you, I’ve just got too much to see and do. Like re-categorise my iTunes library by artist and not album. And whittle.)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">'He's written, is it from Dave?' </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Obviously, I wasn't speaking about an email from Dave.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">‘Yes!’ I said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I texted the Founder:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"> [22/10/2011 15:41:25] <b>Stephanie Young</b>: I am going to go, run and tell Christine if I may. She's been holding her breath!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">[22/10/2011 15:41:29] <b>Stephanie Young</b>: I am so so happy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">[22/10/2011 15:41:35] <b>Stephanie Young</b>: This is great for us .</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">‘Yes? About - train times?’ she said. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">‘Yes,’ I said again, warmly. Hoping she would be distracted by my loving tone and not suspect my forked tongue.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">There was a pause. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I felt Christine’s eyes squinting from 20 feet away.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">‘Why did you know I was going to get an email from DaveAnderson?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I signed off from the Founder. I heard Chris inhale. She shouted down the hall. ‘Stephanie. I think you’re <i>lying</i>.’ </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I giggled. Yes, I giggled. I hate giggling and I hate gigglers but here I was, victim and perpetrator. How best to tell her? The best way is to read the news yourself. The best way is to open the envelope, the best way is to hold the letter in your hands. I didn’t have an envelope or a letter.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I unplugged and picked up my computer.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">‘I – I have something I want you to read.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">She glanced at me from the sofa. She’d given up thinking she was supposed to be excited about emails from director DaveAnderson, even emails with which I seemed to have a prescient relationship. She waited to see what I was lying about.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I stood in front of her, brandishing my laptop like the grail she’d been looking for. She blinked at me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">‘Now – it’s Skype,’ I said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">‘When is Skype?’ she said, frowning.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">‘Now. This. Is. Skype. It’s Skype this is Skype.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">‘I – I hear that. It’s Skype.’ She paused. ‘What is Skype?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">‘What you are about to read, it’s on Skype so bear that in mind.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">‘What am I – ‘</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I pushed her novel to the floor and thrust the laptop into her hands. She wrestled with the machine and looked where my fingers were pointing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">‘Look, you see – it’s Skype. Skype. Skype.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">‘I see, I see, it’s Skype. It’s Skype. You keep saying Skype. It’s like talking to Rain Man, why is it – ‘</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">And at that very moment her eyes caught the words ‘We saw over 30 films…’ And I watched her face as the fact hit home and the truth sank in (after three attempts to read the GOOD NEWS! because, being Skype, the messages were not sequential and they are quite hard to make sense of which is why I had kept shouting ‘Skype!’ at her, you’d have thought that would have been enough but Noooo she had wanted me to say “These messages are not sequential”, I ASK YOU.).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">And a moment later we high-fived each other. And then discussed tiaras. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">And my speech.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">*** </span></div><div style="border-color: -moz-use-text-color -moz-use-text-color windowtext; border-style: none none dotted; border-width: medium medium 3pt; padding: 0cm 0cm 1pt;"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">If you feel inspired to assist us in our quest to claim all the pledges that have been made by those 31 extraordinarily generous people, to <i>become</i> One of Them, to allow us to reach the finish line, gasping, exultant, teary-eyed - borne shoulder-high by our cast and crew to the Lexi Cinema on Sunday, 20<sup>th</sup> November to see my face as big as Tilda’s; if you would like to see us triumph before the Hour-Glass Runs Out and the Treasure is Returned – click here:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.wefund.com/project/home-movies"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">http://www.wefund.com/project/home-movies</span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">As little as £5 will get you a perk. We’d love to get you – perky. Thank you for following us and the story of our little film.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">(We have big plans for it.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-18900166412074933582011-10-08T13:37:00.000+01:002011-10-08T13:37:24.074+01:00A Home Movie<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">We held a small party and private screening of HOME MOVIES to thank our cast, crew, sponsors and friends on Friday 30th September. We served them wine, cheese and those tiny, little decorative pickles. We hugged them as often as possible. We fed them the talent of Belfast singer/songwriter Anthony Toner and there was laughing, at the right parts, during the film. The mood was warm and generous after, and no one stampeded to get to the door.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">It was enjoyable.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">For everyone else.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">For me it was an evening for which 'enjoyable' is a pale and watery word. There was, obviously, the pleasure of friends and colleagues and those pickles were fantastic. But. There was a moment when I felt so fulfilled, such a gloriously happy inhabitant of my own life, that, lucky for you - I made a photograph with my heart.