Location, Location, Location...

Terrible photo, I know, but do you see? 
A pint, a chippy tea, a sunset, and a 
book. All of life is in Aberystwyth!

A few weeks ago, in my writing group, something exciting happened. It was exciting to me, anyway. It was after I read the prologue of my new book. I'd tried to set up the intrigue of future dramatic events, whilst describing the location of the novel. Without naming the specific place, I'd referenced a few discrete aspects. The early evening sunset, the bandstand on the seafront, and the paddling children, splashing away. That's when the exciting thing happened. (Insert 'Exciting to me' disclaimer once again.) Someone in the group recognised where I had set my story. She'd studied there back in the day, and could name the town I'd described. This was brilliant news. If it only came across as vague and generic, I might as well fictionalise the place, or keep it, well... vague and generic. But it was recognisable to someone that knew the town, so it justified me using a specific, real, mappable location. 

I've been thinking about this a lot. As you read this, I am currently in said location of my story. I'm in Aberystwyth - jewel of the Cambrian coast. It's one of my favourite places in the world. That's the main reason I wanted to set a story there. I know it and like it, so it's fun to mentally imagine being there for a year as I write. But there's more to it than that. At the end of Carry the Beautiful, Tilda left Manchester for a life of scenic travel. The next book picks up a couple of years later, when she has settled somewhere. It made sense to me that Tilda would choose Aberystwyth. It's got all of the coastal beauty she was seeking, as well as the infrastructure of a decent sized town in which to start a new life. Tilda Willoughby is all about the practicalities.

Beautiful Aber.

The location of a story is, I've come to realise, hugely important to me. All my favourite films have a clear sense of place. Whether they depict them realistically or not, the films I am drawn to, make me want to visit the towns in which their stories unfold. I need to be careful though. I don't want to sound pretentious. In the Rom-Com satire, They Came Together, Paul Rudd's character, when recounting how him and his girlfriend met, earnestly tells his friend, 'There was another main character that was just as important as the two of us. New York City.' And yeah, I get the joke. There are plenty of films that showcase a location as if its inclusion is integral to the plot. I don't mind that, though. I like visiting a place vicariously through the screen. Sometimes it makes me want to visit for real. Take Yesterday, for example. It's mainly set in Lowestoft. This is a place I know little about - other than sharing a house with Rob from Lowestoft, once upon a time - but the film makes me want to go. It looks beautiful. Rugged and scenic, blustery and bare. I've no idea if it's like that for real, but the film was all the better for it. Likewise the scenes set in Liverpool make me feel proud of the city. It looked amazing, and for the most part, real. (I have some qualms about the Mersey Tunnel bit! But apart from that.)

All this made me think of the films I love whose location makes them brilliant. I guess I'm trying to justify being so specific in my own writing choices. I think, if I can even pretend to hold my head up amongst these stories, I'm doing OK.

Begin Again (2013)

Keira Knightley and Mark Ruffalo take on the music industry in New York, over the course of a hot summer. The original music is enough on its own, but the shots of New York are beautiful. You feel the humidity through the screen.

Before Sunrise (1995)

Celine and Jesse meet on a train, get off in Vienna, and walk around the city for a night before parting the next day. The most simple of ideas, executed perfectly, with Vienna looking all sorts of perfect in the background. 

Crocodile Dundee (1986)

Inaccurate cultural stereotypes or racism? You decide! Either way, this hasn't aged too well, and that's a shame. Because when you ignore the problematic stuff, the outback scenes are beautiful. This film made me - twelve years after I first saw it - book a four day Red Centre tour of Alice Springs and Uluru. And I don't even do outdoors.

Fisherman's Friends (2019)*

A recent release, this story is the not-unpleasant tale of singing fishermen who land a record deal. I watched it the other day, and found myself immediately transported to Port Isaac in Cornwall. The scenery and sense of community are infectious, carrying what is an OK film into loftier territory.

