Walking in the Air

What is more than forty years old, covered in frost and never goes out of date? The answer is so sparklingly obvious that I am obliged to spell it out. It is, of course, that incomparable animated short, The Snowman, based on the illustrations of Ray Briggs. I have just watched it for the umpteenth time and in all my viewings, it has never lost any of its charm. Though I was far from a child when it was first broadcast (1982), I always think of it as a childhood movie. This, because it was created to appeal to the eternal child that resides inside all of us, the part that continues to believe in magic, long after we have received the front-door keys. When pressed to define its appeal exactly (aside from the above), I can only reply thus. In the movie, the Snowman barges into the well-heated human world and exercises his naivety in several enchanting ways, his child-like delight in seeing his miniature image on the frosted Christmas cake, his fascination with adult clothes, cosmetics and frozen food. I love the way that Snowman rides willy-nilly into the forest only after young James has shown him how to operate the motorbike. This is in contrast to the later, more knowing Snowman – he of the snow dog – who pilots a plane without turning a flake – guh? But most of all, I love the luscious pastel world, created in pencil strokes, that the characters inhabit. The jerky camera movement (never equalled in these CGI times) gives the viewer the sensation of motion in those astonishing flying sequences with Snowman and James, gliding across the sea and around land formations, through ravines, valleys and into the forest where the gathering of snowmen celebrate, well, being snowmen. And no matter how often I watch, I never fail to hope that the sad ending changes to one where Snowman survives. But of course...this ending sums perfectly that flat, post-Christmas feeling, when the sparkle that tinged our lives for a short while has faded for another year.
Whoever you are, whatever you do, a very merry Christmas to you.

Biobank Rules OK

I have (almost) never used this site to post a boast, but this time, I make an exception. The story began over ten years ago when I received a letter from an outfit named Biobank, requesting I become part of an ongoing health and wellness research programme. Being ever the curious type, I jumped on board the hay-wagon and found me in a West London building, lining up with other volunteers to undergo a raft of medical checks and fill in questionnaires. The day culminated with us handing over DNA swabs, police drama style. And that was the beginning. Alas, I haven’t been singled out as descended from fruit bats/aliens/Atilla the Hun since then. But I have filled in many more questionnaires and participated in other tests. Today, an article by Ian Sample of the Guardian has cited Biobank’s research as contributing to over 6,000 academic papers, exploring the cause and possible cures of degenerative diseases such as diabetes, cancer and Alzheimer's. Egad! It’s so-ooo exciting to know that one’s double helixes are fulminating out there, somewhere in cyber-space, alongside those of the other 499,999 participants, showering benefits on all mankind. Told you so, Ma and Pa, that the genetic aberration you created would come in useful for something, did I not? With that, I’ll open a bottle and anticipate the Season of Excess. https://www.theguardian.com/science/2023/nov/30/genetic-data-on-500000-volunteers-in-uk-to-be-released-for-scientific-study

I’ll ever be Donnie’s girl

I have just watched Donnie Darko (Richard Kelly, 2001) for the umpteenth time and oh, what a piece of cinematic poetry it is, the tale of a disaffected youth whose emotional confusion is a metaphor of the time-shifting, surreal elements of the wider narrative. The incomparable Jake Gyllenhaal plays Donnie, and real-life sister Maggie plays elder screen sister, Elizabeth. She is the perfect study of an uber-intelligent small-town young woman, anxious to move into the wider world. Her cameo is spot-on; in the movie, as in the narrative, she has far too little to do. Otherwise, the narrative is alive with character cameos worthy of a Dickens’ novel, parodying US small-town/high school life: the unconventional but sincere English teacher Karen Pomeroy (Drew Barrymore), and the odious sports’ teacher Kitty Farmer (Beth Grant), whose contribution to culture involves dressing up young girls (Donnie’s younger sister included) in glitter costumes and coaching them to bump and grind like adult women. And Jim Cunningham (Patrick Swayzee) is the best-selling, self-help author who is unmasked as a paedophile before the end of the narrative. And deliciously spooky Roberta Sparrow, whose book on time travel is the thread that holds the plot together. And the ghostly hare-like character that haunts Donnie. And many more.
The actual plot is too convoluted to lay out here but it is punctuated by Donnie’s sleepwalking episodes, and visits to psychotherapist Dr Thurman (Katharine Ross), and underlined by his supreme act of unselfishness at the end, relinquishing his life so that love interest Gretchen Ross (Jenna Malone) may live. All that and much more, and as if that were not enough, the movie soundtrack is worthy of a pitch of its own, and includes Tears for Fears’ classics Mad World and Head Over Heels. If you haven’t “done” Donnie yet, please do.

