I watched an episode of Modern Family during the week (which was very funny) where the various characters all celebrated Halloween in their own way. But, wow, the trouble they went to!
As anyone in Britain knows, Halloween has really taken off in recent years. A lot of people grumble in newspapers and magazines that we’re all slavishly following the Americans, where Halloween has always been big news. I know for a long time it always struck a faintly exotic note when various American TV shows – The Simpsons for instance – always had such a carry-on about Halloween. When I was a kid, Halloween hardly impinged on our consciousness. I remember bobbing for apples one year, but that was about it. The dressing-up part, which we would have embraced enthusiastically, didn’t occur. No, our big event – and it was massive – was Bonfire Night.
From September onwards, the 5th of November dominated our thoughts. We spent hours (literally) logging. That meant going into the local woods and lugging back whatever fallen branches we could carry. Nature only provides so much, however – particularly as a load of other kids are also on the hunt – so we also knocking on doors, asking for wood for “The Bunty”. (I don’t know why a bonfire was called a Bunty but it was.) The bonfire was built up on the waste ground at the back of my friend Anne’s house where it was a tremendous source of pride. Adults from the neighbouring houses would look with pride at our bonfire, and it was a rare Dad or older brother who didn’t want to be in on the construction. They’d stand round in a manly way, discussing how the Bunty would burn. We children had to make the guy, however, which was a collection of old rags in vaguely human shape. Although we were mostly Catholics, I can’t remember ever being aware of a religious connotation, as we consigned poor old Guy Fawkes to the flames.
Bonfire Night means, of course, fireworks. Now fireworks are expensive. In this day and age, they simply get bought by parents (I’ve bought plenty of fireworks for the family) but way back then – this is in Northern England – the way to get fireworks was by a process known as cob-coaling. Don’t ask me where the name comes from because I haven’t the faintest idea! However, it was akin to Trick or Treating because it involved knocking on doors and then, when the grumbling householder answered, launching into cob-coaling songs. I suppose, in a way, it was more like carol-singing than trick or treating. Now I can’t honestly say these were priceless gems of folk-poetry. For instance;
Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching. Who’s that knocking at the door? It’s little Mary-Anne with a candle in her hand and she’s going down the cellar for some coal-coal-coal.
The songs were handed down, in that mysterious way true folklore has, from one generation to another. No parents were involved in this process! Cob-coaling has more or less died out now, to be replaced by Trick or Treating. Why?
Well, bonfires, as such, are more or less confined to public events now. The back of a pub, the back of a scout hut, say, will host a bonfire together with traditional food such as meat-and-potato pie, parkin (a rich, treaclely, gingerery cake) roasted apples and potatoes roasted in the bonfire. Nowadays these are usually wrapped in foil and look fairly edible, unlike the charred lumps we used to retrieve from the embers! Safety has played a big part in moving bonfires from a private to an organised event, but, more than that, I think it’s the lack of waste ground. Common spaces at the back of houses have been turned into gardens and car-parks and Hitler’s attempts at the urban reorganization of Britain (ie bombsites) have been filled in, grassed over and built on. It’s all much nicer, cleaner and better organised, but it’s hard not to feel a nostalgic twinge that the big shared private children’s secret of bonfire night is no more.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Halloween Party
I’m writing this on October 31st to the sound of fireworks and between the doorbell ringing with Trick or Treaters. I think it’s great, that at such a dismal time of year, there should suddenly be so many reasons to be outdoors. The Trick or Treaters I particularly like. They aren’t a nuisance, but simply little kids dressed up and usually shepherded by a parent. I think they look terrific! Lucy, who’s part of a Youth Library team, co-hosted a – get this – Rave From The Grave at the local library. That’s apple-bobbing, spooky stories, kids in various costumes with skulls, lots of sweets, a spooky quiz and a tour of the library cellars. If this had been a episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer something would have happened in those cellars, but, in fact, everyone just went home at the end of the evening. There are many, many Halloween parties in fiction, but most of them seem to be American. One English Halloween party where things didn’t go according to plan (or did they? Cue sound effects: NA,NA, NA…..) is Agatha Christie’s Halloween Party where, of course, there’s a murder. The list of games she give for Halloween is interesting. There’s apple-bobbing, of course, cutting sixpence off a tumblerful of flour (a sort of homemade Jenga) and