Childhood Idols and the Clothes They Wear...

Thirty years ago I was nine years old. I lived in a noisy, crowded house and wished I was older so I could leave home and surround myself with calm and quiet. I had a clear idea of what I would be like as a grown up. I would have pierced ears; ('If God had wanted you to have holes in your ears, he would have made you with holes in your ears'.) I would drink Coke even though it had caramel colour in it; (Caramel colour and a load of other artificial additives were banned at home.) And I would dress like Bananarama.

Bananarama were my style icons. Massive hair, head scarves, and leggings to the shin. They looked AMAZING. As a self-aware nine year old, I knew I couldn't dress like that for real outside. (Ya think?) Instead I'd play dress up when I was bored. I'd wrap bits of material around my head and use my Mum's clip on plastic earrings to aim for a similar effect. It never really worked. I assumed this was because I was a child. When I was an adult I'd be able to source actual black leggings for real, instead of fashioning my own from a pair of too-small stripy PJ bottoms. When I was a grown up I'd be able to go out with spiky gelled hair and a fluorescent head scarf everyday of the week, rather than do it 'just for fun' in my bedroom on a Sunday afternoon. I had big plans.

Obviously those plans came to nothing. Mostly because my personality lacked the flamboyance and inclination needed to 'work a look'. When I finally had the autonomy to pierce my ears, drink Coke and dress how I liked, it was the nineties. I wore jeans and t-shirts and felt all the more comfortable for it. (Albeit with pierced ears and a glass of caramel colour nearby.) My outer self remained as androgynous as a euphemistically curvy body can allow. I let my raa raa skirt dreams fade away to nothing.

Earlier this year, Bananarama tour tickets went on sale. All the original members (Sara, Keren and Siobhan) were back and ready to gig. I wasn't going to bother at first. I was no longer desperate to leave home, I could drink as much Coke as I liked and at the last count, I had seven human-made holes in my body. Learning lyrics from Smash Hits and practising dance routines in my bedroom were no longer the key achievements of my weekend. (I actually achieve a lot less these days.) I thought I'd let this must-see gig pass. As the on-sale date approached, however, I thought again. After the untimely death of George Michael last year, I knew not to procrastinate in seeing my idols live. I sat in an online queue and eventually got a ticket


Last week I saw the gig. God, it was fab. I'd mentally berated myself on the way to Manchester, that I'd not had time to reacquaint myself with the music in the run up to seeing them. Ha. As soon as the first line of the first song was sung, it all came flooding back. As did the dance routines. I sang, danced and screamed like no one was watching. It was joyous.

There were several moments that made me smile. A woman arriving to sit next to me, sat down, fanned herself with her bag and said, 'I wonder how Bananarama cope with their hot flushes.' She was on her feet dancing away with everyone else though. Not even the menopause was going to stop her enjoying her night out. Then there was the point when I caught myself doing the synchronised 'swing from the elbow' arm movement during I Want You Back. I'm sure I wasn't the only one. And then there was the bit when Keren and Sara sang Stay With Me, the Shakespeare's Sister's song - the band that Siobhan left Bananarama for, back in the day. It was moving and lovely.

I don't think I've listened to Bananarama songs, seen Bananarama on the telly, or thought about about Bananarama much since I was at Primary School. I've certainly never fulfilled my childhood dream of dressing like them in every day adult life. But standing in the crowd at the Manchester Apollo and belting out Shy Boy along with everyone else, it was as if I were nine years old again. It was utterly wonderful. 

This doesn't count because
it was a fancy dress party. Plus,
the eye make up is less
Bananarama and more Brenda
 from Watching.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Ken and Agatha - Together at Last...

I've done that thing that I never do. The thing for which I pay a monthly fee so I can go as often as I like, but then never bother. I've done it twice this week too. Sorry, what's that? The gym? THE GYM?? Don't be so ridiculous. As if! No, you silly billy. It's the cinema, innit. 

My Cineworld Unlimited card doesn't know what's hit it recently. At around £17 a month, it's funded my viewing of four films in the past couple of years. A record! For a long time it was only Spotlight. But then Ghostbusters came out in 2016. This year it's been T2 Trainspotting, then Wonder Woman and now this. This week I've torn myself away from Netflix and Twitter to watch Murder on the Orient Express. Twice.

The marvellous thing is that MOTOE combines two of my favourite cultural loves. The dramatisation of Agatha Christie mysteries, and Kenneth Branagh. More of him in a moment. But ever since I began to read adult books (age 12ish) I've read Christie's novels. A host of memorable characters, delicious plot twists and an ending I can never guess. They are the perfect antidote to grim reality. Likewise, when Joan Hickson's Miss Marple used to be shown on the BBC in the 1980s, my weekends were made. I've seen all the Marple remakes too, and nothing is better than catching sight of a well-loved Poirot episode nestled away in the TV listings. I whack it on the planner, happily knowing my next hangover day/period pain day/day of getting over a cold with a lemsip, is absolutely sorted.