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">It looks like this:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The front room of a mansion block in Maida Vale: pale teal walls, darker teal carpet with classic and comfortable sofas and arm chairs. The ceiling lights are dimmed. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Connecting doors to a small study are open and wooden chairs are lined up behind the low-backed sofa; half a dozen people stand at the back. Every one faces the fire place in front of which is ANTHONY TONER – Belfast singer/songwriter. Twenty-two people wait..</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBAvK5Lrctxv0yk_W4e1X-tJjMXm39rpxAWFD1tJCpOKM-O7w1DmKZ7F-sJifXC-uHzdwp2Nyld_HJ3HbRVrf_HXb0GY6L9_gq5cJntqRA1DziKnKZNIUGyhUYbZ54KT0QuxcD2CxUbQrz/s1600/Home+Movies+-+Screening+The+Set.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBAvK5Lrctxv0yk_W4e1X-tJjMXm39rpxAWFD1tJCpOKM-O7w1DmKZ7F-sJifXC-uHzdwp2Nyld_HJ3HbRVrf_HXb0GY6L9_gq5cJntqRA1DziKnKZNIUGyhUYbZ54KT0QuxcD2CxUbQrz/s320/Home+Movies+-+Screening+The+Set.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Seated in a wooden chair, holding a guitar, his hair rock ‘n’ roll long and soft about his collar, he fiddled with a tuner at his feet.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">‘It’s very possible this might make you nervous’ he said, adjusting dials as he plucked a string on his guitar. ‘Sitting quietly in front of a man from Northern Ireland while between you is a small, electronic device, wired and activated…’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Anthony explained he had been asked to open the evening because his music is used in MYPC’s hugely successful WeFund campaign – the campaign that continues to succeed and make HOME MOVIES possible (lines are still open) (80% of the target has been reached) (yee-haaa). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.wefund.com/project/home-movies"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">http://www.wefund.com/project/home-movies</span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The audience, full of goat's cheese and sundried tomatoes on sesame crackers, listened with growing pleasure (you never know what you're going to get in someone's living room) to the incomparably clever lyrics and heartfelt tunes, typified by the opening number, ‘East of Louise’. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.anthonytoner.net/anthonys-blog/2011/5/26/10-days-10-songs-east-of-louise.html"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">http://www.anthonytoner.net/anthonys-blog/2011/5/26/10-days-10-songs-east-of-louise.html</span></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I felt everyone relax just the way I relaxed earlier in the afternoon when Anthony breezed in from Belfast, fresh from a gig the night before and leaving in twenty hours to play another. His huge and easy charm, genuine enthusiasm and, let’s face it, distracting good looks are an impossibly winning combination that I defy any sentient being to resist (apparently there is a sitcom in development in Belfast – ‘Everyone Likes Anthony Toner’).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">His music and conversation knit us together. I could feel us all thinking ‘Well, this is very simple. And very nice.’ It was Friday night, London was still baring her shoulders and legs to the brazen, second summer (22 degrees at 8pm) and here was someone telling us stories and singing beautifully.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">And there was more wine.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">If I had been nervous about the first semi-public screening of HOME MOVIES, by the second song – (‘…we’re the people that we’ve always been, so just lie here til the light comes in…’) - I wasn't.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.anthonytoner.net/anthonys-blog/2011/5/27/10-days-10-songs-walking-down-the-line.html"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">http://www.anthonytoner.net/anthonys-blog/2011/5/27/10-days-10-songs-walking-down-the-line.html</span></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">And not because I was suddenly filled with an unshakable confidence that everyone would rise and fist-punch the air to announce this was their favourite short film ever EVER <i>EVER!!! </i>But because I was amongst friends (some I’d just met) who would accept our film in the spirit in which it had been created, the spirit that motivated Anthony’s songs – to move and entertain some people.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Now I was comfortable, I was engaged. What I didn’t know was that I was about to be launched into one of those heightened moments when time and place vanish, where you reach through the insubstantial stuff of molecules and memory to touch some source, some river that’s always flowing and that now and then you notice.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Anthony re-adjusted his guitar and watched the tuner.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">‘This next song is the one that Chris and Stephanie have used to promote the film’ he said, glancing up. ‘And I wrote it for Stephanie. She was going through a lot, a rough time, some very big changes in her life – very intense – and I was inspired to write this.’ The guitar was in tune. He settled it in his lap. His hands hovered over the strings as he looked up to assure us ‘And this song fixed everything.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">He played the catchy opening. This was how I’d first heard it – just Anthony and a guitar. And I realised, sitting on the floor of this room, leaning against this sofa, was, achingly weirdly, precisely where I had been sitting when he'd said 'Merry Christmas,' put the CD into the machine and hit ‘play' in December 2008.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">On that winter morning it had been over two years since I had left my job, my home and a relationship, swimming, sometimes flailing, in deep waters trying to find the life I knew I was built for: making art, making money, living with people I loved. My mother had written, worried, worried sick, shouldn’t I face reality, shouldn’t I get a job? and in huge frustration I wished I’d never told her the truth. If only I had lied. If only I could film a fake life to send home to her so I would look like a success. So she wouldn’t worry.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Feel the breezes in the leaves above you, </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">the here and now and the ones who love you…</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Finally you find home, and it’s a state of mind.