seeing your True Love’s face in a mirror. So far, so much fun, even if you end up a bit damp from the apple-bobbing. And then there’s Snapdragon. This last sounds to me as if it’s lucky the party-goers got away with a mere murder. Multiple burns and legalised arson sound the least you can expect. As AC describes it, there’s raisins burnt with brandy in a great dish and the idea is to pick one out. I ask you. Has anyone actually tried this so-called game? You might as well declare we’re going play at Nero Versus The Christians. I’m all for folklore and traditional pursuits, but I do draw the line at watching the old home go up in smoke because some kid wants a raisin. My own family essayed forth to various Halloween parties dressed up in various guises. I didn’t actually see Elspeth, as she’s in Glasgow (at Uni) but had a long discussion with her on the phone about the best way of attaching a (plastic) knife so it looked as if it had been stabbed through the heart. Jenny went for Zombies, but, predictably enough, the sort of Project Runway, Tyra Banks stylish sort of Zombie, Jessica had nifty black ears and a tail as Catwoman (as if there aren’t enough cats in the house already) Helen, home for the weekend, was a snow-leopard print Cavewoman, with matching Cavewoman handbag and accessories and Lucy was invited to a Masked Ball. I mean, gosh, talk about style! Gold dress, gold shoes and gold and white Venetian mask. Peter and I stayed home and watched TV. Sometimes life just isn’t fair….
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Writers' Workshop
I tried something a bit different this week. I’ve given talks in the local libraries a few times and they’ve always been very pleasant. The usual format is that a reading group get together, having read one of more of my books, then I tootle along, talk about what goes into the writing of the opus in question, answer some questions and we all have a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits. The last talk I did for a library was especially good, because Jane Finnis, who writes an excellent series of murder mysteries set in Ancient Roman Yorkshire, was there and we did the talk together. However, the talk I gave this week was a little bit different…
The challenge was that, although it was sponsored by a local library, it was open to everyone and I couldn’t rely on any reading-group stalwarts to be there. The other challenge (problem? nightmare?) was that I had one and a half hours to fill. Oh, geez. I mean, I can rattle on about my books for quite a long time, but an hour and a half? I don’t think so.
So what, short of developing a severe case of Parson’s Throat or emigrating to Brazil, could I do? The answer, when I thought of it, really appealed to me; let the audience do the work. A writers’ workshop, in fact. Yup, that’s the trick.
At the start of the session I asked everyone to listen pretty carefully because they were going to have to turn into writers too. Then I tackled the old chestnut of a question, the one that’s always asked; “Where do you get your ideas from?”
For some reason – I never been able to figure out why – a lot of writers don’t like this one. But surely, it’s a perfectly sensible question? I mean, something has to start the process. What, exactly? Well, I imagine there’s a lot of different answers, but what works for me is to find an intriguing situation, something that tugs at my imagination. How did the situation come about? Who’s involved? What happens next? Those are all questions that send threads out, that lead onto the rest of the story. My favourite example from my own books is the opening of As If By Magic (if you go onto the books page of this website and click on Magic, it’ll take you to the first chapter. (Then, of course, maddened by curiosity, you’ll simply have to read the book!)
After talking about ideas for a while, everyone wrote an ambition they had on a scrap of paper, folded it up, and put it into a hat. Then, just like raffle tickets, the papers were mixed up and everyone drew out an ambition. They then chose a picture from a collection of photographs I’d brought with me. The photos were a varied bunch – a ruined house, a railway station, a busy market, children playing, old houses etc. This is taking a real shortcut to “Where do ideas come from” you see. After all, if we simply waited for inspiration to strike, we’d probably still be there!
Then, armed with pictures and the “Ambition” everyone sat down to write the first few lines of a poem or short story. People worked in pairs – it was a fun exercise after all – but what surprised me was that everyone, from a really mixed bunch of people, flung themselves into it and really wanted to write. The various pairs came and read their pieces at the end of the session and everyone got (of course) a round of applause and, from what was said, a great deal of satisfaction. Result!
The challenge was that, although it was sponsored by a local library, it was open to everyone and I couldn’t rely on any reading-group stalwarts to be there. The other challenge (problem? nightmare?) was that I had one and a half hours to fill. Oh, geez. I mean, I can rattle on about my books for quite a long time, but an hour and a half? I don’t think so.
