By George, I'm Forty...

Morning all. How did we cope with the tricksy cliffhangers I threw at you last time? Did we sleep? Were we driven mad with suspense? Do we need to refresh our memories because we've forgotten it all?

I am not this self-confident.

Last week I talked about the dual experiences of feeling the need to mark my 40th birthday in a marvellous way, and the fact I'd become aware of a local artist whose work I really liked. It should come as no surprise to anyone that I decided I was going to contact the artist in question - Ben Youdan - to arrange a portrait for my birthday. (When I shared this with my little brother, he looked appalled and said, 'A portrait of you?' So let me be clear for everyone. No. Not me. Not even I can pull off the level of confident narcissism it takes to suggest to an artist they might like to capture me.)

My initial enquiry about costs was reassuring. It was within my budget. In addition, the Bond siblings agreed to do a whip-round and contribute as their present to me, which was very kind of them. All in all, everything was set. The biggest challenge was to choose someone appropriate to be pictured. 

I had given this much thought, long before I contacted Ben. I already had ideas from flicking through his gallery. There, iconic faces from music, film and TV are pictured side by side. Massive names such as Madonna or Marlene Dietrich are placed alongside TV characters like Elsie Tanner. It's a Who's Who of gay icons and pop culture. (Honestly, click the link and check them out. They're amazing.) I could think of several people in the public eye whose work or public persona had been personally inspirational, who represented a specific time in my life, or were just people I really liked. I decided to make a shortlist of potential subjects for my picture.

Nigella Lawson

Not only do I love pulling off a Nigella in the kitchen (#sorrynotsorry) I am a big fan of her 'stoicism in the face of adversity' approach to life. She has an air of unflappability when events in her life have been anything but. Besides, her soy, honey and sesame cocktail sausages are everything.

Caitlin Moran

A writer who loves to play with words and phrasing. A distinctive style. An unapologetic advocate for unapologetic feminism. An icon. Also, she is the eldest of eight so we have (almost) EVERYTHING in common.

Armistead Maupin

He made me go to San Francisco because of the stories he told. Plus, he created the most perfect set of characters in his 'Tales of the City' series. I still mourn Dr. Jon Fielding.

Anna Madrigal

One of my favourite literary characters from the aforementioned 'Tales' series. 

Conchita 

Watching her win Eurovision in Copenhagen 2014 was the icing on a particularly brilliant holiday cake. 

This is my peak Wham-love era.
Still decades away from
knowing what Nigella's
24-hour roast ham is.

So that was my thought process but none of them seemed quite right. The main reason was that they were all people whose work I'd come to know and love in the more recent years of my life. Armistead Maupin goes back the furthest - to my early twenties - but none of them were in my life as a child. I came to realise that this wasn't just a nice picture to put on my wall. It was supposed to represent my forty years of being alive. It needed to depict someone that had been there from the beginning. (No, not you Mum.)

There really was only one possible person it could be. George Michael. In 1984 at the age of six, I got my first Wham album. I played it on repeat for the rest of the decade. For my eighth birthday, I got a more than life-sized poster of him for the end of my bunkbed. (Top, seeing as you're wondering.) I based my love of the cold and all future Winter fantasies on the Last Christmas video, and in more adult times I've turned to George's later music to get through grown up things. In all it's heartbreak and tenderness. I first learnt of him aged five, and he died when I was thirty-eight. He pretty much spanned the first forty years of my life. His music was always there, soundtracking my life. There was no one else I could choose. It had to be him.

And that was that. I emailed Ben and explained what I'd been thinking. He emailed back and said he was up for it. It was as easy as that. Sorted. 

That was at the end of last year. A couple of weeks ago I got to pick up my George Michael portrait and take him home. It got stored in the spare bedroom under bubble wrap and I wasn't allowed to hang it until my special day. But here's the thing... In an exciting time-travelling move, we can now fast-forward to right this second where my special day has happened. It's in the past. Woohooo. I've had my birthday, I've unwrapped my picture, I have a piece of gorgeousness on my lounge wall. Check out this bad boy! Isn't it stunning? 

So far I've not stopped staring at it. The TV has no chance at the moment. It just makes me smile. What I love is how it changes in the light. My favourite time is at night when the glitter really sparkles under the spotlights. It shimmers when I walk into the room. 

I wrote last week that I'd never really 'got' art. I think I do now. At least I have an appreciation of it that works for me. It isn't about fancy schmantziness, crazy auction prices and silent galleries. It isn't about deliberately holding your hands behind your back as you pretend to be deep in thought as you stare at a random bunch of shapes. It's the opposite. It's about being visually grabbed or shocked into a train of thought you hadn't considered. It's about accessibility. It's about pleasure and the start of a conversation. It's something to feel, rather than something to see.

