I’ve been having a right old session recently with Paul Temple. (I mean, phew, I wish!) Paul Temple, for those who don’t know, was the detective hero created by Francis Durbridge and blossomed into full flower in his radio incarnation as played by Peter Coke on BBC radio in the 1950’s. The series is available on audio and – such is the reality of life – I listen to the tapes whilst doing the ironing.
Now, a word about this ironing. There are five junior Gordon-Smiths, right? Jessica, the oldest is 23 and Jennifer, the youngest is 15. Helen, Elspeth and Lucy are scattered in between. They all love clothes. America’s Next Top Model is required viewing and the names of Jay Manuel and Tyra Banks are As Gods. Gok Wan, fashion guru of the underbudgeted, is quoted in hushed tones. (I’ve been spray-painting belts and shoes for years; Jennifer disapproved. Gok Wan does it and all of a sudden it’s the newest thing in cool!)
Anyway, lots of girls + keen interest in clothes = Ironing.
For me.
Lots and lots of ironing.
Now the other thing that I do, apart from putting a spanner in the works of the statistics of falling population, is write books. (I trust, by the way, that having finished As If By Magic you’re only reading this to fill in the time before A Hundred Thousand Dragons comes out in May.)
Paul Temple, the aforesaid hero above, also writes books. And there, unfortunately, the resemblance ends.
Paul has a flat in Mayfair, a car that makes the sexiest sort of Wrumm you’ve ever heard and a cheery chippy Cockney cove called Charlie at his beck and call. (Like most faithful retainers in this sort of fiction, Charlie is lammed over the head, opens parcels with bombs in them and is frequently tied up and left for dead in the kitchen and makes perfect meals and coffee without ever studying the Situations Vacant column in the evening paper.)
Paul’s other half, his wife, the glamorous if rather oddly named Steve, is also lammed over the head, opens parcels with bombs in them and is frequently tied up and left for dead in the kitchen etc, etc, but she also gets kidnapped and thrown off boats into the Thames and, quite frankly, the day seems lost if the crooks aren’t spraying the car she’s only just got out of (and how lucky is that!) with machine-gun bullets.
Her sole occupation, despite us being told that she’s a journalist, seems to be her propensity to be endangered to allow Paul the opportunity to worry about her. She fills in the odd moments when not escaping death by a whisker by buying hats. Is she happy? Insanely so, judging by the way she convulses with mirth at the slightest witticism from Paul.
Mind you, why shouldn’t she be? Because Paul Temple, as played by Peter Coke, has the most knee-wobbling voice that’s ever been on radio. Soooo silky. Even when he’s shouting remarks like, “Look out! He’s got a gun!” and well-meant advice such as, “Don’t pull that wire, Steve! It’s a bomb!” the chief emotion from Yours Truly is Cor!
All that and money as well. You never catch Steve – or Paul for that matter – worrying about the creases in a shirt. They live in world above ironing. As they swan from one night-club to another, their minds are on who pinched the Duchess’s emeralds, not doing the hoovering. It’s a question of “Where shall we go for dinner?” not “What shall we have for the tea?”. It’s a wonderful, wonderful world. And I’ve got a pile of ironing.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
The yoghurt of despair
I don’t know if you’ve heard a creaking noise recently, but don’t worry if you have; it’s not an imminent earthquake – well, I suppose it could be, but you’ll probably know by now if Nature has decided to chuck her weight about. The creaking I’m referring to is the low thrumming noise caused by my brain working. I’ve been working out a new plot, you see. Thoughts writhed like threshing snakes, synapses threaten to part under the strain, random post-it notes appeared above the cooker, and all seemed dark. Wow. Apart from the sheer tension of the thing, it gives you such a dismal view of life.
You see, in normal, everyday life, I’m tolerant of cats, (even when they poop in the bedroom – see previous posts where I’ve mentioned this less than lovable habit!) pleasant to kids, regularly help old ladies across the street (whether they want to cross the road or not) a walker of dogs, a cooker of meals, and so on and so forth. I am, more or less, merely a vat or container for the milk of human kindness, a veritable shining light. A spiritual boy scout, you might say.
