Happy 2024 to all.

At last, an interval in the sheet of wet that they call weather. And this allows us to see the moon and stars and night. And what a wonderful moon it is!! In Anglo-Saxon culture, January’s full moon was called the “Moon after Yule”, the ancient winter solstice festival. Also, intriguingly, it was called “wolf moon”. In days of old, when wolves were active in Northern Europe, February was the time for breeding and wolves become very vocal just before this. In addition, wolves are nocturnal animals and are more active at night. In North America and the few areas of Europe where they survive, wolves howl to communicate over long distances. It is their way of letting the pack know where they are and warning intruders to stay away. They actually howl in the direction of the moon, pointing their faces towards the sky, because this upward projection carries the sound further. Whatever you call it, it is the first of several moons of 2024. Watch this space.

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What is more than forty years old, covered in frost and never goes out of date?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.