Gargantuan Mistakes All Over the Place...

Everyone cringe-watching
Matt Hancock.

I don't usually watch I'm A Celebrity. I did the whole thing once, about six years ago, but since then I get the gist of each camp's comings and goings via other watchers' chat. This year, I've even less interest. Time will tell but it feels like a gargantuan mistake to put a disgraced sitting MP, still awaiting an inquiry into excess deaths during his time as Health Secretary, into a light entertainment show. The juxtaposition is simply too jarring and feels inappropriate. But that's not all in the Land of Bad Decisions. There's also the up and coming World Cup to contend with. That too feels like a gargantuan mistake - giving the hosting duties to a country where human rights cannot be guaranteed. Individual fans can choose not to go (although why should they?) but players, backroom staff, TV pundits, camera crew, hair and makeup artists, and technicians, can't. It's their job and there are rising bills to pay. Not everyone that has to attend will be on footballers' salaries and can afford to refuse to go. With that in mind, it feels wrong to watch. But then that's what some people said before the last World Cup in Russia It was all soon forgotten once England started doing well. I think, to keep sane as a TV consumer, I'll stick to my daily dose of Netflix Christmas films. They're terrible, with flimsy plots and hammy acting, but at no point do they pretend to be a disgraced MP having nightly televised japes, nor a country that criminalises LGBTQIA+ people. As far as I know.

Watch. Me. Go

Writing News

The first draft of Book 4 is done, the first read through of Book 4 is complete, so now comes the next stage. Editing. Some writers love this part. It's where they whittle the wood or chip away at the marble block, all the while their genius creation emerges bit by bit from the sawdust/marble shards. (Look, I never said I was an expert woodswoman/sculpter-extraordinaire! Just go with it.) So that's the next part. The whittling and chipping. I'm not as much of a fan. I know it's a necessary part of the process, but I find it unfathomable for far too long. The emergence of an actual tight plot, with convincing characters and clear intention, is ages away. But the whittling and chipping has to start somewhere. And that's where I'm up to now.

Watching The Offer made me want
to watch The Godfather all over again.

Culture

I've finally seen The Mousetrap! I'm in the loop and know who did it. Thanks to The Mousetrap tour that came to Liverpool and did a bang up job. After realising that every film Dexter Fletcher has directed, is an absolute dream, I watched his new TV show, The Offer. On Paramout TV, it tells the story of the creatives behind the making of The Godfather. If you want 1970s Hollywood business shenanigans that look amazing, give it a go. I had a second watch of Bros at the cinema, whilst my new padded winter coat was over my knees like a blanket (fit!) and then, like many others, I've calmed down my Twitter usage in favour of Mastodon. Watching the one social media platform I used daily, disintegrate under my very nose has been disconcerting. Hey, maybe the reports of boardroom chaos and coding glitches are overblown. Maybe that bloke didn't make a gargantuan mistake by taking over and changing everything. But all good things must come to an end and it seems Twitter as we know it, is nearing that day. Mastodon is set up differently, feels kinder, and is run by nice people. I hope the mass movement to the platform by ex-Tweeters, doesn't change that.

A Saturday morning
breakfast of champions.
But doesn't it look
MEATY!

Food and Drink

Because I had a couple of siblings over last weekend, I made a chilli. And because there was a healthy representation of vegetarians in the group, it was a Burnt Aubergine Chilli from BBC Food. And then, because it was so nice, I made it again on Tuesday and have eaten it most days since. All I'm going to add is, there's proper magic at work here. One look at the ingredient list and you think, 'Well that sounds shit'. It's all lentils, veg, and powdered spices. But follow the instructions and you end up with the tastiest, heartiest, warming bowl of meaty-esque chilli in the world. Try it. It's my gift to you.

Out and About

I had a mid-week tea in town, prior to The Mousetrap, got my microbladed eyebrows topped up, and then visited my aunt in Sheffield. Not too busy, not too boring. Just right.