The Hip Hop Halloween

Once ‘pon a time at end of October
My very good friend he decided to stop over
Off went we into the woods
To raise our spirits, to gather our foods
Laughing, talking as we were a-walking
Planing a happy, hip-hop Halloween

When suddenly our bewildered eyes
Met with a very great surprise
For right there in the woodland dell
Were creatures fresh from merry hell
Mincing and grincing, prancing and dancing
Having a really, hip-hop Halloween

Vampires, zombies, werewolves, all
Witches, too, were having a ball
Boogie-ing, woogie-ing, chanting and twisting
The corpses from the churchyard were misting
The slime was oozing, the toads a-boozing
Spirits carousing like you’ve never seen
Having a happy, hip-hop Halloween

Eyeballs in the cauldron bubbling
Ravens’s wings ‘gainst the church spire were hubbling
Rats and mice dancing in formation
Beetles, cockroaches, every insect in the nation
Slithering, wriggling, gobbling and gibbering
Having a truly hip-hop Halloween

The bowl went round the crowd assembled
The soup inside very well resembled
A mixture of muck and bones and grime
But the feasters all drank, they have a good time
Slurping, burping, crunching, licking
A very hip-hop Halloween

A hissing serpent in the trees
Caused us both to suddenly freeze
Come shake, rattle, roll said he
You’ll be in paradise and presently
Pleasure, bliss and ecstasy
In a hip-hop, happy Halloween

A sudden thought, a dreadful fright
Sent us both to sudden flight
Come back, come back, the serpent said
You’ll be sorry that from us you’ve fled
Crying and sighing with misery
And no happy, hip-hop Halloween

Listen to him we did not
But ran with all the might we’d got
Soon behind closed doors were we
Cooking our supper and presently
Tasting, supping, talking, laughing
Having a happy, tip-top Halloween

So, whoever you are, wherever you’ve been
Have a super-duper Halloween

Jackanory, Jackanory...

Now that the days are drawing in and the leaves are falling, my thoughts turn to that return-to-school period of yore, when I remember rushing home from said establishment in the fond hope of catching Jackanory, on the box. Those of you of a certain age will remember it, a story-telling slot that ran for ten minutes from quarter-to-five-ish on BBC1, of a weekday evening. The formula was deceptively simple; a reader would relate a tale pulled from the trove of popular children’s writers (RL Stevenson, Roald Dahl, Anna Sewell, et al), the episodes from each tale divided up over the five evenings. Sometimes, the telling was interspersed with original illustrations from the books. But the big draw-in was the actual reading, the readers drawn from the galaxy of British stage and TV stars. Oh, the pacing of the text, the punctuation and intonation, the voice characterization and dramatization. Ten magical minutes saw countless children transfixed and transformed into knights in castles with kings and princes, and youths sailing the high seas with patch-eyed buccaneers and talking parrots. It was the best tuition in reading aloud ever and more than that, Jackanory served as a release, a wonderful escape from the pressures of the day, poised as it was in the dream-time between day and evening. As in all the best fairy tales, we returned to normality when the narrator finished. Normal but much stronger. Somehow, vicariously slaying dragons and sailing the high seas proved refreshing, rejuvenating and recharging, giving the fortitude to face more pragmatic matters. And it was all too short-lived. Sadly, the dawn of adulthood shattered the time-frame that allowed for Jackanory. No more seaside adventures and treasure-hunting of an afternoon any more, just news reports and adult soap operas. The loss of Jackanory is what has turned the grown-up me into a pitiable, permanently-exhausted wreck. No doubt Jackanory still lives on in some rarefied, online enclave or podcast. But I prefer to remember it as the collective experience that it was, enthralling countless children and breeding the next generation of storytellers, artists and simply, persons who know that life is much better for story-telling.