Specifically, my portrait is more than a fab piece of art for the wall. It's more than a portrait of a long-loved 'celebrity'. It's more than a brill birthday present. What it is, is a daily reminder that life is short. Forty years pass in the blink of an eye, and are here before you know it. And it's a sparkly, beautiful reminder that every minute MUST be lived to the full. I don't want to put words in his mouth but I reckon it's what George would think too.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Two Seemingly Unrelated Stories...

1. The Born-Again Art-Lover 

There are some cultural things I get and some I don't. I love the theatre but I don't get opera. I love prose but not so much poetry. I am all about eighties music but fast forward ten years and most of the nineties output is lost on me. And then there is art. I mean 'pictures on the wall' art, not art in a generic sense. I am the proud recipient of a C grade GCSE in Art and Design. Yet sometimes art galleries leave me cold. I have been to just a few that stand out positively. In the mid-90s, the Tate in Liverpool had a David Hockney exhibition that I really liked. I walked around it while I waited for the bus. I think I was fifteen. Years later I saw Munch's 'The Scream' in Oslo. It was cool to see something I recognised as a famous painting. I also love the National Portrait Gallery. Blame my Tudor History A Level, but seeing real paintings of the Earl of Leicester and Mary Queen of Scots is pretty exciting. But paintings elsewhere, depicting seascapes and sunflowers don't really float my boat. 

So when a piece of art grabs me and forces me to stare for ages, it's quite a thrill. A few years ago, there was an exhibition about April Ashley in the Museum of Liverpool. (I visited on my birthday in 2014, when I was doing a 'food, drink and culture city-crawl'.) A large portrait was displayed as part of the exhibition. It was stunning. Huge in size, it dragged me in with it's vibrant colour and detail. And then, just as I was standing close, the detail became apparent. The entire background of the portrait was made up of smaller pictures of April Ashley from over the years. Her entire, trailblazing life was depicted in the background of her portrait. It only became clear when you stopped and really looked. I was mesmerised. I could have gazed at it all day.

Some time after that, I was idly scrolling through Instagram, when I saw a similar portrait. The writer Jonathan Harvey had shared a picture he had received as a present. Straight away I recognised it. Not exactly the same as the one in the museum, he had his very own version of April Ashley by what was obviously the same artist. At that point I looked him up. I felt the same gut-based-thrill as I had in the museum and I wanted to see more. Ben Youdan turned out to be a Liverpool-based artist. I followed him on all the social media formats I could find, and pondered how marvellous it would be, to be the sort of person that had real art and not just Ikea prints in their home. How marvellous it would be to mark a special occasion by having a piece of original art made, just for me....

Ah Ferris. You taught me how to look sophisticated in all manner of situations.

The End. 

2. A Pressure to Celebrate

A few weeks ago I wrote that I'm currently counting down to the big 4-0. Just as when I turned thirty, it feels an exciting time. A new start, re-setting goals and realising that age is all in the mind. And on top of that, it's something to celebrate. Woohoo!

My birthday has always been one of my favourite days. I imagine this is a product of big-family syndrome. It wasn't about expensive presents when I was a kid. It was about getting to choose what was for tea, and getting attention all day. Some years I had a party with friends in the house, some years it was just the family at home. At age six, it was a BIG DEAL. I had a party in a local hotel (now a nursing home) with Uncle Terry, the clown. (Sidebar - he was not my uncle.) I spent the morning of my eighteenth washing dishes at my weekend job before going home to an extended-family party-tea, and receiving a variety of kitchen-based presents ready for Uni. On my thirtieth, I woke up with a stonking hangover in San Francisco, and ended up eating minibar crisps and watching 'Enchanted' in bed. Some birthdays stand out more than others. Yet, regardless of what I actually do on the day, there is an inner glow that never fails to materialise as soon as I wake up. I walk tall and feel special. Even on past birthdays that I had to be in work, or the ones that I spent alone. 

So with the arrival of a new decade alongside the inner-sparkle of knowing it means something special, there has been a lot of pressure to mark it appropriately. Discussions started last year amongst my friends. The question, 'What are you doing for your 40th?' has incited a variety of responses from us all. From a simple, 'I don't know yet' to a pained expression and a heavy heart. The pressure to mark the event has been clear. It felt much easier at thirty. Possibly due to the lack of children in my friendship group, nights out and holidays were easier to arrange. Less responsibility and more freedom made celebrating the change of decade far easier. Things seem harder now. It's time to think outside the box. It's time to do something really cool to mark the next chapter of my life. I just need to work out what that is...

35 with Battenburg

39 with a personalised cake

37 up the Great Orme

  

The End.

So there we go then. Those are my two stories. La-di-da, la-di-da. So, yeah. Um... that's it I suppose. Except...HAVE YOU WORKED IT OUT YET? DO YOU GET IT? HAVE I MADE IT CLEAR?