So what, short of developing a severe case of Parson’s Throat or emigrating to Brazil, could I do? The answer, when I thought of it, really appealed to me; let the audience do the work. A writers’ workshop, in fact. Yup, that’s the trick.
At the start of the session I asked everyone to listen pretty carefully because they were going to have to turn into writers too. Then I tackled the old chestnut of a question, the one that’s always asked; “Where do you get your ideas from?”
For some reason – I never been able to figure out why – a lot of writers don’t like this one. But surely, it’s a perfectly sensible question? I mean, something has to start the process. What, exactly? Well, I imagine there’s a lot of different answers, but what works for me is to find an intriguing situation, something that tugs at my imagination. How did the situation come about? Who’s involved? What happens next? Those are all questions that send threads out, that lead onto the rest of the story. My favourite example from my own books is the opening of As If By Magic (if you go onto the books page of this website and click on Magic, it’ll take you to the first chapter. (Then, of course, maddened by curiosity, you’ll simply have to read the book!)
After talking about ideas for a while, everyone wrote an ambition they had on a scrap of paper, folded it up, and put it into a hat. Then, just like raffle tickets, the papers were mixed up and everyone drew out an ambition. They then chose a picture from a collection of photographs I’d brought with me. The photos were a varied bunch – a ruined house, a railway station, a busy market, children playing, old houses etc. This is taking a real shortcut to “Where do ideas come from” you see. After all, if we simply waited for inspiration to strike, we’d probably still be there!
Then, armed with pictures and the “Ambition” everyone sat down to write the first few lines of a poem or short story. People worked in pairs – it was a fun exercise after all – but what surprised me was that everyone, from a really mixed bunch of people, flung themselves into it and really wanted to write. The various pairs came and read their pieces at the end of the session and everyone got (of course) a round of applause and, from what was said, a great deal of satisfaction. Result!
Saturday, October 16, 2010
How’s your Ancient Egyptian?
Last Saturday Jenny, my techno-whizz 16 year-old, and myself hosted a Quiz Night at the local tennis club.
The tennis club is a bit of a family affair as my Dad (who clocks in at the grand age of 88) is the treasurer and, over the years, all the junior Gordon-Smiths have been to the Saturday morning tennis lessons. Jenny’s techno-wizardry came into its own as, thanks to her, we were able to play a round of Historical Voices, recorded from t’internet. It’s interesting see people’s faces; you announce that we’re going to hear recordings from the past and everyone looks apprehensive and slightly glum. Play a bit of Winston Churchill (“This was their finest hour”) and a clip of the 1966 World Cup Final (“They think it’s all over – it is now!”) spiced up with Apollo 13 (“Huston, we’ve got a problem”) and John (“You cannot be serious!”) McEnroe carrying on and everyone starts laughing again. The trick to having a successful quiz, I think, is to think about the questions so everyone there can have a stab at answering most of them. In order to get a winner, ask subsidiary questions, such as “What year is it?” and so on. One round was "Missing Worlds". The idea is to read three words, all of which can be prefaced by another word to make a new word. For example, Wall, Brigade and Ball can be prefaced by "Fire".
See how you do with these. Answers at the bottom of the page!
Ship
Yard
Martial
Room
Take
Bill
Fishing
Blown
Paper
Land
Spring
Sail
And, if you’re in the quiz mood, here’s some questions. Again, answers are at the bottom of the page.
1) What sport am I describing? The competition is a timed race and the fastest wins.
The competitors start their race from a single point but have different finishing lines.
Races are generally between 62 and 621 miles but in the United States races of up to 1,118 miles have been recorded.
During the race, the competitors face the real danger of death from being attacked by wild predators.
To compete in a race, the competitor must wear a permanent, unique numbered ring or band that is attached to their leg when they are about 5 days old.
2) To the nearest thousand (!) how many islands make up Great Britain? This does not include Ireland.
3) What was the Ancient Egyptian word for cat? (Go on! Have a guess!)