Seeing the Light: Classical Perfection in Suburbia

The first thing that strikes the eye about Sandycoombe Lodge (40 Sandycoombe Road, Twickenham) is its modernity, the curve-edged bulwarks or wings that anchor the taller, central section of the villa to the landscape. It could, in fact, have emerged from the art deco age. It is the classical symmetry of the villa that nudges the visitor into remembering that it is c. 200 years old: no crumbling concrete here. The classicism is evident in the hall way and the stunning, sky-lighted staircase. Designed by JMW Turner himself, it is as if the late, great artist has created his own architectural tribute to himself. Indoors, nods to modernity and technology include the installation of electricity and a functioning bathroom. Otherwise, the lodge has been restored to an early nineteenth-century aesthetic. But twee it is not and the lodge is gloriously free of heritage tat. The dining room is a paean to classical simplicity: I can imagine sitting down and eating here. One item of modernity is a semi-hidden key that activates a sound-track of an historical gathering. A similar device in the basement kitchen activates the “ghost” of John Turner, father of the late artist. The narrow staircase to the basement and upper rooms render it a little precarious to those with disabilities. But if you can, do. Upstairs, one bedroom has been restored to former, simple glory while the other room is outfitted for exhibitions. On at present is Seeing the Light, a display of watercolours of European attractions, made by the artist following the end of the Napoleonic wars when the Continent was finally opened up to travellers. All rooms field stunning views of the district, and visitors may also sit in the garden. No eating/drinking facilities here but the guide kindly directed us to the grounds of Marble Hill House, just a walk away. At present, Turner’s house is open Wednesday to Sunday, 12 noon to 4 pm until October 29. Visit turnershouse.org/whats-on/ for news of exhibitions, talk and workshops. Guided tours available, bookable in advance.

A Great Oasis of Nothingness

Many years ago, when I was but a teen, our family moved off its usual summer vacation groove and booked instead, a cottage in the middle of, quite literally, nowhere. Friend, nothing surrounded us, no street lights or bus service, no shops, cafes, public buildings. When darkness descended, we looked out into a vast arena of nothingness – and it was glorious. One night, a thrilling thunderstorm lit up the sky and rain lashed against the roof of the little dwelling. Inside, all was warmth and cosiness, with flickering firelight reflected on our cups and glasses. And when daylight came, the sun shone again and our guardians motored us to the nearest beach. And that was the point of the vacation. Years have passed and, though I still remember that time with fondness, I have never yearned to live like that. It was what it was, an interval, a vacation, a leaving of the ordinary, the everyday, behind, an oasis where nothing happens providing space to think, to dream, to process life. Paradoxically, it is a place where many of us expand into everything, a reminder that this world was made out of nothing.

Stuffing the mushroom

Friend, if I could get hold of whatever subject, aeons back in history, who grabbed a bunch of fungus, stuffed them in his mouth and ate them, I would show you a freak indeed. The wonder is that the habit caught on and that today, the cookbook shelves are groaning with volumes extolling the virtues of these prediluvian horrors. Over the years, otherwise good friends have tried to “convert” me into liking these anaerobic aberrations of nature, and all without success. I just cannot abide it, that bitter, corky-textured hunk of pulp with its musty after-taste, all the while knowing of its origins in the direst of environments - no air, no sunlight, plenty of dirt – like a parasite that thrives in the foulest area of the animal anatomy. After all, we don’t extol the virtue of the tapeworm, now do we? And it’s not like there is nothing else to eat on this planet; what ho to a healthful apple, orange or peach, bred in aerated soil and exposure to sunlight. Enjoy your feast of fungus, if you will, but remember, if God made the world, then the devil made….