My new sofa arrived in the week. As of now, it's spill and stain free, unburdened by backside imprints, and as plump and firm as the day it was born. It won't last. If you need me, you'll find me being extremely careful with my drinks, sitting comfortably in the lounge.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Gatekeepers and Cheerleaders...

It's time, once again, for the monthly Ramble. No Weekly Update this time, just me and some paragraphs banging on about whatever. Exciting, yes? This week, the topic is Imposter Syndrome. Or rather the fleeting feeling of joy when it's kicked into touch. First of all, let's get down to brass tacks. Imposter Syndrome is... 

'"a psychological occurrence in which an individual doubts their skills, talents, or accomplishments and has a persistent internalized fear of being exposed as a fraud"

Bloody gate keepers.

That's what it says on Wikipedia*, anyway. Put simply, it's when you feel like you're winging it, 24/7. Back when I had a proper job, I don't think I experienced it. Not because I was annoyingly cocky, but because various gatekeepers along the way had happily waved me through. The recruitment process for my PGCE and the interview panel at the school that employed me, for example. If I was a crap teacher, they wouldn't have let me crack on. As a result, I got on with the job without considering it much. (It's easy to say that eleven years later, now the pressure of stupid lesson observations and nonsense OFSTED inspections are a distant memory.) Not that any of it matters now. Because Imposter Syndrome has most definitely arrived. 

It makes sense really. Teaching myself how to write and publish a book is still the most brilliant thing I've ever done, but because there are no gatekeepers, I have to gate-keep myself. I have to be my own critical eye. I have to be the arbiter of my own standards every single day. And ultimately, that means I assume I'm shite most of the time. It's the best way. Thinking everything I do is brilliant, is never going to help. No, the best thing to do is to rubbish any and every attempt at writing that I make. Look, I never said it was a mentally healthy place to be. 

Feeling like I'm winging it, is standard. It's been standard for years. And that's OK. Feelings of inadequacy are just part of the deal. But sometimes, every so often, I get a break from the insecurity. Sometimes I feel like I know what I'm doing.

It's happened twice recently. First of all, a friend of a friend, who's coming to the end of his own novel, got in touch. He wanted some advice about what comes next, so our mutual friend suggested we meet up. We did, had a great chat about writing and life in general, and I passed on some things that might be useful. Later, I thought about it. I'd given him a bunch of info that I'd pieced together over years. Whether it was about editing, front covers, formatting manuscripts, publishing imprints, ISBNs, or even the emotions involved in the process, I had a bunch of experience to pass on. Having never been trained for what I do, it was a bit of a revelation that I'd been the 'expert'. I drove away from the meeting, having had a lovely afternoon, and with a massive, throbbing ego. Until later, when I had a word with myself, but you get the gist.

The second thing that happened, was I read my completed first draft from beginning to end. This is the first draft of Book 4. I've been working on it since February, and I finally got to the end. It currently weighs in at 65,000 words and it took me five and a half hours to read (including time for note-making).

Here's the thing. It's not good. Not yet. It's waffly and meandering. I need to tighten up a few key plot lines and the ending needs more oomph. But blimey, it was a joy to read. My lovely characters that I'm emotionally invested in, have a marvellous time working out the next part of their story. There are highs and lows, I laughed out loud and got choked at the poignant bits. Even though I can see there's a shit-tonne (technical term) of editing to do, I still felt the rosy glow of achievement. It lasted for the rest of the day. I know what I'm doing and I feel confident that at some point, it's going to be a great book.

Obviously, the glow faded. Pretty much by the next day. By then, I'd started to make notes about what to change first, and found myself getting bogged down in the hugeness of the task. But I still had that day. The day I felt like I wasn't winging it.

Goooooooooo.... NICKY!