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">As the words cascaded out of the speakers, invisible behind the gargantuan Christmas tree Anthony and I had carried home down Elgin Avenue just the night before, I could feel my face tighten and my forehead spasm in what I understand is a hugely unattractive reflex but which I can’t help when I am about to cry from my deepest heart. Tears like water from a hydrant leapt, horizontally, from my eyes. I gasped. Andrea, my dear friend and Anthony’s partner, moved slowly down on the floor beside me and Anthony propped me up on the right. They put their arms about me as I suspect it looked as though I wasn’t going to remain incarnate, and maybe anchoring me to them, and the floor, would keep me breathing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I hadn’t realised how profoundly I had longed for help – yearned for some huge cosmic billboard lit up announcing ‘You Are Not Fucking Insane!’ And here, in just under four minutes, was every syllable of acknowledgement and affirmation, encouragement and support I could have ever desired.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">What you were looking for has finally found you,</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The world wants to put its arms around you</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Finally.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">It was probably the best Christmas present I had ever received. It was certainly one of the best moments of my life. And here, three years later, I was sitting <i>exactly </i>where I’d first heard that song, surrounded by people who had produced, directed, shot, acted in, sound designed, developed and funded the script – about a woman who films a fake life to send home to her mother. To prove she’s a success.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.anthonytoner.net/anthonys-blog/2011/5/24/10-days-10-songs-finally.html"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> http://www.anthonytoner.net/anthonys-blog/2011/5/24/10-days-10-songs-finally.html</span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">A wise teacher once said that ‘The standard of success in life isn't the things. It isn't the money or the stuff -- it is absolutely the amount of joy you feel.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Look at this picture. It was taken that moment Anthony sang. And I want you to note the woman in pink, because s<var id="yiv150145809yui-ie-cursor"></var>he is the most successful woman on the face of the blossoming earth.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtTfu5ELp2_MGWbUL56FIu2y9yZo3nkbZ7VyKn9H0TVzVMNA_GGYV9Jp3sBarMrzSHJCUc1mevQmKaXdQudX7xpWJW59BXlei0Pr_JDylXT4m1HQMgqN3F6MMBT0PqkIcJf2CUaTdSKtLZ/s1600/HOME+MOVIES+-+the+screening.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtTfu5ELp2_MGWbUL56FIu2y9yZo3nkbZ7VyKn9H0TVzVMNA_GGYV9Jp3sBarMrzSHJCUc1mevQmKaXdQudX7xpWJW59BXlei0Pr_JDylXT4m1HQMgqN3F6MMBT0PqkIcJf2CUaTdSKtLZ/s640/HOME+MOVIES+-+the+screening.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">(I took a photograph with my heart; more usefully, Chris took this with her phone.)</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5949645287722243752.post-89330410836966047522011-09-26T13:57:00.000+01:002011-09-26T13:57:59.615+01:00Chapter Ten<div class="MsoNormal"><i>19 June 2010</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><u>Nora</u> opened last week to acceptable reviews. Nothing that has challenged the vocabulary of critics as they seek new expressions of praise, but acceptable. This means The National should break even and the mood in the green room is sanguine.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I watch the leads chatting with each other before curtain; some of them read notices, some of them refuse. I happen to know that Nora herself was singled out as the strongest and most compelling aspect of the production and I agree. She is effortlessly real. And she’s slightly scary. You don’t know what she is going to do next. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am impressed and slightly jealous. I was always lauded for my ‘animal presence.’ Now if anyone noticed my animal presence they’d try to shoot me - creeping around on stage in the dark, running into furniture, grunting in my balaclava. I might bite. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’d shoot me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I remember seeing Judi make an entrance in 1995 on the huge revolving Olivier stage in this very theatre. She and I had made plans to have a birthday tea in the canteen after the matinee (I’d bought her a needlework kit – every moment she wasn’t on stage she was cross-stitching; she was bloody good, too) and she’d got me a prime seat. Lights went down, music came up and she appeared, upstage, and began her cross down. She was dressed circa 1895 and carried a parasol, wore a spectacular hat. Lights began to fill the stage as she made her purposeful way towards us and with every step I felt an increasing sense of sitting in the presence of something I could not describe but that my soul recognised. The hair on my forearms rose, the skin on my lower back tingled, my body began to lift to meet the sheer irresistible power of her presence. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She kept walking – the stage is 45 feet deep – her skirts sashaying, her parasol swinging and with every step she grew more terrifying and more irresistible. Here, on an ordinary afternoon, on a rainy autumn day in a very familiar place, something wild emerged. It was like meeting a tiger in your garden.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’d been a professional actress for almost twenty years and could not say then – and can barely describe now – the effect of her charisma. I was weeping by the time she reached the lip of the stage. Her character surveyed us - amused, erotic, hopelessly sad - and we were her happy slaves.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is why we’re here, I thought. On earth. We’re here to be as alive as possible. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Judi is just more alive than most.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And in <u>Nora</u> I pride myself on being as un-alive as I can. If I am meant to be invisible, I am going to be the best bloody invisible character in the London theatre today.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(And as I wasn't mentioned in the reviews, I Am Obviously Succeeding Nobly.) </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0