Shirley Valentine (1989)**

'I'm goin' to Greeece. For two weeeeks.' I can't say that line without exaggerating my scouse accent to the nth degree. I can pretty much recite the whole film. And whilst I've never been to Greece (so far) I feel like I have because of this. I'm usually of the opinion that a film can never be as good as the stage play it came from. That still might be true. But missing out on the shot of Shirley drinking her Retsina by the water's edge as she watches the sun set, feels like a loss to the theatre. And the end scene where a besuited Joe walks past her because he doesn't recognise her? It's stunning.

Lost in Translation (2003)

Two lonely people, isolated abroad. When they find each other, their location opens up too. Instead of viewing Tokyo from behind the glass of hotel windows, they, and us, mingle with people on the streets, at parties, in restaurants, and at one point, in the hospital. It shows Japan's capital to be like nowhere else. I have no idea if it's accurate or whether all sorts of artistic license has been taken. Either way, the location keeps me watching. 

Local Hero (1983)

The opening notes of the theme song are all it takes. I am in Scotland. The rural, northern part. Local Hero is the most beautiful film. It leaves an ache when it's over. The search for the Northern Lights, the community in need of hope, the corporate suits that are humbled but remain outsiders, it's all so raw. I know that the film location itself is a mishmash of several places. It's impossible to visit Ferness as it doesn't exist as seen on screen. That doesn't matter. The film is a gem, and you visit by watching it. Again, and again, and again.

I think I've made my peace with my own writing. I think I'm happy to refer to, describe, and include local knowledge in my story. At this point it's still early days enough to change but I don't want to. It feels all right so I'll keep going. And with that motto for life in place, I'll do just that.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*Image taken from - https://www.folkradio.co.uk/2018/12/watch-fishermans-friends-the-official-movie-trailer/

**Image taken from - https://alchetron.com/Shirley-Valentine-(film)#-

The Safety (and Hotness) of Nostalgia...

I don't know about anyone else, but I've had a week filled with nostalgia. All inadvertent and accidental, but there's been a lot of ruminating on the past, gone on. 'Why?' I hear absolutely no one shout. Well, let me tell you anyway. Listen up!

I apologise for the blatant marketing here.
 I spent ages looking for a gif of sporting action,
but this was all I got. This is England's Goal
Attack, Helen Housby. I watched her score a
shit-tonne (technical term) of goals against
South Africa on Thursday evening.
Hugely impressive.

On Wednesday I watched a netball match on the telly. It was electric. Mostly due to the exciting, fast paced nature of the game (shout out to South Africa and Uganda for keeping me enthralled during that first match) but also because it dawned on me that netball is the only sport that anyone has both taught and encouraged me to play. It was on the curriculum back in the day. I had to do it. Someone* bothered to show me technique and hammer home rules. That was what made the match instantly captivating as I happened to chance upon the channel. I was immediately sucked in. (It also explained why I had paid no attention and felt zero emotion to the marvellous achievements of the England cricket team the week before. I hadn't a scooby what was going on.) So, the netball was great. It took me right back to the summer of 1989, when my life's sporting achievements peaked. I won a Winners' Medal in the Rainhill interschool Netball Tournament, playing Goal Defence. A glorious time, a WINNING time. This week brought it all back. I have been working on my netball footwork ever since.

Click here for the trailer, should you wish to jump onboard.

Then on Thursday the new Top Gun trailer was released. I had read reports of this film since it went into production, and my feelings were firmly in check. I don't like the trend of bashing out a sequel to a long ago hit, at the expense of new creative endeavours. It feels like cheating; the easy option. So I hadn't felt any need to gush at the idea of an older, potentially wiser Maverick, and all the aviatory testosterone-fuelled antics that he would undoubtedly get up to. I was happy to leave it be. But then I saw the trailer. The slowed-down but instantly recognisable score was all it took. A few shady shots of a superior officer, some fighter jet whooshes through the air, and the hint of the cockiness that Tom Cruises' Maverick embodied, and I was ALL OVER IT. I was twelve again. Back then I had a more than life sized poster of TC in his leather jacket next to my bed (it was a head and shoulders shot, but sixteen times the size of the magazine it came in. His head was as big as my pillow) and I was obsessed. I imagine I'll be obsessed again, despite my early feelings on the matter. It took one view of the trailer, and I was back in the danger zone. Feeling the need for speed, and ready to take a walk in the park, Kazansky. Anyway, that was Thursday.