Being my own boss can be great. The autonomy to decide what to do next, along with full control over the end product is supremely satisfying. But at times, Imposter Syndrome can reach debilitating levels. It's important to make sure that, as a boss, I support well-being within the workplace. Taking the time to notice when I feel confident with what I'm doing, helps with that. Even when it lasts all of five minutes. If I have to be my own gatekeeper, I should definitely be my own cheerleader too.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*It's a full reference-date at Writer's Ramblings. Here's the study where that definition came from.

Too Old For That Bucket List...

Michael Owen being younger
and brillianter than me.

The year was 1998. A flatmate's boyfriend was reading the sports' pages and said, 'Nicky, what do you think about this Liverpool player that's been called up for England?' I didn't think anything because I had no idea who he was, nor anyone who played for Liverpool Men but as the token scouser in my East Midlands Uni, I presumably did my best to represent. Later, when I found out Michael Owen was nineteen, I felt a gut punch of disappointment. I was twenty. It was now unlikely that the England Men's team's would ever ask me to get involved. Tbh, it hadn't been on my bucket list so I didn't need to let it fester. But the point had been made. I was past it.

I remembered this, last week when I found myself googling 'How old is Rishi Sunak?' Two whole years younger than me, that's what. And whilst being PM is also not on my bucket list, it's much more on it than being an international footballer. I mean, not in any real sense. But when I watch elite athletes score goals and win tournaments, I know without a shadow of a doubt I couldn't begin to attempt that. When I see a newly elected Prime Minister re-promote people that should never have been there in the first place, I feel comfortable that even I could give it a better stab. Hey ho, I'll get over it by continuing to be as arsed as possible for as long as necessary. Just as we all must.

Live scenes from my desk, in a bit.

Writing News

My short pause on the writing front has now come to an end. Today, after I post this, I shall start to read my rough draft from the beginning. A printed off copy and ev, just like the olden days. In itself, that should only take a few hours. But I'll also be doing it with a pad of paper and pen to hand. Every time I spot something that needs to change, I'll be scribbling a bunch of notes about whatever comes to mind as I attempt to lose myself in the narrative I've forgotten. Wish me luck.

Bloody love Tim Key

Culture News

I saw Tim Key's latest standup/poetry show, Mulberry, at the Lowry on Wednesday, all about the three lockdowns of COVID. It was brilliant. I laughed out loud significantly more than poetry readings have led me to do in the past. And lots more than the pandemic led me to laugh too. Top work. Then there's the latest TV series I devoured in no time at all. Bad Sisters on Apple TV is an excellent use of your time. Four sisters plot to kill their truly hideous brother-in-law in a darkly comic caper. I lapped it up. I also loved Bros, which is in the cinema as we speak. Funny and smart and sexy and sweet. I'll be going again at some point. I'm still reading Wolf Hall, and after that I'm looking forward to starting Lev Rosen's, Lavender House. My Evri driver is winging it to me as we speak.

I used Nigella's Scandi
Cucumber Salad recipe which
is not online. But it's
similar to this one.

Food and Drink

Just as after my Welsh mini-break, the days following my Scottish mini-break have involved more vegetables and less booze. Last week saw me pickle some cucumber. I know, I'm mad, me. That, tossed through a warm mackerel salad was lovely. I've also reminded myself about grapes. Yeah, I'm not even trying to be funny. Grapes pass me by most of the time, but I was at two of my sisters' houses last week, and both had grapes in the fridge. My subsequent lunches of cheese, cucumber, grapes, and crackers have been fit.

Out and About

As a childfree, ex-teacher, I don't expect to see children most of the time but last week, I was riddled with them. On Monday, I did a whole day of babysitting for the three year old niece. A WHOLE DAY. I know! Can you even imagine? As it turned out, she was top company. Talked non-stop whilst respecting me enough to save the grimmer aspects of toileting for when her parents got back. If she keeps that up, I'd do it again any time. I also visited my other sister's new gaff, which is a bit further up North than her last one, and was given an intensely detailed tour by my other niece and my neph. Then, the following day, I took the same other niece for her birthday present from me - a mani/pedi at my salon in Liverpool. How I became the aunt that took a niece to a beauty salon for the first time is a question for the ages. I like to think I balance out my love of nail varnish with an almost obsessive spouting of feminist principles at every given opportunity. If nothing else, I'm teaching my niece and the world at large that I'm complex and interesting. Probs.

