That's Numberwang!

I've been thinking about the number one hundred a lot recently. You? No? Oh.

According to my research - the reason for which I'll get to in a sec - Tony Hart was paid £100 for the ship design on the Blue Peter badge, there are over 100 million people in China with the surname Li, and in Bangladesh, 100 mangoes is a traditional unit of measurement. Those facts and more, can be found here in this article. (When I said 'research' I really meant I'd Googled 'Facts About 100' and clicked on the first thing that came up.)

One hundred. It's got a ring to it. It's a mile stone. It's a thing. You get a telegram from the Queen when you reach a hundred years of age. A century is a big deal in cricket (I believe.) It's what the entire concept of percentages is based upon. So why do I care? What's making me waste brain cells on a random number this week.

Well, excitingly, this very sentence you're reading is from the one hundredth Nicky Bond and Writer's Ramblings blog post! CAN YOU BELIEVE? There've been ninety-nine previous Rambles. Who'd have thought that I'd manage to string it out this long? Like Pokemon and childhood infections, have you caught them all?

I'm being a bit silly, natch. This blog is a bit of fun most of the time. It's a chance for me to write something to be read, when I'm wading through the murk of non-writing book-tasks in the week. Keeping up the skill of churning out polished paragraphs on a regular basis, is useful when I've spent the rest of the week researching names for a character, or deleting erroneous commas from a manuscript. This blog makes me write actual sentences, often.

And like Bangladeshi mangoes, it's a unit of measurement all on its own. I started this blog to promote the first book I was writing. It came out, I wrote another one and now I'm banging on about that. One hundred blog posts = twenty-three months (approx - it all fell apart over the first Christmas when I chilled out for three weeks). As well as book news, I've covered actual news - the Women's March, #MeToo movement, Black Friday - I've covered cultural events - Eurovision Song Contest, Strictly Come Dancing, the World Cup - and I've talked nonsense about all sort of shenanigans - iPhones, my legs, GDPR. 

Like the cricketing century or the royal telegram, one hundred blog posts is A THING. For me, anyway. So to subscribers, casual readers, or random bots from far-flung places - thanks for the clicks. And like the self-indulgent diva I can be at times, here are some of my best bits.

Contemplating how much I
wish 21st Century Wonder Woman was
available in 1979.

What I wish I'd said to authors in
the heat of the book signing moment.

All the info on how this
bad boy was made.

  

Part One - Grandad context
Part Two - Grandad history
Part Three - Grandad commemoration

  

Representation, the power 
of seeing yourself, and the 
thrill of a touchable Millicent Fawcett.

For the love of Costa!

 
Have a lovely week, folks.

The Lost Joy of Smash Hits...

I know I moan about being on my phone too much, and wishing my concentration span could last the length of a Marple without checking Twitter, but if the Internet disappeared, I'd be lost. 

It's not just the mundane stuff: the online shopping, the news reading, the messaging friends and family. It's the cultural stuff too. Last week was Madonna's 60th birthday. I knew it was imminent from the tweets of several women I follow, all of whom - quite rightly in hindsight - recognised something big was happening. I took Madonna for granted until last week. Always there, always innovating, always being revolutionary. When her birthday arrived, my timeline was filled with photos, clips, and playlists, glorying in her body of work. I got sucked right in and enjoyed celebrating an icon. As Sali Hughes tweeted, 'It's so lovely to see everyone celebrating a living person for a change'. 

Agreed. 

The Internet is like a sped-up version of the flapping butterfly, causing an earthquake miles away. One quick glance can set off a series of actions that culminate in something massive. I'd not thought about Madonna for ages before last week. Then I read about her, cumulatively over a few days. Next thing, I'm searching YouTube, opening a bottle of wine and giving my best Like a Prayer rendition, after ranking her songs, choosing my favourite Madonna look, and marvelling that she's rewriting the rules for us all on what it looks like to be sixty. The Internet caused all that.