And then there is Sir Branagh. Some people lust after George Clooney or Brad Pitt. They are wrong. Just as Elf feels about smiling, I feel about Kenneth Branagh. Ever since 1993 when I saw Much Ado About Nothing, I was moist-eyed in the cinema thinking 'I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest'. Yeah, that's EXACTLY how it was. Defo. Except it wasn't of course. I just loved his film. I loved how he made me laugh a lot despite me having no clue what his actual words meant. I loved the look of it all. After that, I spent a lot time with a notebook, casting the film of the Merchant of Venice that myself and KB would one day co-direct - because that's how I roll when I have a crush. And so my love of all things Branagh remains to this day. I am thrilled by any new film that Ken makes. Thor aside (sooo not my genre) he takes a text and does it justice. Whether that is Shakespeare, Cinderella or now Christie. He is a solid storyteller and his films are often sumptuous romps that tick all my boxes. 

And so to Murder on the Orient Express. My mate suggested it. While happy to give her inner lust for Kenneth Branagh a wide berth, we do share a love of Agatha Christie. We rocked up after a Nando's (I think that makes us sound like millennials) and settled in...and it was fabulous.

Reader, I may be biased. However, I had a lot riding on this film. Since seeing it was in production a year ago, I've been following its progress. Friends online have sent me links to stills and the trailer as they've been released. The date it was coming out has been in my diary for ages. This film combines two of my greatest loves (cheese being a third) and the pressure was enormous. 

He's probably telling
Laurence his plans to woo me

So, back to it's fabulousness. I think it gets it absolutely spot on. Fans of 'Classic Poirot' get all they need from it. It doesn't change the basics of the plot, it keeps the original era, most of the characters are the same (a name change or nationality switch here and there) and it looks simply stunning. Yet fans of modernity can get a lot from it too. Ken's Poirot is twinkly. He enjoys a giggle. Before the drama kicks in and he's sidetracked by finding a murderer, he makes jokes, laughs easily and shares happy moments with friends. He engaged me immediately, and leapt quite high in my Poirot league table. He's possibly top. (I'll have to mull it over.) Also, I forgot about his moustache almost at once. So that was good.

The rest of the cast look like they're having a whale of a time. Big name after big name mirror the casting of the 1974 film. Derek Jacobi takes the John Gielgud part. Daisy Ridley is the successor of Vanessa Redgrave. Penelope Cruz plays the role that was once Ingrid Bergman's, and Michelle Pfeiffer is the new Lauren Bacall. It's like spot the celeb. For theatre geeks amongst us, this was even more fun. The man who plays Bouc was in Harlequinade at the Garrick (London) in November 2015. The young police officer in the Wailing Wall scene was Pappa Essidu who played Hamlet in Stratford in 2016. I know there will have been loads more connections like that. Branagh seems to like working with people he knows. His troupe expands regularly but is always familiar. The fact that people return to work with him time and time again, reassures me he won't be linked to anything bad. You know the kind of thing I mean. *Eyerolls at the state of everything these days*

My friend loved it too. Her first comments when it ended were about the stunning scenery shots; the cityscapes when the train is passing through far-flung locations. She said it made her want to go on holiday. The cinematographer/CGI team are doing something right there. The second time I watched it (two days later because I'm ridiculous) I was seated near a man who didn't appear to know the plot. I assumed everyone in the world did, but clearly not. I heard gasps to my right, as key points were revealed. Yet the fact I knew exactly what was coming, didn't diminish my enjoyment one bit. 

Ken can do no wrong in my book. And Agatha Christie wrote a wealth of source material that can be enacted brilliantly when given the chance. Every so often something lovely rocks up and brightens the day. For me, this is that film. I imagine I'll see it more than twice before its run ends. 

Have a lovely week, folks.

I WILL KEN, I WILL.

And now - Dustin, drum roll! - to my Poirot League Table*

1. Kenneth Branagh (hot)

2. Peter Ustinov (avuncular)

3. Albert Finney (fair play)

4. David Suchet (serious)

5. Alfred Molina (u ok hun?)

*The adjudicator's decision is final. 

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Who Do I Think I Am? Part 2...

A few weeks ago I dangled a tantalising carrot. If you've forgotten, clearly my attempts at building suspense were rubbish. Or perhaps you've just blocked it out. If you want to reacquaint yourself, then read Who Do I Think I Am? Part 1. If you want a shorthand version, here goes... In three weeks time I am going to Canada to retrace the steps of my paternal Grandad who died twenty five years before I was born. I left you all hanging as to why.