Happy Halloween, if you celebrate. Happy Only Connect night, if you don't. Every year I gamble. With no kids living in my immediate vicinity (there's one, but he's a bit old now) I don't buy a bag of sugary crap to dish out at the door. So far, this has proven to be the right choice. The last trick or treaters that came knocking were in the house I left in 2002. Let's hope my gamble continues to pay off.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Mantel, Attention-Seekers, and Wishing I Were Scottish...

From @isthatscully
on Twitter.

Once again, and for all the wrong reasons, the world's eyes are watching. Mirth-filled and incredulous they're wide-open, unable to process the chaotic madness as it unfolds. 

Normally, that would be the set up to a joke. I'd lure you into thinking I was referring to the current UK political mess, but then land a punchline about something completely different. But nope. You were right first time. It really is that ridiculous. There are, however, some small blessings to be found under the rubble of our collective sanity.  It's not all bad. The Daily Star's lettuce-cam did much heavy lifting last week, reminding global rubber-neckers we can still laugh at ourselves in times of crisis. Mostly.

Today we might have a new Prime Minister. Or if not, Friday. I've rewritten that several times over the past three days, depending on the latest information. I think we're to be told the situation around 2pm. Aren't they good to us? Thanks guys. But look. If/when the whole circus repeats itself in a month or so, can I make a request? Could the media only report actual events, rather than briefed gossip from a Caribbean sun lounger? Unless someone has handed in their papers and started their leadership campaign, can we ignore their mates' dribblings until they put their money where their mouth is? I'd have preferred the UK response to the idea that Johnson might make a comeback, as a slight shrug and a whevs face. You know, like that Partridge gif. When someone craves attention that much, it does them no favours to give it to them. Even now, at this later stage of his life, we can help the ex-PM become a better person. Giving back power that he's unsuitable for and incapable of, is cruel. Give him the chance to be a useful member of society... by letting him nowhere near a position of responsibility again. It's definitely in the national interest.

I'm pretty sure this is NOT Wolf Hall.

Writing News

If you don't read, you can't write, so my writing news is my current reading choice. When Hilary Mantel died, I rectified the fact I'd never read any of her stuff by buying Wolf Hall. I knew it'd be brilliant because non-brilliant books generally aren't critically acclaimed nor award winning, but I also thought I'd find it dull and heavy. Happily, I don't! It's great! I'm immersed! World-building is usually applied to fantasy, but the forensic way she builds the world of the Tudor court is completely enticing. I feel like I'm Thames-side, smelling the whelks, every time I pick it up. (FYI, I don't think being 'Thames-side and smelling the whelks' has been explicitly described by Mantel in any of the chunk of Wolf Hall that I've read. I don't even know if there were whelks by the Thames in Tudor times. But it's testament to her creativity that I feel comfortable in riffing on her setting. She might describe a specific conversation or experience of a character, but the way she writes means the reader gets a 360° view of the surrounding scene. Pretty impressive tbh.)

Peter Capaldi in Local Hero. I
spent much of the last week
doing similarly.

Culture

While Westminster imploded (again) I was in Scotland. It was utterly glorious to be away from the nonsense (although a large part of my final day was spent watching rolling news.) Because I love Scotland and because I culturally appropriate places I love, I ate a lot of cullen skink, seafood chowder, and salmon. I watched Sunshine on Leith, I bought a tartan scarf, and on the journey home through the stunning scenery, I listened to the soundtrack of Local Hero. Twice. It was glorious.

Food and Drink

See above for the seafood details. On the way up, I also bought 'bits' from Tebay Services. That meant my Airbnb was knee-deep in posh scotch eggs, veggie pies, artisanal bread, and all the cheeses.

