Lucky, Lucky Me...

I'm a very happy and a very lucky
woman actually, but the
sentiment is bang on.

Hey there! Been glued to the news? All Glastonbury-ed out? Can you believe we're hurtling into July so soon? If these seismic questions fail to move you, spare a thought for my current first world problem. (Hmm. First world problem? Developing world problem? They both feel wrong. How about privileged-not-important-in-the-slightest world problem? Yeah, that's more like it.)

Anyway, ten weeks after emptying the bedroom of its stuff and kipping in the spare room with boxes blocking the landing, the new bed was arriving today and I could move back in. Hurrah! Not having to apply makeup in crap light with a tiny mirror, and being surrounded by all my clothes instead of just a handful, was to be a joyous occasion. Then I checked the small print. Turns out the bed's coming on 26th July, not June. Sigh. Four more weeks of sub-optimal living. Once the initial disappointment subsided, I obviously gave my head a wobble. I've got a bed, and soon I'm getting a better bed. I have clothes and a roof over my head. To quote Baby's dad in Dirty Dancing, 'This is not a tragedy'. So that's my week. I thought something bad had happened and then I realised I was being a tit. Standard.

Writing News

It's been a week of more checks and double checks of the current manuscript. All the niggly little details. For eg, seasons don't need to be capitalised so I went through making sure they weren't. I've decided Leeza calls her school year, Y7 instead of Year 7 or Year Seven. That took time to make consistent. Then there's the whole issue of italics. Usually I'd italicise any word I want to stress, as well as the names of books or films. (Check out the Dirty Dancing example above.) But Leeza is writing a diary. Obviously, it'll be presented in a typed font, not handwriting, because that's how books are, but I need it to seem authentic. She wouldn't write in italics in her diary. Instead, I've got her capitalising important words. Or writing them in bold when she's being emphatic. Then there's the names of the books she's reading. I spent a chunk of last week scrolling through to find where I'd initially italicised them, and instead added  inverted commas. Not especially creative, but oh so necessary.

Culture

Three words. Pet. Shop. Boys. Oh yeeeeaaaah. On Friday night at the Liverpool arena I bopped away to some of the best pop ever written. Isn't live music great? Then I listened to this podcast, about PSB's album, Behaviour. All marvellous and happy-making. Then, like so many others last night, I watched Elton John at Glastonbury. What an absolute legend in our lifetime. Aren't we lucky to have all that music.

Almost exactly like my evening.

Food and Drink

On the 21st I celebrated the longest day of the year/Midsummer. How did I do that? Well, I dosed up on the antihistamines, BBQed salmon and prawns, and drank white wine outside. I realise this is in no way authentically Scandinavian, but it was lovely nonetheless. If my sinuses could have handled it, I'd have rocked a flower garland, no mess.

Out and About

I ended my week with a twenty-four hour stint of niece and neph-sitting in Yorkshire. In theory, the older kids get, the easier they are to supervise. I can confirm that whilst that's mostly true, I was expected to participate in more snooker games and enthuse over more spontaneous dance routines than when they were babies. Just saying.

Here's hoping your week has the exact amount of spontaneous dance routines you can handle. Only if you're lucky enough, that is. Until the next time.

Have a lovely week, folks

Unreliable Narrators, Diddy Cheese, and Frigging Heat...

Last week, three people gave me the same response. When I said, 'God, this frigging heat!' (or words to that effect) they said, 'Ah yes, but we moan when it's cold, don't we.' I'd like to put it on record, here and now, I NEVER moan when it's cold. Never, ever, ever. Bring on the rain, bring on the wind, bring on the sleety grey, miserable days. I LOVE them. Anyway. As you were.

Writing News

I've just read Verity by Colleen Hoover. Here's my bash at a blurb. 

Prior to the car crash that left her in a coma, Verity Crawford wrote a draft of her autobiography, hiding it and telling no one. Finding it one day, Lowen Ashleigh can't help but read. Will it give the insights into Verity that have so far eluded her? Will it answer the questions that linger? Will it upend all she knows to be true? 

How's that? I reckon I had a good bash in a vague way. But whether it's whet your appetite for the book, or just made you think, 'Get on with it Nicky,' it did one other job. It reminded you of the trope of the Unreliable Narrator. Don't say it didn't. Learning about the story and characters through another character (or their autobiography) won't always be accurate. And Unreliable Narrators are riddled throughout literature. In Wuthering Heights, gossipy housekeeper, Nelly Dean, is the source of information for newcomer, Mr Lockwood, and therefore, the reader. Is she embellishing? Putting her own spin on events? Does she know what she's talking about when she wasn't in the room for all she shares? Who knows. Is Adrian Mole a reliable narrator for his 13 and 3/4 year old experiences? The reader needs to read between the lines at what he doesn't say, to realise his Mum is unhappy and his dad is oblivious. Can Leeza McAuliffe give a true account of her own family's lives from her eye-rolling, fed up perception of them? Is she our best guide for the story of the McAuliffe family? Possibly not, no. But isn't that the fun bit? The Unreliable Narrator forces the reader to decide what snippets, if any, are reliable. The rest of their narration - the factually dodgy parts - tell us more about their character, motivation, and flaws. Unreliable Narrators can be loads of fun to decipher, or - conversely - irritating as hell. I just hadn't clocked I was writing one. 