Answers:
Missing Words: 1)Court 2) Double 3) Fly 4)Main
General Knowledge: 1) Pigeon Racing 2) 6,000. Great Britain (England, Scotland and Wales) has a total 6,289 islands, mostly in Scotland. Of these, 803 are large enough to have been 'digitised' with a coastline by map-makers. 3) The Egyptian hieroglyphics spell out the syllables Mee-ee-ow!
The tennis club is a bit of a family affair as my Dad (who clocks in at the grand age of 88) is the treasurer and, over the years, all the junior Gordon-Smiths have been to the Saturday morning tennis lessons. Jenny’s techno-wizardry came into its own as, thanks to her, we were able to play a round of Historical Voices, recorded from t’internet. It’s interesting see people’s faces; you announce that we’re going to hear recordings from the past and everyone looks apprehensive and slightly glum. Play a bit of Winston Churchill (“This was their finest hour”) and a clip of the 1966 World Cup Final (“They think it’s all over – it is now!”) spiced up with Apollo 13 (“Huston, we’ve got a problem”) and John (“You cannot be serious!”) McEnroe carrying on and everyone starts laughing again. The trick to having a successful quiz, I think, is to think about the questions so everyone there can have a stab at answering most of them. In order to get a winner, ask subsidiary questions, such as “What year is it?” and so on. One round was "Missing Worlds". The idea is to read three words, all of which can be prefaced by another word to make a new word. For example, Wall, Brigade and Ball can be prefaced by "Fire".
See how you do with these. Answers at the bottom of the page!
Ship
Yard
Martial
Room
Take
Bill
Fishing
Blown
Paper
Land
Spring
Sail
And, if you’re in the quiz mood, here’s some questions. Again, answers are at the bottom of the page.
1) What sport am I describing? The competition is a timed race and the fastest wins.
The competitors start their race from a single point but have different finishing lines.
Races are generally between 62 and 621 miles but in the United States races of up to 1,118 miles have been recorded.
During the race, the competitors face the real danger of death from being attacked by wild predators.
To compete in a race, the competitor must wear a permanent, unique numbered ring or band that is attached to their leg when they are about 5 days old.
2) To the nearest thousand (!) how many islands make up Great Britain? This does not include Ireland.
3) What was the Ancient Egyptian word for cat? (Go on! Have a guess!)
Answers:
Missing Words: 1)Court 2) Double 3) Fly 4)Main
General Knowledge: 1) Pigeon Racing 2) 6,000. Great Britain (England, Scotland and Wales) has a total 6,289 islands, mostly in Scotland. Of these, 803 are large enough to have been 'digitised' with a coastline by map-makers. 3) The Egyptian hieroglyphics spell out the syllables Mee-ee-ow!
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Real Life?
Somewhere on the internet this week, my email pal, the author Donna Fletcher Crow (find her at her website Deeds of Darkness, Deeds OF Light) raised the question of real life as an inspiration for fiction. It’s an interesting question, as it seems to be self-evident that real life has to be a powerful resource. After all, if, on the cover of a book, you read “Based on a true story” then it’s a real selling point. But….
Agatha Christie, in her introduction to The Body In The Library wrote: “Staying one summer for a few days at a fashionable hotel by the seaside I observed a family at one of the tables in the dining-room; an elderly man, a cripple, in a wheeled chair, and with him was a family party of a younger generation. Fortunately they left the next day so that my imagination could get to work unhampered by any kind of knowledge. When people ask “Do you put real people in your books?” the answer is that, for me, it is quite impossible to write about anyone I know, or have ever spoken to, or indeed have even heard about! For some reason it kills them for me stone dead.”
And d’you know, I know exactly what she means. When Agatha Christie, or anyone else for that matter – including me - is constructing a tightly plotted book, it can seem a mechanical exercise. X bumps off Y and Z comes along and uncovers the dark deed. Then, off course, you’ve got the Red Herrings – let’s call them A,B and C – to add pleasant confusion to the outcome. Naturally, no one wants to read (or write!) about letters of the alphabet, so X and Y and all the others have to acquire personalities. But they have to be a particular sort of personality. That shy, mousey girl with an intense nature has to be capable of being so intense that, given the right motivation, she can be a credible murderer. That jolly friend-to–the world, cheerful Uncle Charlie, has to show the odd flash of temper or meanness to make us accept that he, too, could embrace crime. These personalities aren’t simply bolted on but spring from the plot. What sort of person, to put it another way, would do this sort of thing? That way, with plot and characters working together, the book becomes a unified whole. And, because the book has to hang together, extraneous bits have to be edited out. If a character has a deep interest in chemistry, say, or mediaeval needlework, then that had better come into the plot somehow or the reader will feel a real let-down. Now real people have all sorts of random interests and various quirks that makes them them. Also – I hope! – the vast majority of the people we know well aren’t actually capable of slipping arsenic in the tea or sawing through the axle of a car. And that’s why raw real life isn’t much help to a dedicated detective-story plotter. Real life is far too untidy and doesn’t stack up. Fiction – an art – does. That’s one of the reasons why it’s so enjoyable to read!