The initial reason I've been living in the past all week actually started on Monday. Monday is one of my full-on writing days, where I spend it glued to my laptop, trying to come up with an entire chapter before tea time. Except that also means I take Twitter breaks occasionally. Every now and then. Just to refresh, you know. At some point on Monday, Caitlin Moran tweeted...

By the time I read it, there were loads of responses. Gif after Gif, YouTube clip after YouTube clip, Caitlin retweeted the best, whilst the rest could be seen on her timeline. It seems there were more 'genuinely hot moments' in TV and film than we'd all previously assumed. Many of them were as far away from obvious porn as it got. I spent far too long that day, reliving great moments from the past. Moments like the one in Pride and Prejudice, when Mr Darcy shows the hint of a smile when Elizabeth is kind to his sister. The moment Elio steps towards Oliver in Call Me By Your Name. The look between Lucy and George in A Room With a View, right before they have a big old snog in the field. Tim Curry in the Rocky Horror Show, kickstarting my unwavering love of guyliner. Any scene in Dirty Dancing where Baby has agency away from her family, and Johnny is there for it. Stuart and Nathan in Queer as Folk. There were mentions for Christian Slater in Heathers, Rik Mayall in Blackadder, David Bowie in Labyrinth, and the Sound of Music's Captain Von Trapp when he dances with Maria and turns from a grumpy, authoritarian parent, into the sexy love interest of a soon to be ex-nun. The list was pretty exhaustive. But look. I've rambled on long enough. Check some out some of them below!

Pride and Prejudice. The hint of a smile.

Call Me By Your Name. Many memorable moments here, tbh.

You tell him, Frances!  No one should call you Baby at your age!

Maurice was my first introduction to Merchant Ivory films and EM Forster. It led teenage Me to seek out the other books and films. So many moments to choose from.

It's the moment EVERYTHING changes. The Sound of Music. Sexual tension AND nuns.

Not strictly the distant past yet, but this is one of a trillion hot Fleabag clips I could have used. Richard Chamberlain - fiction's other sexy priest - also came up a lot.

Oooooh the sexual tension! It's all too much.
Before Sunrise. Giving me life since 1995.

There were so many clips and suggestions to watch from my youth. So for large parts of Monday afternoon, that's exactly what I did. It was the ultimate Internet rabbit hole. Of course, I had to stop at some point. I had work to do. But in order to fully get it out of my system, I knew I'd have to tweet my own offering. So I cast my mind back over my favourite films and TV. I realised I have many 'hot moments from film' that I could have used, but in the end I went with this. Jesse and Celine in Before Sunrise. In the booth in the record shop, standing close, listening to music. Everything unsaid, and still to come. HOT HOT HOT. That is all.

Enough of all this backwards thinking, though. I didn't plan any of it. As I said at the start, my week in nostalgia was inadvertent and accidental. It just seemed to be the way it went down. On Saturday I joined the March for Change in London (No to Boris, Yes to Europe!) to add my voice to the crowds. Maybe, when I'm feeling utterly dissatisfied with the way politics is playing out at the moment, it makes sense to relive more carefree times. Maybe reliving some teenage or childhood stuff for a bit, is a safe and sensible way to navigate through the current global political turmoil. Or maybe I just like wasting time on the Internet. Who knows. 

Have a lovely week, folks.

*That someone was Sr. Kathleen. A netball legend as well as Headteacher.

Search History Blues...

This is Kermit, giving you his
dramatic interpretation of my life.