Tune in next week for the conclusion of the exciting cliffhangers of 'How is Nicky celebrating turning forty' and 'Does Nicky become someone that celebrates a milestone by commissioning art?'*

*Spoiler alert - YES SHE DOES!!! Can you even believe it? As Ferris said, 'Life moves pretty fast.' He also said, 'You're still here? It's over.' Well it is for this week. All will be revealed next Monday. Join me!

Have a lovely week, folks.

SaveSaveSaveSaveSaveSave
SaveSaveSaveSave

Never Too Busy For Me Time...

No green shoots today.

It's time for another seasonal update. Every few months I find myself being moved to write about the weather, time of year and specific routines that annually kick in. That time has come again. Usually this is something to do with the building excitement of Christmas, or the oppressive heat and sneezy allergies of the Summer. Today we are talking about Spring. 

Now, let's calm it right down. Spring in its own right, interests me not a jot. I can't get worked up into a tizzy of excitement about baby lambs and green shoots like some people can. That is not me. In fact, as I type, the North of England has just had its second bout of heavy snow, causing schools to close and cars to remain on driveways. Green shoots are not too visible right now. And I imagine the baby lambs are sheltering in a barn, rather than gamboling about the countryside. 

My desk top is FULL of it.

No, I'm not that bothered by Spring at all. But it seems Spring is bothered by me. This is the time of year that is without doubt, my absolute busiest. That isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it does mean that I am run-ragged trying to fit in the usual work schedule alongside the list of additional chores and events that take place each year. To put it simply - hyperbole alert - pretty much everyone I know has a birthday in March. Everyone. There are presents to buy, cards to create (hey there, Moonpig!) and outfits to wash or buy for the accompanying meals and nights out. Plus, throw in Mother's Day and Easter and you've got yourself a busy few weeks. My iCal isn't enough this month so I've got a Word doc. carrying the extra weight of each day's tick list. This year seems more full-on than usual because of my own VERY SPECIAL BIRTHDAY at the end of the month. That in itself has it's own planning document. March 2018 is all about the paperwork. 

And so, in the midst of all this headfriggery, I need things to keep me sane. I need to stick to my writing routine even when it's busy, and I need relaxing things to do in the evenings, when I've hit my day's target and ticked off the extra jobs from my calendar. Let's take a look at some of those me-time activities now, shall we? Over to you, Nicky.

Thanks Nicky. Yes, first up, I have to share my latest Netflix binge. It is everything I need right now. Easy to watch, non-taxing on the brain yet ultimately profound in it's own quiet way, I urge you to watch Queer Eye. I never saw the original (Queer Eye for the Straight Guy) back in the day, but the reboot is similar I believe. And yet Oh Em Gee, it is essential viewing. Via the power of a make-over show, five gay men - all of whom are utterly beautiful in their own way - are healing the rifts of Trump's America. Through open-minded, non-judgemental conversation, topics such as politics, religion, racism, homophobia, toxic masculinity, self-confidence and personal pride, are unpacked, sorted out and put away with grace and compassion. It hammers home how limiting and damaging it is to assume there's only one way to be a man. This programme should be shown in schools. Don't be confused by the fun concept. It's breaking down barriers and stereotypes, one moisturising tip at a time.  

My favourite thing about
my cinema card is that
I used a photo of me standing
on the Aberystwyth waterfront.
Not for me, a boring passport
photo. Oh no.

OK, next on my 'activities to chill me out' list, is a recurring topic. The cinema! Yes, I do pay a monthly fee to have access to films all the time, and yes I barely used it last year. 2018, however, is going so much better. As soon as Oscar season hit, I got excited. Not because I care about Oscar nominations, but because this years' Best Picture category was full of films I wanted to see. That never happens! Over the past couple of months, I've seen The Post, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, I, Tonya and Lady Bird. I'm not going to review them here, other than to say I loved them all (just call me Barry Norman with that incisive assessment) but that isn't the point. Instead, I've realised that the process of going to the cinema in the first place is good fun. Sure, I can wait for them to come to TV in a few months but then I miss out on the comfy seats and shared experience with strangers. Plus, after Lady Bird last week, I was so moved/impressed/mentally stimulated that I had to go to a bar for a glass of wine so I could type a bunch of notes into my phone before I forgot them.* So yeah, hurrah for the cinema. It's just a shame, after all my efforts, that the Best Picture went to something I hadn't seen. Hey ho. Congrats to The Shape of Water. I have no idea if you deserved it. 

Can you feel the excitement?