The view from my Airbnb. Sigh. 

Out and About

I stayed in North Berwick. I knew nothing of North Berwick until a few months ago, when I spent a happy evening searching for beachside holiday rentals in cold places. I do love me a blustery beach. I got exactly what I was looking for, along with a town that has particular lovely restaurants and pubs. Plus, it was six stops on the train from Edinburgh Waverley. I had a wander around the shops, plus a very large gin in Brewhemia, my new favourite bar in Edinburgh.

The rest of this week is a busy one for me. Because the book-writing is at a natural pause, I've got all sorts booked in. But hopefully it won't be too long before I'm back into a sensible routine. Just like the UK government. 

Have a lovely week, folks

Any Excuse for a Lansbury Gif...

Queen

A month ago, the country was mourning the death of the Queen, whilst I felt largely indifferent. But now? I totally get it. Angela Lansbury, queen of my heart, died last week. All the phrases that were bandied about during the royal period of mourning suddenly make sense. She was like everyone's nan... She's been there my entire life... I never thought she'd actually die... all felt real for the first time. For me, anyway. 

Queen

Whether it was Murder She Wrote throughout your youth, kids' classics like Bedknobs and Broomsticks, or the darker stuff like Gaslight or The Manchurian Candidate, she was ace. In 2014, I saw her in the West End in Blithe Spirit. She was eighty-nine and bossed that stage with more energy than my then thirty-something self could ever muster. Once again, like the Queen queen, she was the link to a previous generation with her seventy-nine long year career. Whether it was her work in Hollywood, Broadway, or television, she was legendary. What a broad!

Apart from being a non-smoking
caucasian female without a rabbit suit,
this is pretty much me right now.

Writing News

It's so lovely right now. I'm having a couple of weeks of - I believe the technical term is - swanning about, and completely ignoring the 65,000 word manuscript I've just finished. When I come back from - I believe another technical term is - titting around, I'll be able to read it through after forgetting what I've written. That way I can critique it, willy nilly, and make it sound marvellous. 

You're right, Janet.
The Good Place really slaps.

Culture

Last week, I rewatched The Good Place. Four series of mega belly-laughs while covering deep and meaningfuls about the universe. As TV shows go, it's a unique slant. I first watched it when was released in 2016 and it's still brilliant. Recently I was talking with a friend about how rubbish current Netflix releases seem to be. I'm getting lots of cheesy, naff stuff suggested regularly - all of which I'm watching, natch - but none of the excellence there used to be. He reminded me that this may well be the result of the COVID gap. We're now seeing the result of everything shutting down for a bit, two years ago. The other explanation is that my algorithms are so screwed by my insistence on watching shite Christmas films all year long, I'm not being offered the good stuff. Both theories may be correct.

Just a light
Monday night tea.

Food and Drink

After my mini break in Wales, I've had a week on the healthy eating wagon. I say 'heathy eating wagon', but since I ditched the Weight Watchers mentality and got into the revolutionary and mind-blowing 'eat when you're hungry' routine, the healthy eating wagon isn't so much a wagon. It's more a gentle voice reminding you there's no need for daytime drinking in a normal week, or that you don't need three courses on a run-of-the-mill Monday. So that's where I'm at. Getting back to normal. This week,' normal' has been porridge with apple and cinnamon for breakfast, and loads of salmon and veg. 

Out and About

It was the niece's 3rd birthday so that meant a night in Warwick for pizza and booze. If only we could all be as thrilled with our Big Girl Beds as she is. 

Queen

Enjoy your weeks. May they be the perfect balance of Autumnal sunshine and stiff breeze, along with the hint of an aroma of burning leaves. Can you taste the bonfire toffee yet? Well, CAN YOU?

Have a lovely week, folks 

Kalush is coming to Liverpool!...

