In Bod we trust. And dandelions.

Ask any of my friends, and they'll tell you: I'm not a latest-designer-handbag-chasing sort of girl. My husband and I share a mobile phone but can rarely remember where we left it. And Jimmy Choo sounds just like someone sneezing, to me, although I believe he is a real person and has something to do with shoes.

There, that's who I am. My trusty, ageing little rucksack serves me well for walking home with the groceries, and a sturdy pair of trainers is the ideal footwear for getting me there, up a mile of pretty much unrelenting hill. And if someone phones when I'm not at home, they can leave me a message and I'll phone them back.

I often reflect on the importance of simple pleasures - at least for me - in an increasingly complicated, pressurised and stuff-led world. Surely if we can enjoy the simple things in life, we're more likely to be happy? And we're surrounded by things everyday which can delight, even astound us, if we simply take a moment to see them.

The humble dandelion, for instance. Yes, it's a 'weed'. But take a good look at a dandelion. It actually has a very beautiful flower, a gorgeous sunburst of small, delicate petals. The name 'dandelion', incidentally, is apparently of late Middle English origin, from the French dent-de-lion, meaning 'lion's tooth' (because of the jagged shape of the leaves). But to me, the petals of this big, happy daisy actually resemble the mane of a bright yellow lion.

How could anyone not take pleasure in one of these?

Happy Dandelion 

And a cat's fur. Strictly speaking, our cat is black and white. But in bright sunlight, if you look closely, each 'black' hair reflects a dazzling array of colours - purple, green, turquoise, russet... Clever cat. Another simple pleasure, and for free, too. Well, maybe not quite for free, but, like me, she doesn't have designer tastes either: she is perfectly happy with Go-Cat, so that's something.

Happy Hattie 

And Bod. Ah, Bod. This was one of the television programmes I grew up with, and I feel so lucky I did.

For anyone who has never met him, Bod is a follically-challenged cartoon boy in a yellow dress and leggings (bear with me) who has an infectiously jaunty walk and an aunt called Flo. His friends are Farmer Barleymow, PC Copper and Frank the Postman (Oh! Ha! I just got that...).

Bod began life in 1963, when Michael and Joanne Cole created him for the entertainment of their own children. He enjoyed his first outing on television in a series of 13 five-minute animated shorts in 1974, and he is still going strong on DVD. His simple, sometimes surreal, adventures are complemented by warm and lovely narrative from John Le Mesurier and catchy incidental music by the much-loved Derek Griffiths.

Bod's adventures can be sampled for free online and I would strongly recommend you begin with the Official Bod Website. Here, you can witness the ramifications of 'Bod's Dream' about strawberries and cream, complete with joyously bizarre ending.

Also here is the story of 'Bod and the Apple', where the law of gravity is tested in time-honoured fashion, and there are, temporarily, red-faces all round. In fact, I just have to share this bit of dialogue with you:

Flo:   Hello Bod. What are you doing here?

Bod:  I'm waiting for an apple I threw up in the air. It hasn't come down.

Flo:   Oh, it will. They always do.

Gorgeous!

Today, this delightful programme feels like a celebration of simplicity itself. In these days of computer rendered special effects and the burgeoning of expensive 3D productions, what could be more heartening or reassuring than a little slice of hand-drawn, primary-coloured, two-dimensional animation?

Three cheers for Bod!

Magic moments: Your table awaits...

I’ve been thinking about magic moments this week, those times, often unplanned or unexpected, which instantly become treasured memories. And I started thinking about a trip to Cuba my husband and I shared a few years ago, a (very well) organised small group tour.

It pains me to admit this, but at that time I was hardly writing at all, and didn’t even keep a diary of the trip. Tsk. So many wonderful memories lost for ever. But one very special one does still stand out.

We had been told one afternoon that dinner that evening would be a 'memorable occasion'. So it was that later in the day we found ourselves sitting in our mini-bus at the side of the road, ‘waiting for a signal’. This eventually arrived: two motor cycles swept past our bus, and our attentive driver immediately set off in hot pursuit.

I should explain at this point that Cuba is a Socialist state, where, supposedly, everyone is provided for, and free enterprise is both unnecessary and non-existent. 

I’m not here to talk about politics, which is a tricky business and could get me into all sorts of trouble. So, for the sake of balance I will just say this: Cuba has a lot of problems, along with an exemplary education system, and excellent health care provision.

It also has a thriving and imaginative culture of free enterprise.

We drove for roughly half an hour, the rear lamps of the motorbikes glowing just ahead of us in the growing darkness. The bus eventually pulled over to the side of a remote country road where the motorcyclists were dismounting, and our intrigued little group piled out.

