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.