But there’s a darker side.
You see, in my sort of books, I have to postulate (and, by gum, that hurts if you’re not expecting it, I can tell you, and the cream the doctor gave me doesn’t work at all!) about one, two or several people in whom the milk of human kindness hasn’t so much gone off but has turned into a solid green mass of bacterial lumps. They are possessed by the yoghurt of despair, the cheesecake of crime.
I mean, by and large, I like (see claim to Boy-Scoutness above) my fellow-citizens and think well of them. So why should a group of the aforesaid f.c.’s suddenly decide to throw caution to the winds and start sticking pointed implements into each other, reaching for sandbags and thinking the day’s lost if they haven’t had their quota of corpses?
The answer to that question is called A Plot, and thinking it up is blinking hard. But I’ve got there. On Friday, at five past three, came the sound like that of a Great Amen mixed with the overjoyed cackle of a hen who’s laid an egg, and I joined the ranks of humanity once more. All I need now is for David Beckham to make a miracle recovery and for England to win at rugby, and peace, perfect peace, is mine. I think a drink is called for!
You see, in normal, everyday life, I’m tolerant of cats, (even when they poop in the bedroom – see previous posts where I’ve mentioned this less than lovable habit!) pleasant to kids, regularly help old ladies across the street (whether they want to cross the road or not) a walker of dogs, a cooker of meals, and so on and so forth. I am, more or less, merely a vat or container for the milk of human kindness, a veritable shining light. A spiritual boy scout, you might say.
But there’s a darker side.
You see, in my sort of books, I have to postulate (and, by gum, that hurts if you’re not expecting it, I can tell you, and the cream the doctor gave me doesn’t work at all!) about one, two or several people in whom the milk of human kindness hasn’t so much gone off but has turned into a solid green mass of bacterial lumps. They are possessed by the yoghurt of despair, the cheesecake of crime.
I mean, by and large, I like (see claim to Boy-Scoutness above) my fellow-citizens and think well of them. So why should a group of the aforesaid f.c.’s suddenly decide to throw caution to the winds and start sticking pointed implements into each other, reaching for sandbags and thinking the day’s lost if they haven’t had their quota of corpses?
The answer to that question is called A Plot, and thinking it up is blinking hard. But I’ve got there. On Friday, at five past three, came the sound like that of a Great Amen mixed with the overjoyed cackle of a hen who’s laid an egg, and I joined the ranks of humanity once more. All I need now is for David Beckham to make a miracle recovery and for England to win at rugby, and peace, perfect peace, is mine. I think a drink is called for!
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Mother's Day
As I write this, it’s Sunday 14th March which is Mother’s Day. As a fully paid up Mother, I rejoice. I’m now the richer by one bottle of sherry (Tio Pepe) a tub of daffodils, some yellow and white daisy-type flowers and a small box of chocolates which are, even as I write, doing the rounds amongst the kids. What I like about Mother’s Day is that is a little celebration without being too much, you know? I mean, Christmas takes huge amounts of planning, but Mother’s Day just sort of happens.
Incidentally, you know (to go all churchy on you for a moment) that Our Lady is always shown as wearing a blue cloak? I remember that used to puzzle me as a kid. How did anyone know that was Our Lady’s favourite colour? Did she ever fancy wearing green, say, or something nifty in orange? I used to feel quite sorry for her, in a way, that she was bound to constant blue and imagined it was a kind of uniform. They were some explanations; blue is the colour of heaven (blue skies) etc – but here in Manchester, the colour of the sky is, most often, murky grey or white-ish with blotchy bits which, if you painted it, would come up as watered-down Payne’s Grey. Anyway, that’s all a load of cods. The real answer to why Our Lady is shown as wearing blue is that, in medieval times, ultramarine was the most expensive, and therefore most highly-prized colour. I owe this little insight to a fascinating book I’m reading about jewellery. And, I suppose, blue is the colour of a sunny day as well.