I’d love to be able to describe the scenery to you, but the fact is that the sky was pitch black by now, and in the absence of houses or street lamps, we could hardly see a thing. We were in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps it looked like this, in the day time - I honestly don't know:

Tobacco-drying hut in Pinar del Rio province.

Photograph by David Taylor Photography

 
There followed a ten minute walk along an uneven dirt track, lit only by the flash light of one of the motorcyclists. I must admit that it did occur to me at one point that perhaps we were being kidnapped and were about to meet our collective deaths in a nearby field, but I wasn't being serious.

Making our way gradually uphill, our dusty walk was eventually rewarded with the appearance of some farm buildings, and then one of the most magical sights I have ever seen. In a field, nestled in a little grove of trees, a long table was laid for dinner. A delicate table cloth flapped gently in the balmy evening air, and the whole scene was illuminated by candle light.

We dined on lobster that evening, not for the first time that trip. We ate from pretty, mismatched china, and chatted happily, our laughter drifting away into the night on a warm, gentle breeze as congenial as the company itself.

At the end of the meal, our friendly hostess presented our tour guide with a hand-written bill for our meal, watched as he checked it, and then... set fire to it with a cigarette lighter, to destroy the evidence of the transaction.

The atmospheric setting, the amiable company of new friends, and the creativity of our hosts, combined to create an unforgettable experience. And this spell could never be re-cast, even if the circumstances could be replicated. Because the magic of that night lay, in large part, in the element of surprise, of the gradual revelation of the delight that awaited us.

For your delectation, here is the Buena Vista Social Club performing 'Chan Chan'. Goodness me, but this sound brings those memories flooding back!

The Happy Meal

I had always imagined that my blog would be a place where I would mainly post pieces of short fiction, and perhaps a poem or two. Well, like a lot of creative endeavours, it seems to have taken on a life of its own, and become a place for my musings on writing, music, art and life generally. 

Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, and I am enjoying it all immensely. But I thought it was high time that I started posting the occasional piece of short fiction, and that's what I'm here to do today. 

'The Happy Meal' came about as a result of a casual remark I heard on the radio, which made me reflect on the huge potential for melancholy of the humble Happy Meal. This was one of those happy occasions when something just clicked, and I sat down and wrote the first draft of the piece almost on automatic pilot - a fabulous, if elusive, sensation which comes highly recommended!  

The Happy Meal

As if a flabby hamburger and a plastic dinosaur could possibly nourish body or soul, he muses sadly as he watches his son across the table. The colourful cardboard box promises much, but delivers little. A bit like life, he thinks, before he has time to stop himself.

How can a ‘Happy Meal’ ever mend the damage that’s been done? I’m a useless father. She was right. He’ll never be able to forgive me. It’s me he’ll blame, not her. Probably for the rest of his life.

He stares, awe-struck, at his little boy, and marvels at his innocent perfection: the unblemished softness of his rosy cheeks, the neat back-to-school haircut, the fingers with their clipped nails, sinking into the burger bun. And the love that surges through him promises to break his heart, and he wonders if he hasn’t been punished enough already.

He picks up the plastic toy between finger and thumb, and prowls it across the table, trying to distract himself from the tears prickling at him. Deep breath. Triceratops. He remembers it from his own childhood, his fascination with these strange creatures, his need to learn the long names, to list, to categorise. Just like his son.

The boy watches as the dinosaur furtively approaches his bag of chips. The hint of a smile plays across his lips, moist with grease from the burger. He picks out a chip, twists it in his tub of ketchup, and holds it to the dinosaur’s open mouth, his beautiful fresh face level with the monster’s.

‘He’s a herbivore. So he likes chips. But not hamburgers.’

The man smiles. He makes the sort of low, satisfied growling noise he imagines a triceratops might make, in demolishing its favourite meal of French fries doused in ketchup.

‘Daddy?’

‘Yes, love?’

The little boy fixes him with big blue eyes as clear as a sunny winter’s morning.

‘Dad, what’s the matter?’

‘… Oh look. He’s covered in ketchup now.’

But the boy just gazes at him.

‘How d’you mean? Nothing. Nothing’s the matter.’

He takes another deep breath, ragged this time, not quite within his control. He picks up a paper napkin and busies himself in wiping the sticky tomato sauce from the dinosaur’s vacant face.

‘You look sad.’

Oh, no. He’s noticed. No. Every other weekend. That’s all you have. You promised yourself you’d make the most of it. You promised. And you’ve screwed it up. Loser.

‘I’m a bit… tired, that’s all. I’m… I’m sorry.’

He tries a smile, but is unconvinced by it himself. Then he tries a yawn instead, grabbing at the opportunity to rub his eyes as well.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes?’

The little boy frowns and bites his lip.

‘… What is it, son?’

‘We will always do things together, won’t we? You will always want to?’