We're three weeks into the writing of Book Three. It's flown, by, hasn't it. How's it going for you? That's excellent. I'm made up for you. Me? I'm grand thanks. I've got seven chapters completed, making a total of 14054 words. I'm well into the flow and hitting my daily target every time I type. Hurrah. Things are going nicely. 

This is a snapshot of the searches
 I made when writing last week's blog.

The only aspect that disrupts the creative juices is the pesky inconvenience of authenticity. You know, fact-checking. Research. Sometimes in the middle of writing a chapter, I realise I need to know something specific and have to choose whether to hit Google and look it up, or wait until later. It would stop my train of thought and those lovely free flowing sentences, but is essential if I want to get it right there and then. Sometimes I leave a bunch of dashes, or highlight in yellow the sentence that needs the specific info. Other times I press pause on my thoughts and follow the trail of websites that an initial search offers me. Either way, my search history is interesting.

Some of the characters from
this story  feature in the new one.

I'm going to share that search history with you now. Or at least the questions I Googled that brought up the websites within it. Not every single thing I've searched in the past week. Lordy, can you imagine? No, just the stuff that relates to the new book. Call this an early teaser if you like. I'm writing a story that involves some of the characters from Carry the Beautiful. If you've read that, this might pique your interest. Alternatively, marvel in wonder at how such a random bunch of necessary information can be woven into what aims to be, a realistic story. A story of everyday people dealing with the challenges of life. Either way, it's an interesting bunch of searches, whether you know the context or not. Can the early plot be deciphered through these clues? I'd bet money, not. Don't listen to me, though. See what you think.

NICKY'S SEARCHES RELATING TO THE FIRST SEVEN CHAPTERS.

What are some obscure sexual fetishes?
Spelling of conjure (UK)
Jobs for Office Mangers in York law firms
Do seasons have capital letters?
What herbal pills calm nerves?
How do you spell umami?
What sound does a seagull make?
What are common menopause symptoms?
Google Images - The bandstand in Aberystwyth
Google Images - sunsets
When did Led Zeppelin play at the bandstand in Aberystwyth?
What forms need to be signed when buying a house?
The stages of grief
Does York have Uber?
Does 'wing men' have a hyphen?
Double barrelled names that sound posh
Google Maps - York
Google Maps - Stockport
Google Maps - Aberystwyth

So that's where we're up to. Between fetishes, spellings, and poring over town-centre maps, it's any wonder I've got 14000 words done at all. I shall keep plodding on. I'm delighted to be completing two chapters a week. That's about 4000 words, and almost 6% of the intended length of the whole thing. If I keep it up, I'll have the first draft done by November. And then the real work begins. I have to make it not shit. The struggle is real.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Molly Ringwald and Alan Davis, Together At Last...

Even though I'm filled with the thrills of a new writing project, I'm still promoting my last one. Part of me wishes I could forget about that now. It's old news. It's done. But then my fledgling entrepreneurial side weakly raises its hand to remind me I have books to flog. My ethereal creative aura (no honestly, it's there) takes a knock when I put it like that, but that's the reality of the sitch.

I am this cool in my head.
Classic Molly.
From over 30 years ago.

With that in mind, it's time to return to a bit of Leeza chat. Leeza McAuliffe Has Something To Say has been out for a few months now. I forget about it most of the time. Especially now I'm concerning myself with new characters these days. But then something happens that reminds me of the McAuliffe family. Last month - as I've banged on about already - I watched Tales of the City. In the penultimate episode, an actor popped that I never see much these days. It took a second to place her but then I did. Molly Ringwald. You know? From the 80s? From Pretty in Pink and the Breakfast Club? I had a weird reaction. Initially I thought, 'Oh God, I know her. Who IS that?' Then I thought, 'But that's impossible. It can't be. That's Leeza's mum!' Then I stopped being weird and saw it was Molly Ringwald. 