It was about five years ago now I was faced with organising a Mother’s Day Mass. I had a load of random kids and no music. Not that anyone minded particularly, because, as any Mum knows, what you want to see is your child do their thing. So, to add rhythm, if not melody, we filled plastic bottles and tins with dried beans, added a couple of drums and a few bells, and let it rip. It was all very satisfactory and made an agreeable amount of noise, but I was frustrated by the lack of real music. I pondered about learning the piano. Now what you really want to happen at this stage is like a scene from a Tom and Jerry cartoon I’ve got on video somewhere, where Tom goes from Lesson One – plink at the keyboard – through to Lesson Ten – plink, plink, plink, plink – to the next scene where he’s at Carnegie Hall, playing Tchaikovsky’s piano concerto. I wish. Anyway, we didn’t have room for a piano, so I picked up the guitar. And now, although there are what you might call subtle but well-marked differences between me and Sergovia – or Eric Clapton, for that matter – I’m perfectly capable of holding my own when it comes to strumming and even do it in public. And I don’t have to fill plastic bottles with beans anymore.
Happy Mother’s Day, everyone!
Incidentally, you know (to go all churchy on you for a moment) that Our Lady is always shown as wearing a blue cloak? I remember that used to puzzle me as a kid. How did anyone know that was Our Lady’s favourite colour? Did she ever fancy wearing green, say, or something nifty in orange? I used to feel quite sorry for her, in a way, that she was bound to constant blue and imagined it was a kind of uniform. They were some explanations; blue is the colour of heaven (blue skies) etc – but here in Manchester, the colour of the sky is, most often, murky grey or white-ish with blotchy bits which, if you painted it, would come up as watered-down Payne’s Grey. Anyway, that’s all a load of cods. The real answer to why Our Lady is shown as wearing blue is that, in medieval times, ultramarine was the most expensive, and therefore most highly-prized colour. I owe this little insight to a fascinating book I’m reading about jewellery. And, I suppose, blue is the colour of a sunny day as well.
It was about five years ago now I was faced with organising a Mother’s Day Mass. I had a load of random kids and no music. Not that anyone minded particularly, because, as any Mum knows, what you want to see is your child do their thing. So, to add rhythm, if not melody, we filled plastic bottles and tins with dried beans, added a couple of drums and a few bells, and let it rip. It was all very satisfactory and made an agreeable amount of noise, but I was frustrated by the lack of real music. I pondered about learning the piano. Now what you really want to happen at this stage is like a scene from a Tom and Jerry cartoon I’ve got on video somewhere, where Tom goes from Lesson One – plink at the keyboard – through to Lesson Ten – plink, plink, plink, plink – to the next scene where he’s at Carnegie Hall, playing Tchaikovsky’s piano concerto. I wish. Anyway, we didn’t have room for a piano, so I picked up the guitar. And now, although there are what you might call subtle but well-marked differences between me and Sergovia – or Eric Clapton, for that matter – I’m perfectly capable of holding my own when it comes to strumming and even do it in public. And I don’t have to fill plastic bottles with beans anymore.
Happy Mother’s Day, everyone!
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Lanky Night
I’m in the middle of the Lanky Night weekend. Lanky Night is a sketch show put on at the local church hall, entirely written and presented by fellow denizens of my home town. I usually tell people I come from Greater Manchester and technically I live in Cheshire, but the heart and soul of the place is Lancashire, with old factories, mill-chimneys and the odd cobbled street.
It’s great to be involved in something like this. There’s a rich vein in English fiction of home-spun shows, from Just William through Jane Austen, PG Wodehouse etc., etc. and Lanky Night is bang in the middle of that tradition. I remember an American friend once saying, in a bemused sort of way, looking at the State Opening of Parliament, that the English never seem happier when dressing up (particularly, if you’re a bloke, there’s tights involved!) and there’s more than a grain of truth in that.
