Here’s One I Wrote Earlier

Hello, dear reader!  (I’m assuming I only have one left now, so long have I been gone).  I’ve been busy since September and here’s an article I wrote, first published in October on the Write Out Loud website, to explain why:

                             My student ID pic

Since graduating with a BA in literature in 2008, it has been my dream to complete an MA in creative writing; specifically, poetry. I knew I needed to mature as a writer, and that happened to coincide with having no money. I was able to apply to Manchester Metropolitan University this summer, however, because a couple of years ago the government introduced student loans for a second degree.

Reader, I was accepted. I was overjoyed, particularly as the news came at the end of Freshers Week, when I was wondering why I hadn’t yet received my rejection email.

A welcome email arrived on the Thursday, from the writing school’s manager; followed by the offer email on Friday, around five pm. I was excited and panicked at the same time: I have to apply for student finance? (You certainly do!) When do I start? (Monday?!). Will I be allowed to attend class if my finance isn’t in place? (Yes). Where do I go? (The old Cornerhouse). What do I do? (Not panic…oops, too late).

My first degree was with the Open University so I was excited to go to a “real” i.e. brick university but, oh, how at first I wish I hadn’t bothered. Two weeks in and it was all YOU OWE US MONEY GIVE US MONEY YOU WILL BE SANCTIONED IF YOU DON’T PAY THE MONEY SHOW US THE MONEY.

I understand that education is big business these days, but please, MMU, don’t invite me at the last minute so that I miss out on the helpful information; leave me to flounder; and then nag me to the death of joy. Truthfully, at this stage I’d be happier with my notebook and pen and just the one degree, thank you very much.

From the ridiculous to the sublime: three weeks in, the course is fabulous. It is challenging and difficult and I am surrounded by so much talent I can’t help feeling they made a mistake when they sent out the offer letter. But you’d have to pry it from my cold, dead Gmail account first.

You know you’ve never had it so good when one of your professors is Michael Symmons Roberts and the other is Carol Ann Duffy. And when the poet laureate hands out free books, takes you across the road to the pub and buys you a drink and, when you ask for some advice says, “That’s what I’m here for,” you know you’ll say: “Here’s the money! I had to sell my children to get it, but it is totally worth it!”

Excited? Yes. Terrified? Yes. Fed up with officialdom? Always. Would I want to be anywhere else? What do you think?

Hash Brown Rehash

A full English breakfast with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, hash browns, and half a tomato (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

 

 

 

I’ve been absent for a month because things changed fast around here.  When I get a spare five minutes, I’ll tell you about it (and reply to your comments).  In the meantime, here’s a post that first appeared in 2012.

 

Saturday.  The scene: dinner time in the Bud House.

Spud:  What’s for dinner?

Tilly:  Bacon eggs pork sausages beans tomatoes leftover potato croquettes I found in the bottom of the freezer from when the kids were here in August because I’ve run out of hash browns and bread to soak it all up.

Spud:  Bacon?  But we had gammon yesterday.  Why are we having what is effectively the same meat again?

Tilly [Not bothering to put up a fight she knows she’ll lose]:  Fine.  What do you want instead?

Spud:  Sandwiches.  Got any ham?

*

*

Sunday.  The scene: dinner time in the Bud House.

Spud:  What’s for dinner?

Tilly:  Bacon eggs sausage beans tomatoes leftover potato croquettes I found in the bottom of the freezer from when the kids were here in August because I’ve run out of hash browns and bread to soak it all up.

Spud:  Do I have to have bacon?  I had ham yesterday and gammon the day before.

Tilly: [Previous bracketed comment refers]:  Fine.  No bacon.  Just the pork sausages?

Spud:  Great!

The Value Of A Good Blog Title

This is a slightly edited repost from 2013, but I’m out of ideas so I thought I’d share it again.  It contains some good advice for new bloggers.

Let’s start with a poem I wrote some years ago:

*

The Thing About Poetry Is

Titles
are
vital

*

The same is true of blog posts.  Titles are vital to lure unsuspecting readers to your blog, where you will dazzle them with your wit and wisdom and encourage them to waste time they could have used for eating, watching TV, and sitting on the couch.