The Kalush Orchestra won 
Eurovision 2022

Commiserations to Glasgow! You had a cracking bid that I was convinced was the clincher. Turns out, myself, the bookies, and the months-long fan chat, was wrong. The European Broadcasting Union and the BBC have chosen Liverpool as the host of Eurovision 2023. Woohoo for all concerned.

Scousers who only watch on the Saturday night in May, have got a lovely surprise coming. Liverpool will live and breathe Eurovision, weeks up to the night. The fortnight run up will have all sorts going on, and the fact I'm only six stops away on the train, is possibly the best thing that's ever happened to me. I cannot wait to fully immerse myself AND sleep in my own bed. (Along with a variety of siblings that have bagsied a mattress for the night.)

But there's one thing that can never be forgotten, nor will it be here. This is Ukraine's win. Sam Ryder, beautiful puppy-man that he is, came second. The 2023 contest should be in Kyiv, or Odesa, or any other Ukranian city. The fact it can't be, is grim. Liverpool, which is a fantastic city and well up for hosting, is merely caretaking. The general consensus is that Liverpool's bid was successful because of how much emphasis they placed on Ukraine and its culture. I cannot wait to see that unfold next spring. Bring on Eurovision 2023! The final is on13th May next year. I'll either be in the arena, or loitering around a big screen in town. Either way, what an experience!

Thanks, Leo. I'm
pretty proud of myself.

Writing News

Pop the champagne corks, sound the klaxons, light beacons on the hills, and dance 'til dawn. Why? BECAUSE I FINISHED MY ROUGH DRAFT!!!! Yep, that means the new story I began in February has become whole. It's got a beginning, middle, and end. It goes from A to Z. It's done. 

Well, obviously it's not done. Far from it. With my current levels of jubilation, you'd be forgiven for assuming I'll have copies available in a few weeks. WRONG. This is merely the first milestone crossed off. It's a million miles away from complete, but that's an update for another day. For now, I'm feeling warm and smug with achievement. But as the Hot Priest said to Fleabag when she said I love you, 'It'll pass.'

Culture

Friday night saw the Lionesses play USA at Wembley. A hot ticket, for sure. I watched England's 2-1 win from a Welsh Airbnb, rather than the stadium, but it was a cracker either way. That's the sport, now the sequins. Strictly's back! I'm still considered a  recent convert (five years ago) but as soon that music starts, I'm fully onboard, ready to offer up my Autumnal Saturday nights as a sacrifice to my glittery god. So far I'm obsessed with Jade, Ellie S and Ellie T. You heard it here first. Finally, I read Richard Osman's new book in a day. It was easy, engaging, and fun. Does it bug me when famous-for-other-things people shoot straight to the top of the book charts? Yes. Did that stop me reading his book? No. I loved it.

No filter. Just a real ale pub looking
out over the sea. Good times.

Food and Drink

My mini-break to Wales meant lovely food and drink. I had a night in the Glengower pub drinking real ale, watching the waves crash, and the sun set. I ate a hallomui and honey kebab in Medina, a place whose epic side salads kid you you're being healthy. Then I bought a bunch of cheese and wine at Ultracomida, to accompany the ENGUSA match. All in all, it was foody-heaven. This week, I'll be mostly rolling instead of walking.

The Aberystwyth prom.
Bright sun, cold wind, big coats.

Out and About

Aberystwyth, of course. It's my favourite place, and - I feel contractually obliged to point out - the setting for Assembling the Wingpeople; a book I recently wrote that I've probably never mentioned before. Available in all good online bookshops. I pottered around the town, but only to walk to pubs and restaurants. It was a chilled/lazy/couch potatoey few days.

Here's hoping your week includes full-of-tummy rolling, sequins for days, foody-heaven, or whatever floats your specific boat. It takes all sorts.

Have a lovely week, folks 

If I Had a Dog, I'd Call it Los Barcos...

This is the sort of
GIF I'd use.