When I was planning the story of Leeza McAuliffe three years ago, I decided that present day Molly Ringwald would be the ideal image to have as Leeza'a mum. Then, just to seal the deal, I called Leeza's mum, Molly. I am a creative genius! I did this with all the main characters. I found someone real that I could keep in my head as I wrote their words and worked out their voice. Seeing Molly Ringwald pop up out of the blue was a surreal moment. It was like my book had been secretly dramatised and no one had told me.

So, as part of my policy of IF IT'S IN MY HEAD I MUST SHARE IT ONLINE, here are my go to actors for some of the cast of Leeza McAuliffe Has Something To Say, coming to Netflix this autumn*. (Ha, can you even imagine!) 

Molly Hart-McAuliffe 

(Mum)

1. DIA Dipasupil/Getty Images
Leeza's mum is passionately committed to all causes that matter to her. A sporadic vegan and defender of the environment (in as much as can be convenient for a parent of several) she isn't shy in making her views known. These views are often at odds with Grandma, and occasionally Leeza. Molly is an staunch advocate of a Family Meeting, although is less keen on democracy when Leeza wants to share her views.

Seb McAuliffe - aka Mac

(Dad)

No idea why my brain went towards Alan Davis, but it did. Leeza's dad is calm, supportive, and fun. He is fully onboard with the lifestyle changes Molly wants, although he'd never have thought of them himself. He is happiest when he can wear shorts instead of work clothes. He also knows to step out of the line of fire when Molly and Ursula go at it. His best moment was when his coriander seeds sprouted. 

Spike

The oldest of Leeza's little brothers, Spike is a pain to live with. He calls Leeza, Loser, struggles with the concept of privacy, and tends to go hyper after too many sweets. He sings 'Let it Flow' in the style of Frozen when he wees. The image of Vern from Stand By Me was strong from the start, but as Vern has always reminded me of my own oldest little brother, there was a lot of crossover along the way.

Ursula Hart

(Grandma)

2. Photograph: Andrew Milligan/PA
Ursula is stern, convinced her views are the only way to think, and at constant odds with her daughter. But she means well. Her house is spotless, and she despairs of the more-relaxed stance Molly and Mac take to hoovering. Somewhere along the way, I must have decided that this was exactly the same as Diana Rigg. Who knows? Diana Rigg might be a slovenly pussy cat.

Willard

3. 2013 for People Magazine. Courtesy of Firenze Post.
Willard is nothing like Grandma because he is smily and fun, so it makes no sense to Leeza why they start dating. He has unlimited energy with the younger boys, but also knows how to treat Leeza like the almost-grown up she is. He introduces her to JD Salinger, and she perseveres even though she hasn't an igloo what is going on. Robin Williams would have nailed this part.

Jake Woolton

Jake is slightly older, cooler and savvier than Leeza, but a friendship is forged when she moves to his village. His shining moment is when he is honest in his feedback about the bridesmaid dress. (Read it and see.) Or when he steps up at the harvest festival? In later years, maybe Jake and Leeza have their first snog together. Or maybe Jake comes out to Leeza and she's the first person he tells. Or maybe Jake is killed in a threshing accident on the top field. Who can say? Whatever his future, Will Poulter in his younger days is the image I had throughout.

You know you're intrigued.
Come on, get involved!

What's interesting looking back, is how these images changed over time. By the end of the first draft, I'd moved away from actual Robin Williams - Willard had begun to have his own face. Likewise, the character of Jenna - not featured above because my initial mental image was of a child I used to teach - began as caucasian. By the end I knew she wasn't. No idea why, but she and the others morphed into their own identities along the way. And what about the main woman? What about Leeza? What's the mental image I have of her? Well, the answer is, I don't really have one. Yeah, I know, not cool. It's all about her and I don't know what she looks like. Nice one Bondie... NOT. But here's the thing. Because the diary is life seen through her eyes, we are also looking through her eyes at everything that happens. WE are Leeza. She is US! How's that for pretentious waffle? Beyond a brief description about her preferring jeggings and leggings to skirts and dresses, or that she once had a fringe but regretted it, there's very little to go on.