*

How Not To Write A Post Title

From my blog:

• Joke 648

Unless you are looking for 648 jokes, it’s rather dull.  However, it does tell you exactly what you will find: a joke; the 648th joke in a long line of jokes.

*

Be Specific

• The Value Of A Good Blog Title 

is not particularly interesting but it will attract people looking to improve their blogging.  I know this because

• Seven Tips For New Bloggers 

still attracts readers, years after being posted.  List titles like this are also popular, for reasons I’m sure psychologists could tell you, though I can’t.  

A word of caution, however: don’t be tempted to make it 147 Tips For New Bloggers, because nobody’s attention span is that long.  I know this from experience.

*

Be Topical

• It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas

Posted in December, it’s seasonal and likely to attract Christmas fanatics like me. In November, it makes me the blogger who’s ahead of the game; in June, it makes me quirky and will, hopefully, make the reader curious.  But beware: posted in January, it’s the blogging equivalent of the guest who won’t leave when the party’s over.

Sometimes, being topical leads to dumb luck:

• Some Snow Facts

A fun factual post a year earlier led to my best-ever day – 4,720 hits – when Google Doodle celebrated the 125th anniversary of the discovery of the World’s Largest Snowflake.  I’d have been happier if just one of those people looking for the Google Doodle had left a comment but, hey, I’m not one to look a gift spike in the mouth.

*

Reference Popular Culture

Here are some posts of mine which still receive hits:

• Twilight: I Hope Bella Remembered To Shave
  
• Seven Of Nine, And Not In A Good Way
• Robert Pattinson With Small Hairs

Being up to date with the news helps:

• What Really Happened To Gaddafi

brought in hundreds of people who thought a housewife in Stockport could tell them what 24-hour news channels and thousands of dedicated reporters could not.

Adding the word ‘Review’ to a title is another good way to attract readers. However:

1. It irritates them if you use the word ‘Review’ and then don’t review whatever it is you claim to be reviewing.  I know this from experience.
2. Reviewing books and movies four years after they’ve been released is unlikely to make your post a bestseller (I was surprised to discover).

*

Use Keywords And Phrases

Here are some posts that still receive hits.  One was written six years ago:

• You’re Only As Old As The Woman You Feel – old jokes and clichéd phrases are popular searches as ageing people begin to lose their memories (I know this from experience).
  
• Smile And The World Smiles With You – the word ‘smile’ is the top search that finds this blog, with over 10,000 visits.
• A Is For ‘Arguments’ – the key word here is ‘A’.  Bizarrely, the letter ‘a’ comes in at Number 7 on my search list, with 1,044 hits.

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Sweaty Armpits (Photo credit: mricon)

Have Fun!

After all, if you’re not trying to change the world, it doesn’t matter who reads your blog so long as you are enjoying yourself.  

Here are some of my favourite titles from posts that I have written:

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• Famous With Sweaty Armpits  
• Okay, Tesco: I Forgive You
• So Many Jokes, So Little Class   I like this one for its searing honesty.
• If I Break Wind, I’ll Write About It  The previous title refers.
• I Have To Kill My Kindle
• Love Many, Trust Few And A Canoe
• I’m Three Mugs Of Tea Away From Becoming A Feminist
• It’s Time To Give Up Food   I like this one for its absurd premise.
• Ten Don’ts For When I’m Dead  Another list post.
• Bring In Arms Fat Mummy
• Hula Hoops. Very Proud Of The Queen.   I can’t claim credit for this one as it was from a comment by another blogger.
• Vasectomy Dog And A Frog Disease Called Awesome
• Camping: The Art Of Staying Wet Indoors
• Flying To Spain In A Manky Cardi
• A Labled Easy To Follow Leg
• Sandra Bullock Has A Sex Change And Retires To Norfolk

*

A Final Tip

Related to blogging but not to titles in particular: ask an open-ended question. A question as title will pull in the curious and the opinionated (I know this from experience).  You don’t have to use it as a title, however; you can use it as a closing sentence.  It never fails (I know this from experience).

What are your blogging tips?