In the Heights. I'm off to roam the 
streets looking for a hydrant.

Culture

If I spend two hours reading, does that automatically make it a cultural experience? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? I spent Thursday morning reading the report by the Privileges Committee into whether Boris Johnson misled Parliament. Spoiler Alert: He did. And whilst it may not have been as much of a page-turner as Verity , it managed to quell the rage. A bit. In wildly differing Cultural News, I leant into the heat and humidity, and rewatched In The Heights while I stewed on the couch. Washington Heights or Merseyside? Either way, the sweat is real.  

Food and Drink

I'm drinking water. So much water. Mainly because for the second I swallow a mouthful, my hayfevery throat eases. I simply need to drink water every waking second and I'm fine. Also, I found these cheeses in Marks and Spencers and decided they were the cutest thing I've ever seen. The 50p is for scale. They're diddy.

Coping.

Out and About

I'm far too lethargic to gad about on adventures. But despite the heat, I managed to make it to Wednesday brunch, and my writing group. The rest of the time, I avoided pollen and sat by a fan. Oh, I had to go to the Post Office, Sainsburys, and co-host a Father's Day get-together too. See, loads of outings last week.

If this is your season, knock yourself out. (No, literally, please do. I can't stand your positive outlook.) I hope you're getting all the Vitamin D you need without forgetting to Factor 50 up to the gills. For the rest of us - the hay fever suffering, sticky, brain-fogged, heat-exhausted rest of us - let's do our best. Keep nasal-spraying and eye-dropping and staying away from the bad stuff. It will pass. 

Have a lovely week, folks

WhatsApps? Tapes? It's All the Same...

We need those WhatsApps.

Nothing ever changes, does it? For all our technological advances, we're still hampered by human frailty. This year, it's fifty years since the initial Watergate investigation. I know. Mad, right? Despite the break-in that led to a President's resignation happening six yers before I was born, I find the whole thing fascinating. (You can take the girl out of the American Studies elective but you can't take the American Studies elective out of the girl.) I was alerted to this golden anniversary by a new drama, The Whitehouse Plummers. It comedically tells the story of the Watergate break in, with a healthy dollop of artistic licence. I enjoyed it but wanted reality. Luckily my algorithms had smelt red meat. A more factually reliable 2018 documentary, Watergate, was promoted every time I turned on the TV. I watched that, which led me to Nixon, the three hour Oliver Stone movie with Anthony Hopkins playing the lead. Finally Frost/Nixon gave the me the last chapter in the story - with David Frost being the interviewer who forces Nixon into admitting his failings. (I'd recently seen All the President's Men and The Post, so I left them alone this time.) 

All excellent films and a fascinating way to spend a few evenings. But you know what? It pulled recent political events into sharp focus. Nothing ever changes. Last week there was a three-way tug of war between the Cabinet Office, Boris Johnson, and Baroness Hallett of the COVID enquiry. Would Johnson's WhatsApps be wholly submitted in an unredacted state? Would Sunak succeed in keeping out the politically devastating ones? Would the right evidence be submitted to the enquiry so justice could be done? All questions that seemed irreverent by Friday, when Johnson jumped before he was pushed. But insert the Watergate Whitehouse tapes for the COVID Whatsapps and you've got a pretty similar story. People clinging to power and obstructing justice through any means possible. And let's not forget T***p. (Nooo. Can't we?) The most recent US ex-President's legacy is further cemented in the form of new criminal allegations. Nothing ever changes. Perhaps the upside is, that in fifty years time, there'll be some excellent dramas and informative documentaries about our current political dramas. Ninety-five year old me will enjoy that.

Writing News

I did the thing I've needed to do for ages - I read the new Leeza McAuliffe novel from start to finish. I got three things from the experience. A crick in the neck and glazed eyes are two of them. It's a lot to read in one go, especially with the intensity required to critique every word. I was more than happy to escape to the pub afterwards. The third thing, however, was a sense of satisfaction. It's such a lovely story, even if I do say so myself. I can't wait for it to be out there.