Right then, moving on. Look, there's no easy way to casually mention the next seasonal leisure activity on my list. I'll just have to say it quickly. IT'S ONLY BLOODY EUROVISION. Yes! We are creeping into that time of year and you all know how happy that makes me. Normally, I enjoy the build up to the event (this year on 12th May) without listening to the entries first. There's something about saving them for the week of the semis and final that has always appealed. But then last year I was invited onto Martin Adams' show on Wandsworth Radio to chat about that night's contest, so I had to do my homework. And now we are nearing the big day, I'm getting beyond excited about listening to the entries and trying to spot the favourites before I read about them. As the days tick by, more and more countries are announcing their entries. And so have we. SuRie is representing the UK in Lisbon. Her song, Storm, is the most Eurovisionny-sounding song we've sent in years. If politics didn't come into play one bit, I'd be putting money on this to win. But hey, let's not be naive and foolish. The left-hand side of the scoreboard will be more than enough. Let's have realistic expectations of our own success whilst revelling in the out and out spectacle of the entire evening. I'm getting giddy.

Behold the wonder of a yoga mat.
With Agatha Christie books for a head
support.

Finally, let me tell you about my yoga practice. Ha! Did you hear me correctly? YES, YOU DID! Now, calm right down and let me explain. My messed up back is in no way ready for even the hint of a downward dog. Not yet. I am the very opposite of supple. But irrespective of that, I am always attracted to the idea of a roll out mat and comfy clothes. It's my kind of sport. So after my most recent bout of backache last month, I decided to do something. Ladies, Gentleman and those in-between, let me introduce you to the Alexander technique. To the outside world this looks like lying down. And it is. Except it is lying down in a way that makes your spine do the right thing for once. Twenty minutes a day is supposed to be the cure to all ills. We'll see. For now, I'd just like it so that I can sit and type away for a few hours every day without feeling like I've been run over by a steamroller when I stand up. Fingers crossed. Except for the twenty minutes a day when nothing is supposed to be crossed. Except for then.

So there we are. As my mad month of fun, games and frolics continues, that's the stuff I'm relaxing with in the down time. The stuff that will keep me sane and enable me to wake up refreshed each day until mid-April arrives. In the meantime, for those of you that are excited about daffodils and lighter evenings, I'm so happy for you. Knock yourself out. I'll be rolling out my yoga mat somewhere and telepathically demanding a second series of Queer Eye. 

Have a lovely week, folks.

*It appears my new book is a good impression of a prequel to Lady Bird. No word of a lie. It dawned on me in the opening scenes. I am depicting the frustration of being a ten year old living at home with a family that crowds her. Lady Bird has similar feelings at seventeen.  I expect me and Greta Gerwig would get on well.

Back to School for Bond...

Did we all survive World Book Day? Did we manage to get through last week avoiding eleventh-hour costume stresses the night before dress up day? Did we cope? Are we still here?

For me, last week was a bit de-ja-vuey. (Defo a word.) By concerning myself with the weighty (lol) matters of typing away willy-nilly since leaving teaching, I've been wholly oblivious to the joys of World Book Day (or Book Week, for many schools) out in the real world. I've not given it a thought since 2011. That is until I look at Facebook each year, and see a variety of superheroes, Disney characters and movie characters (yeah, tenuous) depicted by the children of people I used to know. 

But like I say, this year was different. I was asked to go into my old school and talk to the children - wait for it - about being an author! Yeah, totes hilar. I laughed at first. But then it dawned on me that I have written a book, and I do actually like doing this, and maybe I could have some stuff to say that would pad out a lesson. Besides, I believe JK Rowling was unavailable.

So I went. I spent last Monday talking to the Year Five and Year Six classes of Thatto Heath Community Primary School. I didn't know the children at all - all my classes have long since left - so it was lovely to be there in another capacity. My brief was to talk about the process involved when writing a novel. I planned it out like a real live teacher would. Like I say, very de-ja-vuey.

And so, like the benevolent life-force that I am, I share with you what I told them. Here are my seven tips for writing a novel. You're welcome. 

Imparting wisdom,
shaping minds.
Or something.

So there we have it. My fool-proof guide to cracking on with the book inside you. I stopped there because I was talking to the Upper Juniors and not delegates at a 'How Do I Get My Book on Amazon' conference. I didn't think the nitty-gritty of book-formatting or PDF conversions merited much of Book Week's time. Despite that, several children asked questions about the next steps, and I waffled away about indie-publishing, cover design and at one memorable moment, the cost of ISBN numbers. Thankfully no one keeled over in boredom or walked out in disgust. That was good. In fact, they seemed to accept I was there with insight to share. A lovely feeling! 

In all seriousness, I met some lovely young people, many of whom were filled to the brim with questions and enthusiasm. Despite the Government's best efforts, it was good to see kids' imaginations are still in tact. If events like Book Week do nothing else, they reminds us that reading is supposed to be a pleasurable experience. It's something to enjoy, not endure. It's something to chat about with other people. So now that dress-up day is over, let's raise a glass that we survived another year, and relax with a stiff drink and a good book.

Have a lovely week, folks.  

SaveSaveSaveSave