I did cover the bulk of this post
on a Twitter thread a little while
ago. It amused me, anyway.

The thing is, anyone who reads a book will visualise the characters differently. That's the joy of moving on from picture books. It's all down to the reader. The author relinquishes control the second they pass on their work. I've had these images with me for three years, but it would have been irresponsible of me to share this when the book first came out. Readers have to be left to forge their own ideas as they read. But here we are, months later, and I'm taking back a smidge of control. Or sharing my creative process. Or trying to fill a blog post when I can't think of anything else. You decide.

Have a lovely week, folks.



*It is not coming to Netflix this autumn.


Photo references
1. https://www.newsweek.com/molly-ringwald-why-small-moments-film-relatable-and-when-shell-return-1294705

2. https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/shortcuts/2013/apr/30/diana-rigg-laying-into-women

3 https://stmuhistorymedia.org/the-pain-behind-the-smile-the-robin-williams-story/

Power to the Joyful People...

The news hasn't been much fun lately, has it? I realise the term 'news' is a broad church, encompassing the 'And finally...' stories as well as the headline-grabbing stuff. Even so, it's a bit of a bin fire. From the vast majority of the country having enforced bystander status regarding the choosing of the new Prime Minister, to the clamour of some MPs to dismiss violence against women as soon as it's caught on camera or heard by neighbours, to the latest sexual assault allegations concerning the US president, to the continued US border camps where children are being held in squalor, it takes it toll. The feeling of deep rage coupled with an inability to fix the world, is no fun at all. There are charities that will take your donations, there are petitions to sign, and there's another political march this month. These are drops in the ocean. We know that, but we do them anyway. We do what we can to quench a little rage. We sign the petitions, we support the charities, and we raise issues with our elected representatives. Then we carry on. We do the food shopping, we go to work, we open the wine. When the next news alert breaks, it's awful but we carry on.

Find the joy, folks. Even on a slide.

Carrying on is fine, but we need to carry on joyfully. No matter how grim things seem, to lose a lust for life because of the terrible behaviour of others, is to let the baddies win. To be openly happy is revolutionary. Taking a lesson from all that have celebrated Pride this Summer - and I am definitely NOT saying we need a straight Pride. I am NOT that person, such a ridiculous argument, purleeese - I am going to feel pride and joy in everything I can. I am going to enjoy the small things, no matter how unimportant they seem in the face of the overwhelming bad stuff - the small things that can provide a necessary break from reality, or a chance to revel in positivity and oppose the gloom. Here's a few suggestions of how I, or indeed you, might manage that.

I spent this weekend waving my
iPhone torch and singing loudly too.

Treat Your Ears...

It may be over for another year but I LOVE Glastonbury. Whilst I can never see myself re-embracing camping at this stage in my life, the BBC coverage means I don't have to. Every year I keep the weekend free, open the patio doors, and chill the beer. A live set from a legend of music is never not amazing. It is never not tingling or electric. Yesterday I watched Kylie and The Cure and they collectively made all my cares melt away. On Saturday I drank beer and belted out every Killers hit, with wild abandon. And when The Pet Shop Boys and Johnny Marr turned up? Well let's just say I was a million mental miles away from the random shite politicians say to appeal to their current base. Now it's Monday morning and Glastonbury may be technically over but BBC iPlayer has it all there. I'm going to watch stuff I missed at the time, as well as relive my favourite sets. If you don't fancy any of that, go to the pub and watch a band. Play music loudly in the car. Blast out show tunes as you shower. Music takes us away from ourselves. For the length of a song, a live set, or both acts of a West End musical if you happen to know one off by heart. (I do. It's Rent. I can perform it in its entirety, any time you like.)

Mouse has just heard how much I loved Tales of the City.

Treat Your Eyes...