Ok, so now we're all up to speed, let's press on with the story. Like I said a few weeks ago, it's a cracker. 

In 1990, my Dad was clearing out his Mum's house. She had recently moved into a nursing home and there were boxes to sort. Amidst the paperwork in her desk, there was a notebook belonging to his Dad. Apparently it'd always been there, but this was the first time he'd shown the rest of us. 

Alf in 1951.

For those that skipped re-reading the previous instalment, let's remind ourselves of the facts. My Dad's Dad died in 1953 at 58 years old. He was called Alf. In my Gran's house when I was a kid, there were perhaps two visible pictures of him, plus a certificate on the wall with his name on. I can't remember what for. He was a stranger to me, and I got the impression, almost a stranger to my Dad. 

Back to 1990 and the notebook. It was very old, full of handwritten pencil and had been used as a diary. It's first entry was 6th December 1917. I don't think I got how huge this was in 1990 when I was twelve. It was just an old notebook with my dead Grandad's writing in. It's only now that it makes more sense. This was an honest-to-God historical source. The little my Dad did know about his father came from his Mum and sister, Marie. But they didn't know him in 1917. He married my Gran in 1932, and Marie was born three years later. The diary from 1917 was a whole life time before that. He was twenty-three and in the midst of the First World War. Reading it all those years later was pretty cool, even if I only realise it properly now. (I'm sure 'pretty cool' is official historian terminology) 

Hand model and photo
credits to my sister, Lucy.

Alf's diary!

My Dad started to type out the contents. The pencil was faint in places, plus the writing was old fashioned and loopy - hard to decipher at times. It took ages but eventually he had a typed, legible copy of the diary. Now, most of this was fairly dull. To me anyway. (Soz la). Alf was at sea throughout the war. Many of the days' entries are solely to do with arriving and leaving far flung ports. It's interesting to know where he was in the world and on what date but there are few details beyond that. Fascinating to marine historians perhaps, but not so much for me. But...but...but! All that is irrelevant when you read the first few pages. The opening entry of the diary is where all the detail is at. That is where it all happens. 

On 6th December 1917 Alf Bond was on a boat in the port of Halifax, Canada. That morning two other boats in the port crashed in to each other. The collision that resulted, caused the 'largest man-made explosion prior to the development of nuclear weapons'. Yeah, let that sink in for a second. The largest explosion before the atomic bomb! Page one of Alf's diary provides his eye witness account. 

A legit primary
source from 1917.

Also, my
Grandad's diary.

Of course in 1990 when I heard about this for the first time, I didn't really get it. Because this was BtI. (Before the Internet). Those hazy days when we didn't have Wikipedia. The first time I heard of this explosion was through the faded writing in the diary. I didn't know it was an actual thing. I didn't know, in the North-West of England in 1990, anything about the events that had happened on the East coast of Canada decades before. 

Now it is AtI. (After the Internet). I can find it all out. And honestly, the Halifax explosion is a big deal. There are loads and loads of resources online to read if you're interested, and in recent months I have. It wasn't just a collision you see. One of the boats was filled with munitions for France. When the boats crashed, it caused a fire. The fire grew until it got out of control and reached the stored munitions. Then it exploded. The upshot is, on 6th December 1917, the town of Halifax was decimated. Two thousand people were killed, nine thousand were injured, burning debris was thrown through the air, and wooden buildings were burnt to the ground. It sounds utterly horrific. And Alf was there. This is what he wrote about that day...

My Dad's 1990 typed up copy is now a digital version. This extract 
covers the first three pages of the handwritten account.
[Square brackets show my Dad's added notes]

The more I read and discover about the events of that day, the more incredible it is that Alf survived. But survive he did. He came home, met my Gran, had my Dad who then had me. Next month marks the 100th anniversary of the explosion. There are all sorts of events taking place to commemorate the tragedy. I'll be there for some of them, along with a few other family members including my Dad. 

It's a very odd feeling, having a connection to a place nearly three thousand miles away, because of the experience of a person you've never met. But there we have it. That's the story. That's why I'm going to Canada in a few weeks. 

Obviously, I'll report back when I've been. But for now, I am still concerned with finishing my Christmas shopping and finding non-unattractive thermal underwear for the trip. I am sure Alf had similar problems back in the day.

Have a lovely week, folks. 

Calling All Stattos...

(Before I even begin, I'm having a mental debate about the correct pluralisation of Statto. I've gone with Stattos because it's a name, but it still feels that Stattoes might not be wrong either. Happily, there's no call for a possessive or an omissive apostrophe, so that's good news.)