For Kids of all Ages

In view of public outrage, I had hoped this event would resolve itself. But, like a lighted pumpkin head at Halloween, it remains looming from the darkness of a derelict House of Parliament. An appropriate metaphor since, on this island, all imagination of our leadership, all compassion, understanding and hope for the future seem to have been consigned to a darker, colder space, more deadly and terminal than any actual cellar or basement ever could be. Friend, since when is a Mickey Mouse cartoon (or Winnie the Pooh character, or Elsa from Frozen) not (I quote Robert Jenrick) “age-appropriate for teens”. Did not the late, great Walt Disney create his cartoons and theme parks “for children of all ages”? As a person long past the teen years, I treasure my collection of Disney DVDs, and I see Mickey, Donald, Pluto, etc., as old friends, my companions through life. Here, I quote Bruno Bettelheim from his book, The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales (London: Penguin Books, 1991) : “The fairy tale clearly does not belong to the outer world, although it may begin realistically enough and have everyday features woven into it. The unrealistic nature of these tales (which narrow-minded rationalists object to) is an important device, because it makes obvious that the fairy tale’s concern is not useful information about the external world, but inner processes taking place in the individual.” If we substitute “fairy tale” with “cartoon”, we can see how the words of the author might apply to the current situation. The painted-over murals may have played a role in lifting the traumatised young or older person out of his immediate environment and into an imagined world where he or she can mentally process whatever event reduced them to status of asylum-seeker, thus preventing “trauma” becoming “damage”. For example, a person encountering Elsa might deduce that keeping on in the face of a challenge is a good thing. But I digress. If only a Banksy-type talent could paint a bare-bottomed Homer Simpson episode on a wall opposite the Jenrick household….now, that might be age-appropriate!

Feathered Peril, Chimney Flues and Bird Blues

Being of the old school, I have long been au fait with that Alfred Hitchcock classic, (based on a story by Daphne du Maurier), The Birds. When I first saw it, oh, so many years ago, I never, ever imagined that my life would in any be touched by feathered peril. Yet, fortune was to see me sojourn in a house whose old chimney flues served as Airbnb to the local avian population. And more than once, I found one of the feathered ones in my quarters – Tippi Hedren, move over, please. A few years and another apartment later, I faced another feathered peril. The place is a fine example of modernism, no chimney flues or blues here. Instead, the world turned green twice daily, sunrise and sunset, with flocks of parakeets paying court to (and stripping the leaves off) the local trees. By the way, has anyone noticed how much those tropical horrors resemble Alfred Hitchcock’s lovebirds? The parakeets eventually tired of the district and the visits halted. But another peril abounds – pigeons. Yes, the annual nesting season is under way and more than one of these blighters has tried to smash (yes, smash) its way into my apartment. The latest attack was executed by one of the species resting awhile on top of a nearby curtain wall and then launching himself, missile style, against my second-floor window. Really, their cheek has to be witnessed to be believed. Ever since, I return home every day with an apprehension that one of said blighters may, just may have succeeded in breaking the window and nested comfortably in the living room, the carpet liberally decorated in guano. Has this actually happened to anyone? Reader, over to you.

Shuropody, shure thing!