A similar domino effect of events happened recently. A friend retweeted an article about Smash Hits, the teen music magazine from my youth. I read the article and reminisced about how much I used to love reading it. The interviews with pop stars were always tongue in cheek and the editor of the letters page was really sarky. Reading the article triggered a bunch of memories. My first ever read of Smash Hits was in 1985. My Dad brought home a copy for me because it had George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley on the front cover. They were touring China at the time and I'd been seeing pictures in the newspaper every day. (I've since learnt this was a big deal. Wham were the first western pop group to play there. I think at the time I assumed that every band's gigs were covered in depth by the press. I hadn't realised it was special.) So I got my first copy of Smash Hits and I devoured it. And over time, more followed. Between learning the song lyrics they provided, to pulling out every poster and covering my room with them, I spent the next decade being a Smash Hits reader as often as I could. 

Historical sources for just a few quid.
And if it had come to it, my maximum bid
wouldn't have stopped there.

The wander down memory lane was all well and good, but I wanted more. I wanted to read Smash Hits again. Was it as funny as I remembered? I'd no idea. All my copies were long gone. But then nothing is ever truly gone when the Internet exists. A few clicks on eBay and I found them. Copy after copy of well-kept, non-dogeared Smash Hits. Some people look after their things! Almost immediately, one front cover stood out. George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley in China. My first edition! It was just as I remembered and I had to have it. In the thrill of discovering an item of such personal significance, I'd have paid a fortune. As it was, my bid went in at £3.20. No one else got involved, so a few days later I won! It was all so easy. And cheap.

Do you remember where
you were when you
heard the news that
Bronski Beat had split?

When it arrived, it was in perfect condition. I mean, who manages to keep magazines in perfect condition from 1985? (Someone without little brothers and sisters, and a better skill of looking after their belongings. That's who.) It came on a Tuesday, but I saved it for the following Saturday. I wanted to enjoy it. When the weekend came, I got up, made a cup of tea, and went back to bed, just me and my Smash Hits. It was the perfect morning off.

Zoom in if you want to learn the lyrics. 

So some thing to note. First of all, it was glorious. It still made me laugh - the daft, silly humour seemed fairly timeless. It was also full of memories. Bands I'd long forgotten, (DeBarge) lyrics to songs I used to know, (Nineteen by Paul Hardcastle) and adverts for products no longer available (Clockhouse clothes at C&A.) It was an honest to God, historical source. Secondly, it took ages to read. I spent about an hour and a half reading through it's sixty-seven pages. Every one was packed with stuff. From the pen pal section, RSVP, (where readers' home addresses were printed!) to the crossword, to the new releases. It was engrossing. The feature on Wham's China tour was four pages long. The crossword contained the clue, 'On a lav to provide a Roxy Music hit. (anag)'*. There was a letter to Linda on the Get Smart page asking for details of New Order's fan club. There was an article entitled, 'Why Do People Like U2?'. And excitingly, there was an advert for a Teenage Rail Rover Card, giving four days travel in the Netherlands for £10. By the time I'd digested it all, my tea was cold and I'd not looked at my phone once. 

Wham in China. As covered in the
May 8th-21st 1985 edition
of Smash Hits. It cost 43p. 

The Internet is great. Without it, I'd have missed out on revelling in Madonna's 60th birthday magnificence and never had the pleasure of rereading a thirty-three year old copy of Smash Hits on a Saturday morning in bed. But reading a physical magazine from cover to cover without swiping or double clicking, is a lost joy. I want more of it. Thank goodness the Internet is there so I can stock up.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*Avalon! I got it. 

Outdoor Theatre and a Marksies Picnic...

What's that? You want me to tell you about my love of Shakespeare? Well if you insist, of course I will. Get yourself a cuppa and pull up a chair.

Doing what I do best.