The sweet, sharp unexpectedness of the question catches at his breath.

He suddenly feels the need to blow his nose. He reaches into one jacket pocket, then another, but there’s no handkerchief there – he knows there isn’t, and the reason why: he hasn’t done his ironing. She told him he was hopeless, the day she left. Maybe she was right.

He is aware of his son watching him, concerned, his sweet head tilted slightly to one side. He dares to meet his eye. But he doesn’t find what he’s expecting there - no derision, no intolerance, no bitter, crushing disillusionment. Because he’s nothing like his mother. Those wise blue eyes are gleaming at him, understanding him better, more deeply, than they should ever have been allowed to do. Loving him.

The boy licks ketchup from his fingers and gently hands his father a fresh paper napkin. The man swallows hard, takes the napkin as calmly as he can and blows his nose into it.

‘I hope so. I’d like to. That’d be great, wouldn’t it?’

His son seems relieved, as if an unbearable weight has been lifted from his tiny shoulders, and he beams at him, a big, sunny life-raft of a smile. 

‘Now. I think I could eat some ice-cream. How about you?’

Ariel

I was delighted - no, let's say 'stunned' - this week to be awarded first place in Newcastle Theatre Royal's 2011 Creative Writing competition. The brief was to write about a favourite Shakespeare character, in prose, poetry or script form.

I decided to write about Ariel, after he has been released from servitude by his master, Prospero. I began with prose, but quickly found that I couldn't say what I wanted to say in that form. I found myself channelled towards poetry instead - against my will, I might add, because I don't regard myself as a poet at all, and feel very self-conscious about the whole process!

This was a bit of a lesson in the gritting-of-teeth-and-just-getting-on-with-it. With two days to go before the deadline, and feeling disheartened and lacking in confidence, my choice was clear: did I give up and let myself down, or did I just chip away at it until I'd got something I could submit? I chose the latter option. I hope you enjoy the result!

Ariel

‘My Ariel, chick,
That is thy charge. Then to the elements
Be free, and fare thou well.’

The Tempest, Act 5, Scene 1


You are roused by the sunrise, airy spirit,
curled up snug within a cowslip’s bell,
yawning and stretching, and breathing in
a freedom you have only ever dreamed of.

Blinking awake, you eagerly refresh yourself
from pure, new dewdrops, sweet and
sparkling in the rosy light of dawn,
reflecting back at you your blissful liberation.

Brushing away the pollen grains that
hang about your lustrous skin,
you take to the air on opalescent wings
alive as springtime, dazzling and unseen.

Creature of fire and magic and
mystical music, you flit invisible
through Prospero’s beloved library,
brushing his happy cheek as you pass by.

You swoop and soar with swallows on their journey
north, watching fields and trees surge back to life
beneath your flashing wings, leaving Milan,
Naples, far behind and heading for the sea,

and England, and the Thames, until
you find the special shape you’re searching for.
On whirring wings you spiral round that
legendary Wooden O, your destiny close by.

Backstage, a bearded man sleeps soundly
when he should be working. Quill in hand,
he’s slouched across a ripe, blank page,
waiting for inspiration. Words. A Play.

You have your servant now, quaint Ariel:
Will Shakespeare, here, to do your bidding.
So settle on that noble shoulder,
dainty sprite, and whisper to his dreams.

Tell him of incarceration, slavery, and honest,
faithful servitude, of raising a tempest,
setting aflame the topmast of a ship, and
leaving everyone unharmed, as you were tasked.

Tell him how wrongs were righted,
treacheries revealed and yearned-for freedoms
finally delivered. And watch him stirring in his slumber,
a gentle smile tickling that fine face.

And then, brave Ariel, ask him: ‘Was’t well done?’

Need cheering up? Meet the ox on the roof!

It was always going to be one of those days. I won't bore you with it. Let's just say domestic appliances... dishwasher defunct and surrounded by towels... boiler also defunct... no heating... no hot water. My husband insists these things don't come in threes; I, on the other hand, am bracing myself.

So, I needed cheering up. My usual strategy for achieving this is a long, brisk walk around the lovely woodland near our home. I invariably return refreshed and in a better frame of mind. It works even better if I have my iPod with me, and can put on some really rousing music.

The appeal of music is such a deep-seated, ancient, mysterious thing. I always wonder at its ability to act as a lifter-of-spirits. There are pieces of music I know I can rely on when I'm not in a very good mood, which I trust to have me transformed by the time they've drawn to a conclusion.

This morning, I shared my walk with Darius Milhaud and his 'Le Boeuf sur le Toit' ('The Ox on the Roof'). This lively, joyous piece, a quarter of an hour long, is based on popular Brazilian tunes, and was turned into a ballet by Jean Cocteau, premiering in 1920. It is full of vitality, dance rhythms and delicious, crunchy discords - invigorating and life-affirming.