Anyhoo. Let's move on to the business in hand. It's one for the number nerds today. 

Please insert the missing
 S at your convenience.

I am not a fan of numbers. I realise that's a fairly broad statement to make but it's true. I don't allow anything I can't do on a calculator to trouble me. I am comfortable in knowing that someone mathsier than me will split the bill fairly - both metaphorically and literally. Yesterday with some siblings, we were chatting about how old I will be when my nephew turns eighteen. I know I am thirty-eight years older than him, and therefore I knew I needed do 38 + 18. But I just didn't. None of us did immediately. At one point, my brother said that we should message our littlest (brainest) brother to tell us the answer. We didn't (he was at work). But we wanted to.*

When it came to writing Carry the Beautiful I had no idea how long it should or would be until I got to the end. Only when the last full stop was added, did I pay attention to the final word count. The complete first draft was 75,000 words. (Rounded to the nearest thousand.) This seemed like the biggest number of words ever. Yet when Claire the Editor fed back to me, it appeared it was on the short side. She told me that for a novel in my genre, I needed to be aiming for 80,000-100,000 words. Her feedback also included suggested additional chapters to improve the story, (and some cuts too) so after I'd made the changes, I ended up with 82,000 words. 

Word counts have been in my head recently. At the moment, I am nearing the end of the next book's first draft. It currently stands at just over 70,000. On the one hand, this sounds brilliant. I've still got around 10,000 words left to go before I reach the end of the story, so I am right on track to have a decent sized novel of 80,000ish words. Except. Except... this one is not from the contemporary fiction genre. This one is from the pre-teen, children's section genre. I worry that 80,000 words is going to leave even the most confident of readers running for the hills.

It's how long?

My new book is much in the vein of an Enid Blyton book. Not the same style of writing, plot or use of casual racism. More in the fact it's for pre-teens that like chapters. It's got meat. You can't read it all in one night. However, I don't want it to be so long it's off-putting. Editing is all part of the process, so I am sure there will be lots of waffle that gets backspaced immediately. There will also be strands of plot that just don't work and need to be cut. Even so, I feel like I need a guide to know exactly what I am aiming for. So I have turned to Google and done my research. Stand by for some Enid Blyton word counts.

Five go to Smuggler's Top - 64,480

The Children of Willow Tree Farm - 59,520

The Magic Faraway Tree - 69,440

It's got meaty
chapters!

My favourite
 Famous Five book.

If we take Enid as a guide, I'll need to shift around 15,000 words to get me comfortably in the 60,000s. But Enid is not the final word in children's fiction. Oh no. I also checked out the word count of some of Judy Blume's books too. I don't have any of these on my bookshelf, sadly. These were the books that I got from the library on a regular basis. They were American, much more honest and true to life. (You never heard any of the Famous Five wondering when they were going to get their period.) Blume's books are much more in line with the style of my new story. So, let's look at the stats...

Are You There God, It's Me Margaret? - 30,340

Otherwise Known as Shelia the Great - 49,600

Forever - 74,400

Hmmm. That isn't so helpful. The first two books books are aimed at exactly the age group I am writing for, but they're about half as long as my first draft will be. Forever is more like it, but as every pre-teen girl who read it knew, it wasn't really aimed at pre-teens at all. (*whispers* Because of all the S.E.X.) I bet if I flicked though it now, all 74,400 words would be overwhelmingly innocent. (Even Ralph!)

But I digress. All the examples so far, are of old books. Books I used to read back in the day. Let's look at more recent children's literature to get a modern day idea.

Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone - 76,944

J.K. Rowling 

Mr. Stink - 69,440

David Walliams

Girl Online: Going Solo - 104,160

Zoe Sugg

Well then. That muddies the waters even more. Thanks to Zoella, I now feel that my slightly more than 70,000 word count is nowhere near enough and I'll have to tack on a second ending that is even bigger than that first. Blimey. Her book is a mofo.

So what have I learnt from all that? Not much to be honest. Zoella aside, I think my finished rough draft will need to be shorter by the final edit. I reckon I should aim at the fifty to sixty thousand mark, as that seems to be fairly central. It is useful to see that there are no hard and fast rules. I wonder what the official guide lines are of 9-12 year-old fiction? Judging by my (not comprehensive in the slightest) research, it's that anything goes. 

I suppose it's like any book. If it grabs you on the first page, you'll read it to the end, no matter how long it is. For now, I'll just keep waffling on with any old rubbish, but spend the next six months making page 1 an absolute cracker. Or something.

Have a lovely week, folks.

* Put that pen and paper down - I'll be 56! Just call me Carol Vorderman. And yes, I did use my calculator.

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