I have said much in this column about the necessity of comfortable and attractive footwear for the normally-functioning woman, which is why finding a brand that upholds this flag fills me with delight. But until now, I had associated any shoe with an even vague medical aura about it with crutches and calipers and out-held collecting tins. What joy then, to stumble across Jaycee from the Shuropody Foot Clinic, sneaker shoes that are stylish, comfortable and supportive in every sense. Fashioned from a mix of suede leather and nylon net, Jaycee is laced up front, with a cute and useful zip on the outer side. The shoe sports a useful “comfort cushion” insole of memory foam that provides additional arch support. A fashionable grey band about the upper base adds definition to the sneaker, hinting at the red and grey textured sole underneath. A Jaycee shoe style is available also, in silver, navy and blossom-pink leather. The style retails for £45-£48.

Modern Myths: the Great Dairy Delusion

Modern life is filled with myths, for instance, hard work always pays off and polluted rivers have hidden benefits. But of all the swindles enacted on the public, the most outrageous of all must be the 1.5 centuries-long worship of milk. Anyone who grew up in or around the British Isles throughout the 1940’s, 50’s, 60’s and into the 1970’s, will know what I mean, will remember those annual love-ins with the dairy industry, to try to pour ever more of the white stuff down our throats. Schools, in particular, were regaled with classroom posters depicting rosy-cheeked youths knocking back glasses of the pale and creamy liquid. And every year, each child was handed a leaflet with at least one chart showing the nutritional make-up of milk, so much protein, fat, etc. Milk is a by-product of the meat production industry, with almost 15 billion litres of it produced annually in Great Britain. Milk is a superb culinary ingredient. Without it, we would have no butter, cheese, yoghurt, chocolate or ice-cream. It is essential for the baking of numerous cakes and loaves, and the preparation of a raft of sauces and many more dishes. Without it, the traditional cup of British tea is unthinkable. A protein found within it, casein, was essential to the production of buttons. Nutritionally, it was a mainstay for parents of children who were too old and/or numerous for feeding in the “natural” way and had not graduated on to adult foods. But before we get carried away, the majority of parents do not produce that number of offspring, anymore. The great milk success story is a little like that of the Internet, which resulted from the development of mass communication systems that fell in tandem with the public appetite for boundless information. The romanticisation of milk was brought about by the convergence of various social forces and technological developments and serves as a paradigm of our times. In the 1860’s, Louis Pasteur developed the process of pasteurization, which made cow’s milk disease-free and safe for its mass distribution. Previously, it was safe – if at all – only when drunk soon after milking. Pasteurization took place a century after the migration of the population from the green countryside to the newly-fledged towns of the Industrial Revolution. For that intervening century, the mass of people lived in unsafe and insanitary conditions, and had access to little fresh food. Fast-forward to the early twentieth century and witness their descendants, the less well-off urbanites needing a daily nutritional fix. What better than a glass or two of this by-product of the beef industry, the Great White Hope delivered straight from the green countryside by mass transportation to the dark heart of grimy urban areas? With free compulsory education well in place and an army of schoolteachers more than willing, it seemed, to augment commercial advertising, the milk marketeers held a sitting, captive purchasing sector. And of course, the marketeers advertised relentlessly on that spanking new medium, television. Latterly the offspring of Victorians, parents and teachers bought the message along with the milk: the drink was good for you and a child’s behaviour was graded according to his or her daily consumption, and endorsed and even enforced the wholesale downing of the white stuff. The colour itself denoted purity, goodness and the child not drinking his or her “pinta day” was not only naughty and undeserving of childhood treats, he or she was liable to grow up, if at all, with stunted bones and rotting teeth, together with the wreckage of an immune system. After all, milk was natural, untainted by chemical-laden factory processes. It was produced in that hallowed depth, the cow’s udder. That the cows were not similarly in awe of the human, milk-manufacturing process, escaped notice. As did the sufferings of the lactose-intolerant alongside the glaringly obvious fact that other and better ways to gain a daily fix of proteins, minerals and vitamins, were well in place, that the wholesale downing of milk says more about our culture than any dietary merits it might have . While I have never been an advocate of Margaret Thatcher’s politics, I now admit that she may have known more about nutrition than the average citizen when she infamously withdrew free milk from schoolchildren in 1971, a ruse for which she was dubbed “the milk snatcher”. These days, I spot casein bars on the shelves alongside other, protein-heavy products. Will someone gently remind these protein quaffers that the human animal is not required to grow horns and hooves?