Agatha Christie, in her introduction to The Body In The Library wrote: “Staying one summer for a few days at a fashionable hotel by the seaside I observed a family at one of the tables in the dining-room; an elderly man, a cripple, in a wheeled chair, and with him was a family party of a younger generation. Fortunately they left the next day so that my imagination could get to work unhampered by any kind of knowledge. When people ask “Do you put real people in your books?” the answer is that, for me, it is quite impossible to write about anyone I know, or have ever spoken to, or indeed have even heard about! For some reason it kills them for me stone dead.”
And d’you know, I know exactly what she means. When Agatha Christie, or anyone else for that matter – including me - is constructing a tightly plotted book, it can seem a mechanical exercise. X bumps off Y and Z comes along and uncovers the dark deed. Then, off course, you’ve got the Red Herrings – let’s call them A,B and C – to add pleasant confusion to the outcome. Naturally, no one wants to read (or write!) about letters of the alphabet, so X and Y and all the others have to acquire personalities. But they have to be a particular sort of personality. That shy, mousey girl with an intense nature has to be capable of being so intense that, given the right motivation, she can be a credible murderer. That jolly friend-to–the world, cheerful Uncle Charlie, has to show the odd flash of temper or meanness to make us accept that he, too, could embrace crime. These personalities aren’t simply bolted on but spring from the plot. What sort of person, to put it another way, would do this sort of thing? That way, with plot and characters working together, the book becomes a unified whole. And, because the book has to hang together, extraneous bits have to be edited out. If a character has a deep interest in chemistry, say, or mediaeval needlework, then that had better come into the plot somehow or the reader will feel a real let-down. Now real people have all sorts of random interests and various quirks that makes them them. Also – I hope! – the vast majority of the people we know well aren’t actually capable of slipping arsenic in the tea or sawing through the axle of a car. And that’s why raw real life isn’t much help to a dedicated detective-story plotter. Real life is far too untidy and doesn’t stack up. Fiction – an art – does. That’s one of the reasons why it’s so enjoyable to read!
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Eighteen With A Custard Cream
It was my daughter Lucy’s eighteenth birthday this week. I’m sure this will seem familiar to many mums, but when the dickens did little Lucy get to be 18? I’m sure she wasn’t anything like that age last time I looked. However, there it was. And Lucy (with some justification) thought that steps should be taken to celebrate. The trouble was that two of her friends were also 18 last week and the prime time slot of Saturday night had been taken, as was Friday, so that pushed us back to Thursday.
It went like a dream. There’s something to be said for being the first in the line of the party-givers, because everyone is fresh and ready for it, whereas come Saturday night, a certain amount of party-droop has set in.
There’s more to giving a party than meets the eye. You have to hire a room, hire a DJ and – of course – decorate the place. We covered the tables with blue paper with gold stars, which looked nice, had blue and gold helium balloons and lots of decorations saying 18!!! That, plus the disco lights, made it look great. And, of course, there was the cake. For as long as anyone can remember, Lucy’s favourite biscuit has been custard creams. She can consume vast amounts of them (without putting on any extra pounds as far as I can make out) so, when it came to a theme for her cake, there was only one real candidate.
Enter the Custard Cream…
It was about two feet by eighteen (how appropriate!) inches and was a real hit. It’s not really a big biscuit. All the decoration was laboriously shaped out of icing and put on by yours truly. It took hours. Was it worth it? Of course it was.