Almost everyone’s heard of the ENSA entertainments of the Second World War, where some very starry stars travelled to entertain the troops in various foreign parts, but in the First World War, all the entertainment was entirely home-grown. I think it’s not at all obvious which is the most enjoyable. On the one hand, you’ve got trained professionals, doing their thing; on the other, you’ve got people you know, giving it a go, with various in-jokes and things that go wrong. The stage bar fell over last night, and the audience were in stitches.
The audience, that beloved section of the population, number around the 100 mark for three nights, by the way – not too dusty!
Anyway, once again tonight, I don my dressing-gown and shower cap, pick up a zimmer frame and sing songs about being an O.A.P. Then, one quick change later, I’m in a bikini pretending to be a synchronized swimmer at the local baths. (Does anyone else remember how hilarious the real synchronised swimmers at the Olympics looked? Terry Wogan summed it up by saying it was a medal for formation drowning!) In the meantime, all about me, whirl a collection of old bags fighting over dresses, hats and drawers at the jumble sale, (“I’ll buy these drawers for the old lady next door. She’s incontinent, poor old soul.” “What d’you mean, poor old soul? I’ve always wanted to go abroad.”) Two German parachutists invade the bar of the British Protection (that’s the real pub round the corner) where Ruby, the barmaid discusses her contribution to the war effort with Hank The Yank is discussed to the tune of Chatanooga Choo-Choo (“I was underneath the pylons, when I got my nylons”) before the Jermans call time. Ruby attempts to phone the police. “Nein, Nein, Nein, Fraulein!” calls the German. “I know the number,” says Ruby. “There’s no need to shout.”
And, perhaps best of all from my point of view, I get to be a Cow again. I’m the front end. Moo!
It’s great to be involved in something like this. There’s a rich vein in English fiction of home-spun shows, from Just William through Jane Austen, PG Wodehouse etc., etc. and Lanky Night is bang in the middle of that tradition. I remember an American friend once saying, in a bemused sort of way, looking at the State Opening of Parliament, that the English never seem happier when dressing up (particularly, if you’re a bloke, there’s tights involved!) and there’s more than a grain of truth in that.
Almost everyone’s heard of the ENSA entertainments of the Second World War, where some very starry stars travelled to entertain the troops in various foreign parts, but in the First World War, all the entertainment was entirely home-grown. I think it’s not at all obvious which is the most enjoyable. On the one hand, you’ve got trained professionals, doing their thing; on the other, you’ve got people you know, giving it a go, with various in-jokes and things that go wrong. The stage bar fell over last night, and the audience were in stitches.
The audience, that beloved section of the population, number around the 100 mark for three nights, by the way – not too dusty!
Anyway, once again tonight, I don my dressing-gown and shower cap, pick up a zimmer frame and sing songs about being an O.A.P. Then, one quick change later, I’m in a bikini pretending to be a synchronized swimmer at the local baths. (Does anyone else remember how hilarious the real synchronised swimmers at the Olympics looked? Terry Wogan summed it up by saying it was a medal for formation drowning!) In the meantime, all about me, whirl a collection of old bags fighting over dresses, hats and drawers at the jumble sale, (“I’ll buy these drawers for the old lady next door. She’s incontinent, poor old soul.” “What d’you mean, poor old soul? I’ve always wanted to go abroad.”) Two German parachutists invade the bar of the British Protection (that’s the real pub round the corner) where Ruby, the barmaid discusses her contribution to the war effort with Hank The Yank is discussed to the tune of Chatanooga Choo-Choo (“I was underneath the pylons, when I got my nylons”) before the Jermans call time. Ruby attempts to phone the police. “Nein, Nein, Nein, Fraulein!” calls the German. “I know the number,” says Ruby. “There’s no need to shout.”
And, perhaps best of all from my point of view, I get to be a Cow again. I’m the front end. Moo!
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