Narrow Escapes

When we were kids, my brother owned a copy of The Book of Narrow Escapes. Aimed at children, it was full of stories about people who survived experiences like falling out of planes (as you do), or getting lost in the Amazon: always follow a river downstream to civilization was the advice, though how a child – or this adult – knows the difference between upstream and downstream escapes me, and not narrowly, either.  Come to think of it, I’m not sure that book, full of horror stories along the lines of Alive! was suitable reading for kids.  Unless I’m thinking like a be-fair-everyone-has-to-come-first-and-be-safe millennial.  Or a mum.

This morning, I was humming the tune to the seventies’ show Black Beauty because of a Facebook meme I’d seen, and that got me thinking that I read Black Beauty as a child and found it tedious, but loved The Book of Narrow Escapes – me, who never took a risk in her life unless it involved eating my weight in chocolate and thus the possibility of an obese, diabetic future.

As I was on the loo while all of this thinking was happening, that naturally reminded me of my own narrow escape, about twenty years ago: I went to the loo one day, finished, stood, turned around, and there were two wasps, flying around the neck of the bowl!  Talk about a squeaky bum moment.  To this day, I can’t sit on the loo without first inspecting it.  Thoroughly.  So if I visit your house and you catch me at it 1) I’m looking for stinging insects, not dirt and 2) why are you in the bathroom with me?

Do you have your own squeaky bum moment to share?

Men Are From Mars; Women Are From Who Cares?

Picture the scene: a new box of cereal, too tall for the cereal shelf.

Solution: reduce the size of the box.

Here is the Hub’s handiwork:

           Crunchy Neat

Here is mine:

            Rice Tearmies

Where do you stand on the Seriously?  It’s just cereal! debate?

Fringe Benefits

Alex is at the Edinburgh Fringe this month in two shows, both of which have been shortlisted for the National Student Drama Festival’s Emerging Artists Award 2017 .  That’s twenty shows of over three thousand appearing this year.

I’ve seen both shows and they’re fantastic (there’s a reason they were nominated).  One is hilarious with music and the other is a musical with hilarity.

The music is great in both.  You can check out some of The Iconoclast songs on SoundCloud.  Sadly, there’s no link to Buried‘s music (yet), but I’ll share three of six from The Iconoclasts.

For me, this is the best song in the show: Estelle’s Song.

 BURIED

An exhilarating and witty look at love and the places it can take you. He’s a shy, seemingly-average young professional. She’s a sarcastic thrill-seeker. After matching on an online dating service, this young and fun-loving couple form a unique relationship when they discover something special that they have in common: they’re both serial killers. Tom Williams and Cordelia O’Driscoll’s dark, new piece of comedic musical theatre puts a sinister spin on relationships in the twenty-first century. Colla Voce Theatre make their Edinburgh debut with a bold new musical.

You can buy tickets for Buried here.  

britishtheatre.com describes the show as:

perversely charming and entertaining, full of dark humour and some killer songs..the music is richly melodic and soulful…book and lyrics are sharp and often funny.

THE ICONOCLASTS

The Iconoclasts tells the story of an exuberant family façade that is just about ready to crack. Music, magic, poetry, drag and comedy meet in an explosive night of would-be redemption for the former celebs, but the cabaret-style comeback night just goes further and further off course. Half-farce, half-tragedy, the Northern Irish family’s plight leads the audience through their chequered history with poignancy, humility and irreverence – all backed by a live funk band. If they’re going down, they’re going down swinging! ‘Beautifully played’ (Sunday Times).

Tickets for The Iconoclasts available here.

Listen to Alex’s solo: Razzmatazz

The Iconoclasts has been forecast by Fringebiscuit as one to watch:

They had me after four words. Part tragic theatre, part comedy cabaret night, emerging company Dear Hunter Theatre have basically put everything I love into one show. This could be a huge hit.

Their first review from Broadway Baby gave them four stars; here’s the opening paragraph:

The Iconoclasts is a perfect example of why one should never go into a show with any expectations. Based on the poster and description which I had only briefly skimmed, I was expecting a run-of-the-mill artsy cabaret show, with a bit of overdone backstory thrown in. What I got was a unique, political and thought-provoking piece of theatre, which worked on so many levels it is still making my head spin to think about.