The thing with Shakespeare is, even if you watch for pleasure, it’s easy to have no clue what’s going on. When I see a production, it’s because it’s a play I've studied. I’ve seen multiple versions of The Merchant of Venice, Hamlet or A Midsummer Night’s Dream, but never once got through a reading or viewing of Corialanus - to name one of many of which I have no knowledge.

But occasionally, something happens that means I must embrace the new. A must-see production is being raved about, and despite having no idea of plots, themes or characters, I suck it up and get on board. A recent example is Ben Whishaw and David Morrissey’s Julius Caesar from the Bridge Theatre in March*. I knew nothing of the story, but it didn’t matter. The Trumpian setting, power-fuelled corruption, and excellent performances made it clear and accessible. It was great, and I didn’t need a two year period of study to get the gist. 

Knowsley Hall

Even more recently, this happened with The Tempest. I got tickets for my birthday, for an outdoor production in Knowsley Hall (recently featured in Lee Mack’s WDYTYA**) and not a million miles away from my gaff. My only knowledge of The Tempest was the inclusion of a passage in the 1994 English Literature GSCE Anthology. (Anyone? Bueller?) The extract was dialogue between Caliban and someone else, ending with the line, ‘…learning me you language.’ I’ve resisted googling this to see if it’s correct. It doesn’t matter if it is or not. I can’t really remember what it was about. Caliban was miffed he'd been taught language that wasn’t his, or something. Apart from this dimly-lit insight, I knew nothing of the play (apart from the fact it included a storm) and hoped it wouldn’t matter.

It's Caliban and
Prospero, of course!

And it turns out, it didn’t. I mean, sure, there were bits I was unclear on. And I don’t think I could have written a detailed synopsis after seeing it once. But that’s the thing about Shakespeare, or any theatre really. It’s immediate and visceral. It’s to be experienced. Being able to recount it afterwards is pointless. Feeling it is the buzz. The outdoor setting ramped up the sensory experience, and it didn't hurt the elemental nature of the story that as the evening wore on, it got blowy and chilly. It could only have been more perfect if it'd thundered.

The Lord Chamberlain's Men
The Tempest 2018

Alongside the drama, and for an added thrill, I got to have birthday champagne and a Marksies picnic in the grounds of a big posh house. All very Midsomer Murders. I kept an eye out for Joyce Barnaby volunteering on a tea urn, whilst Tom dealt with the suspicious death of a groundskeeper. Neither were there. But regardless, it was a marvellous event and a lovely evening. I'm glad I embraced the new. And for added authenticity, it even rained a bit, too. 

Have a lovely week, folks.

*I saw it at Cineworld as part of the NT Live event. But the real deal was in London.

**Who Do You Think You Are? As if you hadn't worked that out.

The Universal Mysteries of Being Ten...

Remember 1988? It was the year the Liberal Democrats formed, the year that £1 notes stopped being legal tender, and the year the National Curriculum and league tables were introduced into education. Funny old year. I don't remember all that, of course. I was ten. I'd have probably seen brief snippets of news, and possibly heard about the education changes when my parent's teacher-mates came round for summer holiday drinks. But those Wikipedia-searched news items are not what pop into my head when I cast my mind back thirty years.

1988, and rebelling against the
 notion of a bikini even then.

For me, 1988 was more about getting through Junior Four (as it was known in the olden days). Finding a quiet moment at the kitchen table to do my homework before my one year old sister had a cry about something. It was when I had two secondhand bras (32AA - hahahahahaha) from the girl up the road. I wore them for family dos and, when I was VERY daring, the odd school day. It was when I was dancing to Bananarama in my room and looking forward to the day I could leave home and be an adult for real, eating all the E numbers I wanted. Being ten was a busy time of inner reflection. I suppose that's why I made my new book's narrator/protagonist/main gal, ten-years-old. There's so much introspection to share. 