I watched Russell T Davis' Years and Years recently, and it was excellent. In an attempt to escape the populist rising of far right politics and the grooming of a country into accepting death camps, it was, however, a little on the nose. And despite everyone who has watched Chernobyl urging me to change my mind, I am giving that a miss. I just need something less... apocalyptic at the moment. So instead, I've submerged myself in escapism. Realism can return another day, but for now I want to be taken away from all this. The second series of Killing Eve is just right. Thrilling, slick, and too comedic to be taken as a serious look at murder. I've hoovered that up this week. Then there's my old friend, Tales of the City. For ten glorious hours, I was transported to San Francisco, where kindness and love won over hate and ignorance. I've also made use of the steady stream of Netflix movies that pop up regularly. Always Be My Maybe, Murder Mystery, Wine Country - all fun, light-hearted, and a bit daft. Sometimes, that's the only way to unwind. The news will still be there, but my ability to stomach it is replenished from an hour and a half away.

No filter, taken with no concentration.
Look how lovely it is.

Treat the Rest of You...

Now steady on. I'm going to talk about the outdoors. About - and I'll say it quickly - nature. I need a full week of antihistamines before I venture out into woodland, I'm not reckless. Yet, getting outside and walking about a bit does seem to perk me up. Whether it's around the park, or along the river, I've got a few scenic options within a twenty minute drive. The world's my oyster, and it contains a fluttering breeze, the salty ozone, the crunch of leaves underfoot and all sorts of other poetic sensory shit. I listen to podcasts as I walk. When I really want to escape, Adam Buxton is my preferred choice. His hour long interviews with fellow comedians are gently hysterical. I've quite literally LOLZed in public, strolling past random picnickers as something in my ear has amused me. When I'm feeling I can stomach a little more grit, I listen to the Remaniacs podcast. It might focus on the political meltdown of the country post-referendum, but at least it gives me heart that I'm not the only person to feel like I do. It doesn't matter what I listen to though. The exercise, the fresh air, and the feeling of doing instead of thinking is welcome. (Over-thinking is an occupational hazard. If I had a physically exerting job, perhaps I'd do Sudokus to unwind.)

The Neph's FaceTime
portrait of me (balls included)
made me laugh a lot. 

I have other methods for living joyfully in the face of negativity. FaceTiming the Niece and Neph is an obvious one. They're at an age where I can make a joke with a punchline of 'poo', and they will laugh. (I am sure this humour will have a shelf life.) Alternatively, I can cook something new. Following a recipe and carefully measuring ingredients focuses on the nurturing creation of scrumptiousness. All negative thoughts are pushed right out of the kitchen. And then there are books. I check Twitter way too much. If I read a page of a novel every time I scrolled, I'd get through several books a week. Like I used to, you know? Before Twitter was invented. And finally, there's the football. You might not be interested in the FIFA Women's World Cup, or sport in general. But the photo of USA's Megan Rapinoe, standing tall, head raised, proudly celebrating her goal is an image that fills me with untold strength. Not only has she excelled at her job under the normal pressures of high stakes team sports, but she's also had the president of her county slag her off via Twitter. (She responds eloquently, yet firmly, here.) She deserves her pride, and I love how unapologetic she is about it. (This doesn't change the fact I still need England to beat the USA tomorrow. Come on Lionesses!)

Megan Rapinoe. I can't kick a ball like her, but
I can definitely celebrate my achievements
with as much pride.(Image Credits:
Creator: Elsa
Copyright: 2019 Getty Images)

Look, the world was probably always full of horrors. We just knew less about them back then. I don't believe we're witnessing anything new. Everything is cyclical, after all. At least that's what is less worrying to believe. Our job, I think, is to stand up and challenge injustice when we can. Do what is possible, and find solidarity amongst others. And then, at other times, accept when that is personally too hard. Regular self-care and recharging are essential. Finding strength in an escapist film, or in the image of an exceptional sportsperson, can fuel and replenish our energy. And living joyfully, proudly, and finding pleasure in the mundane, can be downright subversive. Power to the people. 

Have a lovely week, folks.