The show’s closing number: Finale.

If you’re in Edinburgh this month, do yourself a favour and go and see both of these shows.  You won’t regret it.  

 

Train Pain

It’s hard to believe that Viv has been gone just over a year.  I went to her funeral and I wanted to tell you about it at the time, but I couldn’t bring myself to write that post.  A year on, however, I have some emotional distance, so here goes. I am writing from memory because, when I checked back to my notebook, there is nothing at all.  Not one word; just the funeral programme, taped in.  I couldn’t even write about it for myself.  That’s grief for you.

Viv’s daughter Sally invited me to read Viv’s self-penned epitaph poem at the funeral.  I was honoured.  I wouldn’t have missed her funeral for anything, but it was lovely to be invited to be a part of it.

My travel anxieties have been well-documented on this blog so you won’t be surprised to learn that as the funeral was held in Newcastle and I live in Stockport, I made sure to leave with time to spare when I arrived.  To be fair, I’d have done the same if I was going one town up: that’s how I roll.  Or clickety-clack.  I don’t trust public transport; or myself on public transport (remind me to tell you why I once missed the first twenty minutes of The Lion King at The Palace Theatre, Manchester, seven minutes away by train).  

To be more fair, the Hub booked my ticket and made sure to leave me with some time to spare when I arrived – but not for my change at Sheffield.  I was miffed to have only 25 minutes because I had to find the platform for the next train and Sheffield is a big station and I am a big panicker.  The Hub assured me I’d be fine.  What could possibly go wrong?

He reserved seats on all four trains for me, over my objections: I always run onto a train and grab the first free seat I can, because that’s how I clickety-clack.  The train from Stockport to Sheffield was packed, however, and I was glad the Hub is bossy because I was able to turf someone out of my reserved seat.

The seat-with-my-name-on-it went a long way towards earning the Hub forgiveness, because it was standing room only all the way from Stockport to Sheffield.  There was no refreshment cart, ergo, no tea, ergo, anxious, panicky, uncaffeinated me.  There was a delay, a slow train, only ten minutes – NOT twenty-five as I had been assured by my perfidious man – to find the platform with my next train.  I fairly erupted onto Platform 1, hitting the ground running, eyes peeled for information screens, clichés exploding from every orifice.

 Sheffield was obviously still feeling the effect of Austerity because there wasn’t one uniformed human in sight.  I ran up the steps to the concourse – no screens!  I ran left – no screens!  I ran right – a screen!  Heaving, bent over my shaky legs, I slowed down enough to glare at the screen which informed me my train left from…Platform 1.  That’s right: the platform I had just run away from.  I had four minutes to get there and had to use the lift because Sheffield Station is just stupid in its weird layout with no stairs down to Platform 1 and absentee staff who probably don’t carry wheelbarrows on their person for exhausted travellers anyway.

I hit the lift button and…waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Finally – finally! – the doors opened and I ran forward; and then backed up as a thousand people who obviously had at least an hour to find their platform were disgorged.  At last they got out of my way and I jumped onto the lift, slammed the button, and was transported on the slowest elevator known to man to the platform below. Sucking in such oxygen as I could muster the energy for, I ran along the platform just as my train to Newcastle pulled in.

I collapsed into my thankfully reserved space and waited for the sweat to puddle on the seat, the breath to return to my aged lungs, and the spots to disappear from before my eyes.  Then I heard the bad news: no refreshment cart again.  I muttered to myself long and hard.  No one would have heard me if I’d muttered aloud, anyway, because I had no spit to help me articulate my uncaffeinated state.

I settled in, anxious and fidgety – you know, the normal addict state, except that my fix is Earl Grey, black, hot – for the longish journey, and became more anxious and more fidgety as the journey became ever-longer.  I discovered later that there had been a lightning strike on a signal box the day before, causing extended delays.  I watched the time and stressed.  I watched the time and fidgeted.  I watched the time and became tearful. I watched and watched and watched my watch and guess what?  I arrived in Newcastle about the time the funeral started.