Delve into the Vintage Vault

As a perennial fan of vintage movies, I have grown to love Sunday nights when, from 9 pm onward, the Legend channel presents the Vintage Vault, broadcasting from a trove of the daffiest, most wonderful old scary movies. From lost tribes living underground, invasions by giant, alien crystals, man-eating blobs and all-singing, all-dancing, rivers of slime, to new takes on old friends like Dracula, Frankenstein, mummies and were-wolves, the only limit is the budgets of the movie studios of yesteryear. I dip in to marvel and then shed a tear for those old, innocent days, when wonder and suspense could be created without so much as a CGI. Really, do look in.

The Wonderful Everyday Book of Calm

According to the IKEA website: “The IKEA Catalog was retired – but IKEA brochures are here to make finding affordable furnishings and awesome inspiration easier than ever!” Alas, I neglected to seize a copy of the final 2021 paper “catalog”, so the pre-pandemic 2019 one will sit forever on my bookshelf (Billy of course!) alongside Shakespeare, Milton, Blake, et al. Last night I flipped through it: tea-stained and dog-eared though it is, page after page of horizontally-oriented furniture, vistas of household linens in shades of non-challenging taupe and teal and slate-grey, redolent of sea and sky and forest. I could mull forever over those endearing wooden toys that look as if a master craftsman has spent hour upon hour fashioning each one, yet aware they are very definitely mass produced – brochures go hang! Who needs a Tibetan monastery when you can foray at will into the wonderful, everyday book of calm that was the IKEA catalogue?

The war on terra continues

Readers of this column will know how much I have, in the near and distant past, expounded on the unfairness of our differing attitudes to masculine and feminine footwear, questioning why men get to wear comfortable shoes while at work and play, while women, etc. For a while, the comfort brigade seemed to be winning the argument, what with Nicola Thorp marching to victory in her flatties, and female movie stars standing firmly in jewelled trainers on the red carpet in Cannes. But lately, the past has returned to haunt us, in the form of the female Apprentice candidates flaunting their spiked heels as they dash across the TV screen, intent on bagging the quarter-of-a-mil business investment from Lord Sugar. So what, you might say? But what message do Victoria, Marnie, Rochelle, et al, send to young women, anxious to succeed in any walk of life, wearing foot appendages that will certainly cause problems later on? And please don’t tell me, as they struggle to sell buns and run tourist companies, that comfortable footwear does not make the task easier for the young men. Besides, I thought the proliferation of comfortable, fashionsble and femminine footwear in recent times, had won the day? For example, just look at these marvellous, bejewelled pumps by Carvelas, retailing £55.50, from Shoeaholics, suited with both skirts and trousers. Aspiring women, please take heed.

Happy, Happy 2023....

…whoever you are, wherever you may be! And following the last couple of subdued years, what a welcome was in store for the New Lady, what with fireworks, pealing bells, claps, shouts, and song, song, song. Chief among MCs was Jools, surely the sparkling diamond in the crown of British music promoters, and laurels to him on his good sense in requisitioning the surviving members of that sterling band, The Real Thing, to grace his annual hootenanny. And when the fireworks had died down, they sang that song. Alas, a throat ailment prevented me bursting into full swell of the glorious chorus but what a treat to hear, pitching us oldies back to the summer of ’76, when the sun seared the skies, and the rains failed, and the water dried in the taps, and ground baked beneath our feet. But when the sun set and the stars rose in the sky, we had that song to dance to, and I feel privileged to have been a youth at the time it twinkled in its zenith. So, to Chris and Dave, and their dear departed friends and songsters, thanks a million million for bringing such wonder and fun and downright reality to our lives. And to all readers, I say again, happy, happy 2023.