Like many before me, I've cockily tackled the challenge of writing in another person's voice by thinking, 'No problem! I've been ten. I've been a girl.* What could be easier? Pass me my laptop and let's churn this stuff out!' Yeah, and like many before me, I've come a cropper at times. Trying to create a modern day ten-year-old when my main frame of reference is thirty years old, throws up some real discrepancies between the youth of today and my own childhood. 

This is exactly how it was,
arranging lifts to Music Centre.

Technology is the biggie. The concept of playing outside with a mobile phone is hysterical. To me, anyway. Obviously it's not so unimaginable for most Year Six kids now**. But the very idea that an adult would've been able to contact the 1988 me when I was out and about on my bike, makes me feel queasy. I was generally given a boundary to stay within. Sometimes I didn't. Imagine my parents being able to ring me when I was cycling outside of their rules! Lordy.*** Similarly, once a week, I'd tell my parents I needed to ring my friend to arrange lifts for Music Centre (Yeah, you know, 9am every Saturday, playing the cello in a disused secondary school with a load of other primary school kids. What else would I want to be doing? Grrrr.) Anyway, it meant that I had a good reason to use the upstairs telephone to ring my mate. Sometimes for like twenty minutes! There'd be times when another family member would pick up the phone downstairs, and I'd have to shout that I was still talking. Or times when I'd see my Dad tapping his watchless wrist around the door, doing the universal indicator of 'get a move on'. Now it's all different. Do people even have landlines anymore? How do parents show their kids it's time to get off their phone? We all sleep with them next to our heads, right?

The thirty year chasm between my childhood experiences and that of my protagonist has been an interesting challenge to meet. Some things are easy. I've made her family skint. That means no abundance of gadgets and technology to immediately date the story or show gaps in my knowledge. Plus, her parents are ecologically aware people. If they're bothered about global warming and carbon footprints, they're not likely to be queuing outside the Apple shop for the launch of the latest iPhone. It makes the character's uneasy relationship with technology (and therefore her peers) easier to understand. 

I'm doing my best! Honest.

Apart from technology, language is the other area that can highlight an adult pretending to be a child. What do the kids say today? I had a good idea while I was teaching but I'm out of the loop now. I can throw in abbreviations and text-speak easily enough. Obvs! OMG! Lol! (Don't be fooled, it's still me.) And I can use more child-like language to describe events. But ultimately, I don't want to look like I've shoe-horned random 'yoof' words into the story. They have to belong to the character as a whole, not as an afterthought. Like I say, it's a challenge. 

One thing I'm aware of, and something that provides comfort when I panic like this, is that some issues are universal. Irrespective of a place and time in history, ten year olds deal with the same worries and fears as each other, no matter how much technology they can access. Puberty, siblings, lack of privacy, friends, school, growing up, parents, rules and pushing boundaries. It's universal. Never mind 1988, I'm sure ten year olds in 1888 were being irritated by their siblings and falling out with their friends, as they heard news of the latest Jack the Ripper murder, or the founding of the National Geographic Society. (Thanks again, Wikipedia.) 

Last week, I was chatting to a script editor. (I know, get me.) She said the first thing she asks people when they pitch is, 'What's your story about?' and the second thing she asks is, 'What's it really about?' I have the answers to both these questions. Ready? My story is a year in the life of a ten year old girl, living in a crowded Northern household, dealing with younger brothers, controlling parents and bickering friends, facing the imminent move to high school and the onset of puberty with stoicism, wit and honesty.

And now, what it's really about? That's easy. Change, and the fear of change. Like I said, some things are universal. 

Have a lovely week, folks.

*Ladies and gentlemen, I am now a woman.

** I would have been appalled at being described as a kid when I was ten. Something I bore in mind when writing the book. I was nearly a teenager. I was practically a grown up. I was mature! 

***It also seems that children 'play out' less than in the olden days. Whether it's the excitement of multiple TV channels inside, or the worries of parents who want to keep their eye on the exact location of their child, playing in the street for hours on end - day in day out - seems less prevalent.