I made sure to be first off the train – get out of my way, mother with a baby and elderly wheelchair user!  I’ve got a deceased friend to honour – and ran and ran and ran some more, finally finding the taxi rank when I wiped the sweat from my eyes and could read signs again.  I ran to the first taxi, but I was hailed by a uniformed human – better late than never, eh? – and we had the following conversation:

UH: Oi!  There’s a queue!

TB: OhpleaseI’mlateformyfriend’sfuneralandI’mreadingthepoemandit’salreadystart
edandthetrainwaslateIdon’tknowwhybutI’vegottogetthereassoonaspossibleplease
pleasecanIhavethistaxiplease?Sob

UH: Uh, sure, go ahead.

The taxi driver was wonderful and sympathetic and got me to the cemetery as soon as possible – perhaps wanting to get the hysterical woman out of his cab, but I prefer to think he had the milk of human kindness in abundance – where I encountered a problem: two chapels.

Seriously, folks, how I didn’t have a complete meltdown at this point, I don’t know.

Like a Wimbledon viewer trapped between two players serving high-speed aces, I gazed back and forth, back and forth between the chapels, paralysed by uncertainty.  What if I burst into the wrong funeral?  The odds were good that it would happen, because I never met a blunder I didn’t make. 

Just then, a limousine rolled up and I was inspired to ask the sad-faced woman emerging, ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for a funeral and I know it’s not yours because you’ve just arrived; can you please tell me which chapel you’re going to because I’m so late and my funeral must be in the other.’ Bless her, she did.

I burst into Viv’s funeral as quietly as possible and only eighty percent of the people looked at me, including the eulogising vicar.  Small mercies, eh?  I was ushered to a seat, given a programme, offered a glass of water – because I clearly looked like Mr Rochester’s first wife at this point – and sat my trembling bum on the seat so I could frantically scan the programme to see if I’d missed my spot.

I hadn’t missed my spot!

If I had never believed in God up to that point, I believed in Him that day.  The vicar finished talking and it was my turn to get up and read Viv’s poem.  I’m proud to say I read it as if I’d travelled to Newcastle the week before and spent three days in a spa, being massaged from head to foot and back again.  I would never have let Viv down.

Several people came up to me afterwards and greeted me as if they knew me. Turns out they did: Viv’s friends I’d met and fellow bloggers amongst them.  I was still in Yellow Wallpaper mode, however, and couldn’t register anyone until at least two teas later.  I apologise if you felt slighted, but I assure you it was not on purpose.  Travel in general and lateness in particular send me a little crazy; throw in grief for a beloved friend and it’s a wonder I didn’t end up in Newcastle-Under-Lyme instead of Newcastle Upon Tyne.  Viv’s family were wonderful and understanding, and I was so grateful to them.

My only consolation is that Viv would have loved this post.  As far as I’m concerned, that makes any craziness on my part entirely worth it.  Just as well, eh?

 

What Are You Up To, Dad?

Here’s a gratuitous pic of my gorgeous grandson.  We call it ‘Suspicious Baby’.

Cough, Cough

 

It’s my choir’s concert tonight.  We’re doing stuff from musicals, including a fantastic arrangement – by Ollie Mills, our choir director – of Cats.  His alto line for Memory is the most fun I’ve had singing anything, ever, not least because that’s the only bit in the whole show I can sing without mistake.

Don’t tell that to the audience.  I’m pretty sure Ollie and everyone around me already knows, but we still have some tickets available.

We had a rehearsal last night and I coughed all the way through it.  I have had a persistent cough for months, for which I’m now being treated because I finally dragged myself to the doctor after hearing a horror story from a friend about a friend of her friend’s who ignored a persistent cough, and things ended badly.  

Mine is nothing so dramatic; it’s probably a post-nasal drip.

I misspoke when I told my singing chauffeur (the lovely woman who gives me a lift to choir) about it, accidentally calling it a post-natal drip, and we giggled for an hour about me developing a twenty-one-year baby-related condition that wasn’t excess weight.