I returned from my walk, and found that Monsieur Milhaud and his trusty Boeuf had done their job. I listened to the piece again. I danced round the kitchen, managing to avoid the dishwasher in the middle of the room, and warmed up so effectively that it didn't really matter that the heating was broken. Something of a result. 

There are lots of options for sampling this lovely piece on YouTube, but the clip I really like is this one: Michela Chiara Borghese and Sabrina De Carlo in a performance for one piano, four hands and, rather beautifully, two pairs of bare feet.

A word of warning, though. This is catchy! So be careful. If I don't listen to something else soon, to get this tune out of my head so that I stop humming it, it may well be my long-suffering husband who will end up 'sur le toit', and that would never do.

Showing, not telling: Hylas yearns for home

The best five hours I ever spent in the theatre was at a performance by Scottish Opera of Berlioz' 'Les Troyens' at the Theatre Royal, Newcastle. This massive opera is, understandably, rarely performed.

Based on Virgil's Aeneid, it tells the story of the destruction of Troy, and of our hero, Aeneas', destiny as the founder of a new Troy, to be known as 'Rome'. On the way there, the Trojan fleet is waylaid in Carthage and our hero (predictably) falls in love with Dido, Queen of Carthage.

This is terrible, because Aeneas knows full-well that the gods have already decided his future for him, and Dido isn't part of it. In fact, all through the second half, assorted characters from wood nymphs to the ghosts of other Trojan heroes take it in turns to appear to Aeneas, and give him a gentle prod to remind him of his divine duty to history.

Anyway, Act 5 (!) opens the night before the fleet's departure for Italy, and begins with one of the most haunting arias I have ever heard - 'Vallon Sonore'. Hylas, a young Phrygian sailor, leans against the masthead of his ship as it sits in the harbour. The gentle lilting of the music evokes perfectly the lapping of the water around the sides of the vessel.

This is such an intimate piece that we almost feel that Hylas is singing to himself, not to the audience. It is not a grand, noisy proclamation of this character's suffering (the sort which is usually followed with indecent haste by the character's death from a disease which would, in reality, render breathing difficult, let alone a solo aria projected into the back row of a massive auditorium. I digress.)

No, this is contemplative, quiet, and utterly heart-rending. Hylas remembers an echoing vale, with huge trees giving sweet-scented shade from the heat of the day. He recalls his humble cottage, and bidding farewell to his mother. He asks himself, repeatedly, if he will see his homeland again, but he already knows the answer to that question, just as we do.

The nature of this song reminds me of the idea that, as writers, we should show what is happening to our characters, rather than describing it. There is a sense here that we are almost intruding on Hylas' private grief, such is the intimacy of this moment. How much less effective it would be if he were to stand at the front of the stage and tell us how homesick he is!

The song also makes me think about the nature of yearning, so achingly depicted in this music. If we yearn for something which could happen, in time, there is a real sweetness to that sensation - imagine if Hylas knew that he'd get home eventually. But equally, we might yearn for something which we know can never be - a sensation akin to mourning, as I think Berlioz shows perfectly in Hylas' breathtaking aria.

Do click on the link above and have a listen. The aria is sung here, I believe, by the wonderful Toby Spence, on the LSO's award-laden live recording of 2000.

Oh, did I mention I'm sinister?

Pronunciation: /ˈsɪnɪstə/ 

Origin: late Middle English (in the sense ‘malicious, underhand’): from Old French sinistre or Latin sinister 'left' 

I write with my left hand.

It wasn't a conscious decision - I wasn't being bloody-minded, whatever my parents might tell you - that's just the way I was made, in the same way as I have brown hair and brown eyes.

It has never really been a problem, except at school when we moved from using pencils to fountain pens. Fountain pens. Imagine. I had two problems with that instrument-of-torture: the ink would smudge as my hand moved across the page, and the nib would scratch the paper. The teacher told me off, which seems strange now. Had she never encountered a left-handed pupil? It never occurred to me that I was left-handed - why should it?

Anyway, the reason I'm here is not moan about my lot in life. (I'm actually not that left-handed. For instance, while I find my left-handed cheque book - yes, really - much more comfortable to use that a standard one, the idea of left-handed scissors makes my brain hurt: I physically wouldn't know what to do with them.)

No, I'm here, gentle reader, because of something I read recently in the Left Handers Club Newsletter, from the wonderful Anything Left-Handed, a specialist left-handers' website run by Keith and Lauren Milsom. The article discussed the number of everyday words and phrases, the world over, which link left-handedness with everything from clumsiness and poor dancing, to being bad luck and having a sneaky nature.

The list of things we're meant to be guilty of is fascinating. Shall we take a little tour?