And then there were the pizzas. It’s a waste of time doing a “proper” buffet for a teenagers’ party. Everyone’s dancing and far too busy to eat, but pizzas sounded like a good idea. So I ordered pizzas from the local take-away. Now let me see… About 60 teenagers equals about 30 pizzas plus 20 pizza-sized garlic breads. That’s about right, isn’t it? Er, no. Have you any idea how much room 50 pizza boxes takes up? As yet more pizza boxes arrived, I felt like Mickey Mouse in Fantasia doing the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. You know, when he casts the spell and all the brushes and buckets come to life and he can’t turn it off. Pizzas! shouted everyone enthusiastically and proceeded to ignore them in order to get on with dancing. At the end of the evening, I stood by the door, giving them out like party bags. Apparently there were a lot of teenagers eating pizza next day in college. One of these days they’ll work out how to eat at the party but that’s when sober middle age strikes. Hopefully that’s a long way off. I’m still getting over the fact she’s eighteen.
It went like a dream. There’s something to be said for being the first in the line of the party-givers, because everyone is fresh and ready for it, whereas come Saturday night, a certain amount of party-droop has set in.
There’s more to giving a party than meets the eye. You have to hire a room, hire a DJ and – of course – decorate the place. We covered the tables with blue paper with gold stars, which looked nice, had blue and gold helium balloons and lots of decorations saying 18!!! That, plus the disco lights, made it look great. And, of course, there was the cake. For as long as anyone can remember, Lucy’s favourite biscuit has been custard creams. She can consume vast amounts of them (without putting on any extra pounds as far as I can make out) so, when it came to a theme for her cake, there was only one real candidate.
Enter the Custard Cream…
It was about two feet by eighteen (how appropriate!) inches and was a real hit. It’s not really a big biscuit. All the decoration was laboriously shaped out of icing and put on by yours truly. It took hours. Was it worth it? Of course it was.
And then there were the pizzas. It’s a waste of time doing a “proper” buffet for a teenagers’ party. Everyone’s dancing and far too busy to eat, but pizzas sounded like a good idea. So I ordered pizzas from the local take-away. Now let me see… About 60 teenagers equals about 30 pizzas plus 20 pizza-sized garlic breads. That’s about right, isn’t it? Er, no. Have you any idea how much room 50 pizza boxes takes up? As yet more pizza boxes arrived, I felt like Mickey Mouse in Fantasia doing the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. You know, when he casts the spell and all the brushes and buckets come to life and he can’t turn it off. Pizzas! shouted everyone enthusiastically and proceeded to ignore them in order to get on with dancing. At the end of the evening, I stood by the door, giving them out like party bags. Apparently there were a lot of teenagers eating pizza next day in college. One of these days they’ll work out how to eat at the party but that’s when sober middle age strikes. Hopefully that’s a long way off. I’m still getting over the fact she’s eighteen.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Seeing the Pope
Jenny and Lucy went to see the Pope, which isn’t something you do every week. I had to get them to the school gates for two in the morning (again, not something that I do often) for them to get down to Twickenham on the coach in time for the Big Assembly, as the mass-meeting with school-children and various educators was called. It all went tickety-boo, apparently, and they’ve got various bags and books and little flags as mementoes.
We’ve all seen the Pope before, in what you might call his natural habitat of St Peter’s Square. It was Easter Sunday morning, a couple of years ago and we’d gone on a coach trip to Italy. (Leger Coaches; highly recommended.) Spring in Italy! I said, selling the idea like mad to my nearest and dearest. Goodness knows what I thought it’d be like – sort of springlike, I suppose – and waxed as lyrical as a tourist brochure. Manchester to Rome? queried the partner of my joys and sorrows. Isn’t that a bit of a long journey? We’ll love it, I assured him. Won’t it be interesting to actually drive through Europe.
Well, we were both right. Blimey, Rome’s so far away, I don’t know how the Ancient Romans, who seem to pop up everywhere, every made it, let alone stroll round Britain as if they owned the place. And they didn’t have coaches. Mind you, the weather in Ancient Mamucium must have made them feel at home. I’ve never encountered so much rain in all my born days as we did in Italy in the spring. It was like being underwater. Molto agitato said the weatherman on the Italian TV. (We nicknamed him Colonel Weather because, oddly to our eyes, he was dressed up in full air force uniform with a moustache Hercule Poirot would have a hissy fit over.) Anyway, it molto agitatioed and then some.