The cough is always worse after exercise: for example, from the walk to church on Sundays.  I hack through the first half of the service but I’ve noticed that it improves after communion, just from one sip of wine.  That thought brought on a brain wave – I’ll take alcohol with me tonight!  

Alex tells me alcohol is bad for the vocal chords, but we’re not talking great singing on my part; and I’m thinking, better no voice than Coughy McCoughy in the chorus, ruining the best bits.  You might suggest that I could, of course, nobly stand down and not be in the concert tonight; but I’ll thump you if you do.  I didn’t spend six months learning these songs (some of them, anyway; my first paragraph refers) only to sit sulking in the audience on my big night: yodelayee-yodelayee-yodelayeeNO!

I tested my theory when I got in from choir by supping a tot of rum and, yup, no cough after it.  I’m taking a small bottle with me, to sip throughout the concert. I’ll just have to be careful not to get drunk: no one wants to see a sozzled alto tottering around the stage, defending McCavity against the slurs on his character.

Although…if you do, tickets are a fiver.

 

Good News, Bad News

Bad News

The Manchester date of The Iconoclasts tour is cancelled due to unforeseen circumstances.  

Good News

I can stop nagging my friends and family to buy tickets to support them.

Good News

Which is bad news for you if you live in London, Nottingham or Bristol – the other dates are still on:

18th and 19th June @ Camden People’s Theatre LONDON, 20.00 – 21.15
Tickets: https://www.cptheatre.co.uk/production/the-iconoclasts/

21st June @ STUFF NOTTINGHAM
http://newtheatre.org.uk/stuff/

26th June @ Alma Tavern & Theatre BRISTOL, 19:30 – 20:45
Tickets: https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/the-iconoclasts-the-alma-tav…

Good News

My choir is staging a concert on Friday, with songs from the musicals.

Bad News

I can nag my friends and family to support us.

Bad News

You visit this blog, expect to be hounded.

Good News

Buy a ticket and watch my colour change from red to less red as my hot flushes [desperately searches for a singing pun] [gives up] [if you can think of a good singing pun, you know where the comment box is] come and go at random.

Or, as Home’s Cool, one of my American readers so memorably put it, watch me as I flash in church.

 

Flushed Away

To My Children: I’d tell you to stop reading now but one day you’ll have menopausal wives and I want you to be understanding husbands, like your father, so have at it.

I have gone from being peri-menopausal to very menopausal, and last Sunday I had to leave church halfway through the service because I had one hot flush after another; so many that I was sweating bobbers, as we say here oop north.

Aside:

What is a bobber?

According to Google:

bobber
ˈbɒbə/Submit
noun
1.
a person who rides on a bobsleigh.
2.
a float used in angling.

So, the menopause is causing elite sportsmen in weird clothing to cascade down my person?  Sounds fishy to me; and not at all the sort of thing I want to be bothered with in the middle of a woman-made heatwave.

Back to my story: there I was, sweating for Africa, even though our usual British summer plays more like an African winter – or a British winter, come to that: central heating on in June?  Go for it.

I was feeling ill and extremely ill tempered; so I left church.  I’m afraid the menopause is going to make me an atheist.

I know they call it ‘the change’ but that isn’t the kind of change I expected.

I have to tell you – hot flushes…I’m not a fan.  Though I’m thinking of investing in a fan.  Maybe even a fan company.  Or an air conditioning company; or an ice company.  I’m surprised these companies aren’t all run by women of a certain age.  My age.

Trust me, we don’t need to worry about a New Ice Age: just put a bunch of menopausal women at the front of the line, give ’em a cup of tea, and let ’em have at nature.

And then bring on the HRT.  Please!

 

Manchester 22.5.17

I Looked At Evil

 

I looked at Evil: it wore a suicide vest

My cause is just, it claimed

your murdered children my price

Kill me, and a thousand martyrs fall in behind

You cannot kill me, it smiled

for I am dead by a tug of this cord

 

You cannot kill me, Evil declared

You cannot buy me off

You cannot reason with me

Don’t bother to plead with me

for my ears are closed

my mind bankrupt

my heart already a corpse

You cannot kill me

for I am already dead

 

You cannot defend your children

for I am Evil

and I wear a suicide vest

 

 

 

The Theycanoclasts

(If They Get Enough Support)

The Blurb

‘The Iconoclasts’ is the debut show by Sheffield based theatre company, Dear Hunter Theatre. After a 5 star, sell-out run in Sheffield and performances at the National Student Drama Festival, this summer we are taking the show on a UK Tour, followed by a run at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. We have been hard at work raising funds for the last few months. However, to ensure the show can go ahead, we need your help to raise a further £3000 to cover the enormous costs that come with a tour!