Culture

Aside from the Watergate stuff, I've also watched Poker Face. It's a crime drama on Sky, led by Natasha Lyonne. Each episode (mostly) stands alone, with an intricately plotted murder, seen by the viewer and solved by Lyonne's character. It hits all the right spots and I highly recommend it. I've also been reading. I know, an actual book! Political journalist, Ian Dunt, has written How Westminster Works and Why It Doesn't. It breaks down every part of the political process from MP selections, to the Civil Service, to SpAds, to the Press Lobby, and explores how they function within the system. The answer it seems, is - spoiler alert - they don't work. 

Food and Drink

BBQ season has well and truly begun. When I'm not skewering prawns and marinating salmon, I'm searching for the best non-meat meats. Beyond Burger are my current go to. They taste pretty authentic as a beef burger, but when you pile on the ketchup, relish, cheese, and onion, you'd never know the difference.

Blue skies for Marble Eyes!

Out and About

I spent a marvellous day with mates under a gazebo at a local festival. Scouting for Girls headlined, but local band Marble Eyes were absolutely brilliant. (Check them out in the St. Helens area.) What more do you want on a summer's day than to dance in a field, plastic glass in hand, with live music and good vibes. The following day's hay fever spike was totally worth it.

Now I've exhausted my Nixon-fest, I need a new obsession to devour. JFK films and docs? Royal family stuff? Churchill and the War? Nah. Not right now. It's time to return to the safe and soothing arms of Dawson's Creek. (I'm about to start series five.) The historical, political stuff can carry on around me while I refuel on nineties nostalgia.

Have a lovely week, folks

Advice for my mate, Hannah...

Hannah Waddingham winning
stuff and being brill.

Ted Lasso aired it's (probable) final episode on Wednesday and Eurovision's been over for three weeks. What's the common link? Why, it's Hannah Waddingham, of course. Apart from Cha Cha Cha, there was one clear talking point that came from the Eurovision discourse. Wasn't Hannah Waddingham ICONIC? Yep, that was the main takeaway from anyone that watched the televised shows. 

She walked past my actual seat.
I managed to get a photo well
after it mattered.

I was shamefully late to the Hannah Waddingham appreciation party. She's been working for decades but prior to Ted Lasso, I'd only seen her in Sex Education - in a small role that hid the depth of her talent, (imho). Smarter people than me know her from the theatre. She sings, she dances, she OWNS the stage. (Check this out if you want to see.) I saw her host the preview for the 2nd Eurovision Semi-Final. When she walked past my seat to reach her next presenting position, all I could do was gape at her retreating back. Her elegance, poise, and ability to turn everyone close by into gibbering wrecks, meant I froze. Her aura screamed LEGEND, BROAD, ICON. 

HW's character Rebecca, is 
also pretty aspirational too. 

There's a point to all the Hannah-love, don't worry. I'm mentioning this because I recently realised something. In my head, when I think of how I seem to others, it's exactly like Hannah Waddingham. In my head, I assume I come across as confident, composed, elegant, and witty. I'm comfortable in my skin. I'm bi-lingual. I command any conversation of which I'm a part. I'm beloved of gay men and lesbians alike. In my head, I'm a bloody legend.

 

A classic red wine mouth-miss.

Outside my head, things are a little different. I'm clumsy, babbling, and with myriad spills. I'm not bi-lingual, as five minutes of daily Duolingo does not a German speaker make. I'm not a Queer icon. Whatever the binary opposite of elegant is, I exude it. As for bossing the stage in a pressurised environment like Eurovision, I'd be more like Julie Walkers in this clip. Apologetic, with verbal diarrhoea, and no clear sense of what I'm saying.  

This is so me.
Just add a greying It's A Sin
t-shirt, a much lower leg lift, and 
a variety of crumbs on the bed
that have collected over weeks.

So what does it matter? Does it matter? Can I worship at the alter of Hannah Waddingham, delude myself that we're the same, and no harm comes from my mistaken identity? Or will it force me to confront my perceived failings and cause a drastic drop in self-esteem? Could it result in a self-fulfilling prophesy? By believing I share her personal characteristics, will I eventually... share her personal characteristics? Is there a problem having such a gap between self-perception and reality? 

Enjoy my Jackson
Pollock torso!

Nah. It's all good, innit. I don't dislike my reality. I just forget it's there sometimes. What I think is more useful, is to remind myself that Hannah Waddingham is still a human being. I'm sure the day after Eurovision was over, she was slobbed on a couch with a sharing bag of Walkers for one. In fact, the actual reality could be in reverse. Hannah Waddingham, sick of being dressed in high heels and glamorous gowns, fed up of having to work a room, an auditorium, or arena, presumably wants to be like me. She's probably desperate to bumble and fluff, stutter and flail. The best advice I can offer her, if she really wants to descend to human status once more, is a good leveller for us all. Get spilling. A stained top reminds every single one of us, we're simply knob heads trying our best. Get spilling, Hannah. It's the only way.

Have a lovely week, folks.