Now, the thing about coach trips is that you chum up with the other passengers and one girl, Charlotte, we got on with like a house on fire. Charlotte was Jewish and quickly cottoned on to the fact we were Catholics. At this point, the fairly glamorous thirty-year old Charlotte turned into my mother. “You must,” she said, organizing the Gordon-Smiths, “see the pope. You can’t come to Rome and not see the Pope. You must,” she said firmly, “be longing to see the Pope.” Well, I wasn’t conscious of longing exactly, but there we were on Easter Sunday morning in the huge crowds outside St Peter’s Square and there, in the very far distance, was the Pope.
Charlotte was thrilled. As the rain beat down, all the Gordon-Smiths got wetter and wetter and our thoughts turned fondly in the direction of a café. Coffee. Tea. Food. Not raining. So, much to Charlotte’s horror, we upped sticks and beetled off. She scurried after us, a drenched but determined Jewish mentor, reminding us of our religious duties. “At the very least,” she said, sounding more like my mother than ever,“you must go to Mass.” So, we Charlotte behind, encouraging us on, she ushered us into a church and, duty done, we found a café. There, on a television screen, was coverage of the ceremony still proceeding a few hundred yards away, under a haze of water, with depressed blokes in wet hats with wet feathers in them were gathered round a wet Pope. “I told you,” said Charlotte, pointing to the TV screen in triumph, “that you had to see the Pope.” Cup of delicious Italian coffee in hand, I thought it was a pretty good compromise.
We’ve all seen the Pope before, in what you might call his natural habitat of St Peter’s Square. It was Easter Sunday morning, a couple of years ago and we’d gone on a coach trip to Italy. (Leger Coaches; highly recommended.) Spring in Italy! I said, selling the idea like mad to my nearest and dearest. Goodness knows what I thought it’d be like – sort of springlike, I suppose – and waxed as lyrical as a tourist brochure. Manchester to Rome? queried the partner of my joys and sorrows. Isn’t that a bit of a long journey? We’ll love it, I assured him. Won’t it be interesting to actually drive through Europe.
Well, we were both right. Blimey, Rome’s so far away, I don’t know how the Ancient Romans, who seem to pop up everywhere, every made it, let alone stroll round Britain as if they owned the place. And they didn’t have coaches. Mind you, the weather in Ancient Mamucium must have made them feel at home. I’ve never encountered so much rain in all my born days as we did in Italy in the spring. It was like being underwater. Molto agitato said the weatherman on the Italian TV. (We nicknamed him Colonel Weather because, oddly to our eyes, he was dressed up in full air force uniform with a moustache Hercule Poirot would have a hissy fit over.) Anyway, it molto agitatioed and then some.
Now, the thing about coach trips is that you chum up with the other passengers and one girl, Charlotte, we got on with like a house on fire. Charlotte was Jewish and quickly cottoned on to the fact we were Catholics. At this point, the fairly glamorous thirty-year old Charlotte turned into my mother. “You must,” she said, organizing the Gordon-Smiths, “see the pope. You can’t come to Rome and not see the Pope. You must,” she said firmly, “be longing to see the Pope.” Well, I wasn’t conscious of longing exactly, but there we were on Easter Sunday morning in the huge crowds outside St Peter’s Square and there, in the very far distance, was the Pope.
Charlotte was thrilled. As the rain beat down, all the Gordon-Smiths got wetter and wetter and our thoughts turned fondly in the direction of a café. Coffee. Tea. Food. Not raining. So, much to Charlotte’s horror, we upped sticks and beetled off. She scurried after us, a drenched but determined Jewish mentor, reminding us of our religious duties. “At the very least,” she said, sounding more like my mother than ever,“you must go to Mass.” So, we Charlotte behind, encouraging us on, she ushered us into a church and, duty done, we found a café. There, on a television screen, was coverage of the ceremony still proceeding a few hundred yards away, under a haze of water, with depressed blokes in wet hats with wet feathers in them were gathered round a wet Pope. “I told you,” said Charlotte, pointing to the TV screen in triumph, “that you had to see the Pope.” Cup of delicious Italian coffee in hand, I thought it was a pretty good compromise.
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