All photos copyright Dear Hunter Theatre

The Link:

https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/dear-hunter-theatre-s-the-iconoclasts-uk-tour#/  

Tour Dates & Venues:

18th and 19th June @ Camden People’s Theatre LONDON
Tickets: https://www.cptheatre.co.uk/production/the-iconoclasts/

21st June @ STUFF NOTTINGHAM
http://newtheatre.org.uk/stuff/

26th June @ Alma Tavern & Theatre BRISTOL
Tickets: https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/the-iconoclasts-the-alma-tav…

28th June @ 53two MANCHESTER
Tickets: https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/the-iconoclasts-tickets-3423…

The Review

From The Sunday Times:

 

The (Ironic) Fun

If you are in the area, do try to see one of the shows, either on the tour or at The Fringe.  There’s a packet of Maltesers in it for you…

Don’t judge me; I’m a mother: bribery is my default setting.

 

 

I Lost A Friend

Photo copyright RR Nichols

Her personal blog

Her political blog

Some of you read Laurie Nichols’ blog; more of you will have seen her comments on my blog.  For those who have been wondering, I’m sad to report that Laurie passed away on February 17th, aged 49, due to complications caused by her cancer.  Her husband Robert told me that he was with her the last 60 days of her life full time in the room, talking, and holding her hand and making sure she was comfortable.

Laurie was a beautiful woman, inside and out.  She was sweet and kind and lived life to the full.  She loved politics, gardening, travelling with her husband, cooking, movies, her dogs but, above all, she loved her family.

She was one of my greatest cheerleaders and we corresponded privately as well as through our blogs.  A favourite memory is the time she sent me some elephant ears, all the way from the US to the UK.  You can read about it here.  That post arose from another post (read that one here) I had written, and here is the conversation which ensued in the second post, which was the first post (hey, I may be missing Laurie but she’d expect me to write as confusingly as always):

Laurie: Love, love, love this! I bake Elephant ear cookies (Palmier cookies in French) so I thought that the bad man had thrown her cookies off the balcony, I never heard of a plant called Elephant ears. I would have been crying too if a bad man had thrown my cookies off the balcony, they are so delicious, flaky pastry dough folded umpteenth times in sugar and baked until golden and caramelized, cookie bliss. 🙂

TB: Drooling…

Laurie: Sorry about the drool, they are drool worthy though, next time I make a batch, I’ll be sure to send you some. 🙂

TB: The reading of this comment constitutes a legally binding contract under blog law.  Can’t wait! 🙂

Laurie: Don’t worry I honor all of my promises, you will be getting a surprise by the end of the month or the beginning of April the latest. 🙂

TB: Bless you!

Laurie: Anything for my Tilly 😀

And that’s Laurie in a biscuit tin.  The biscuits arrived as promised, and were devoured.  I still have the tin she sent them in.

I miss her.  I miss her a lot.

 

I Think I Lost My Funny

Artist’s impression of lost and lonely dog

I found a lost dog on Sunday and I told people about it and didn’t crack one joke in the telling.  How is that possible? Remember when I lost my dog, Toby, a few years ago?  I managed to get three blog posts of almost novella length from that thirty minutes of agony, and cracked one joke after another despite my overwhelming trauma (Hello? Scraped knee, remember).  Here, I find a dog, and nothing: no funny, no cute, no whimsy.  I think I need to plank face-first again in peak traffic to knock the funny back into me.

Here’s what happened: I walked the dogs up to the local park and we arrived and a lone dog – husky-cross, I think – ran up to us, freaked Toby out, followed us off the park, freaking Toby out more, followed us back on to the park…are you asleep yet?  The man lying in the grass whose dog I thought it was and who turned out not to be dead (I seriously wondered, he was so still) was.  Asleep, that is.  You forgot where I was up to, didn’t you?  See, not funny.

Toby freaking out plays a big part in this story, because I had to pick him up to calm him down and his toenail caught in my chunky cardigan – kind of like a KitKat made of wool – oh give me a break, I’m desperate here – see what I did there? – and he screamed, and I mean SCREAMED in panic and wriggled like mad and I happened to be wearing earphones and he got tangled in them, my cardi and the lead so he was practically hyperventilating.  Trust me, a screaming, wriggling, hyperventilating Yorkshire Terrier is a terrifying sight to behold.  And hold.

Meanwhile, Molly slipped out of her harness, Lost Dog capered around blissfully unaware of the mayhem he was causing by being within, oh, I dunno, three miles of Toby, Toby freaked some more, and Not Dead Man kept on sleeping, despite the fact I practically fell over his feet trying to untangle me, my dog, my earphones and my clothes.

Artist’s impression of Molly, the naughty little monkey

Then I had the first of what turned out to be the same conversation with several strange men that day:

TB: Is this your dog?

SM: No.

TB: Oh.  Okay, thanks.

Artist’s impression of Toby, the Freaking Yorkie

Molly was already off the lead and Lost Dog had a collar but no ID, so I clipped him on and Toby almost fainted.  Resignation then set in, though he did manage a couple of thin-lipped nips at the air beside Lost Dog when he got too close.  Molly followed us home.  Fortunately, the park sort of backs onto our street (trust me, you don’t want a topographical lesson here; I’m falling asleep in the telling as it is), so I knew she’d be safe on the short walk back.

The Hub was watching City lose the FA Cup semi-final (though he didn’t know that yet) when we all arrived home, but promised to help me find the dog’s owner once the match was done.  Then it went into extra time so I marched Lost Dog out of there on his lonesome this time, Molly declining to walk if it meant her own extra time in the street and Toby reclining on his bed (actually Spud’s bed but what Spud doesn’t know Toby could not care less about), emotionally battered until dinner time.

I had the brainwave of saying to Lost Dog, ‘Home!  Take me home!  Let’s go home!  Where’s home, boy?’  He responded by pulling me through a hole in the park fence and running straight to a front door.  I knocked and a handsome man answered:

TB: Is this your dog?

HM: No.

TB: Oh.  Okay, thanks.  Did you know you’re gorgeous?

Actually, I didn’t say that last bit (I think), but I certainly thunk it.

I was beginning to suspect that Lost Dog, though amiable, was a six-pack short of a six-pack.  I repeated the home mantra and he walked me up and down many streets before leading me to another front door.  I knocked and another handsome man answered:

TB: Is this your dog?

HM: Yes!

TB: Oh.  Okay, thanks.  Did you know you’re gorgeous?  Wait, back up…he’s yours?  Why aren’t you out looking for him?  Handsome is as handsome does, you know.  Can I leave my husband and have your puppies?

Um, everything after ‘thanks’ may have taken place in my head but, seriously, where did all these handsome men suddenly appear from?  It’s like the sun came out and a shower of hunks descended on Stockport.

Artist’s impression of Handsome Man

Handsome Man (who so isn’t because is as does, like I said) was extremely grateful but in a real hurry to get rid of me.  It was odd – discounting the fact that a middle-aged, frumpy dognapper* was drooling on his doorstep, why was he so eager to be rid of me?  And then I looked at my watch: aha!  Extra time was almost over.  He obviously wanted to get back to the match.  Loving your pooch is one thing; football is quite another.

So, good deed done for the day, I headed home, where the Hub was crying into his fixture list:

Hub: Hey, let’s go find that dog’s owner.

TB: I already did, and you wouldn’t believe how ugly he was, yuk! Eurggh! Disgusting, horrible.  I didn’t embarrass myself at all, honest.

Hub: That’s not funny.

*

*Spellcheck wants to replace ‘dognapper’ with ‘dapper kidnapper’.  I’m so tempted.