It's time for the monthly Ramble and aren't I glad about that. Because if I had to write  an update after the week just gone, my opening paragraph would be 'WTF???' Repeated forever in bold, next to a GIF of a dropped jaw. (For readers from the future, the UK just got a new PM, she tanked the economy, and we're all fucked.)

So let's delve into some escapism. But first, a quick preamble. 

Perimenopausal insomnia is the worst. Yep, I'm not mincing my words. I imagine all versions of insomnia are bad; mine happened to kick in at forty-three along with a load of other unwelcome symptoms. For the first time in my life, I've been awake for two to three hours, most nights. And it's boring. I'm not stressed, there's nothing playing on my mind, I just have to ride out the time from 3ish-6ish and wait to drop off. But it was during the small hours that I rediscovered my latest obsession. 

It's Eldorado. Boom. Straight in. Remember it? The BBC soap that began in 1992 and was axed after a year. I LOVED it. Course I did. I was fourteen and it was on TV. What else was I going to do at 7pm, three night a week?  It got slated by the critics and some of the casting was questionable, but I watched it religiously. Fast forward thirty years and I recently found it on YouTube, in the middle of a sleepless night. I gave the opening episode a go. That bought back memories, so I watched the second one. Then the third. And... well you get the drift. I'm re-hooked and obsessed.

Gwen and Drew Lockhead.
Do better, Drew.

(Patricia Brake and 
Campbell Morrison.)

It's a lot of fun. It's also sexist as hell. Every male character seems to regularly comment on the body of female characters. Middle-aged father of two and husband to Gwen, Drew Lockhead says, 'I wouldn't mind giving her one', in episode one, as he watches Ingrid in the town square. Stay classy, Drew. Then there's seventeen year old Fizz married to early-fifties Bunny. Or Dieter, the twenty year old that's sleeping with forty-something Trish. All a bit dodge. Then there's the bandying about of gay slurs, the casual racism and xenophobia, and the - quite frankly - unbelievable moment when busy-body, Olive King, says the N-word. She's lamenting the change of title of that Agatha Christie book, but the idea that it would have been broadcast at 7pm, blows my tiny mind. 

Polly Perkins plays
Trish Valentine

But those are the negatives. Definite negatives, let's be clear. But there are positives. There's a camp breeziness to the thing. No storyline lasts more than a couple of episodes, so there's no high stakes or stress. Trish Valentine (with the twenty-year old lover) totters about in heeled mules, white leggings and a blingy top. She sings show tunes at Joy's Bar and is a riot. Sweet, gay, Freddie is grieving the death of his long-term partner, and being a kind sage to everyone that needs him. He's out and proud but sensitive and damaged. It might feel like a gay trope today, but the fact he's there at all feels revolutionary, when you think of when it was made. And then there's the international cast. Danish, French, German, and Spanish characters rub alongside the British ex-pats in the community of Los Barcos. It was certainly a massive vision. The BBC paid for the construction of the poolside apartment block and the Old Town houses in the middle of the Spanish countryside. You can't accuse them of lacking ambition. 

Time capsule stuff right here.
Dieter, Fizz, and Pilar.

But the most fascinating thing about rewatching it now (all 156 episodes) is how much of a time capsule it's become. It's a treasure trove of early nineties representation; with attitudes, references, and politics, wrapped up in the guise of a soap opera. There are several comments about the Barcelona Olympics. Freddie makes a joke with Dan Quayle as the punchline. There are frequent references to the European project, with the Brits now considering themselves 'proper Europeans'. There are times, when this proud Remain voter felt quite teary at what's been lost.

It's not just the mechanics of Brexit that break my heart while watching it. It's that when I saw this first time round, I had my whole life ahead of me. Europe was right next door. People went interailling and backpacked. I was learning German, which school said was important because the future was European. I was excited to get out there and see it all. 

So what happened? I suppose I did see quite a lot. I travelled cheaply and with ease, in my twenties and thirties. But the fact that my country - the one whose national broadcaster made an internationalist soap opera about ex-pats living in Spain - has now closed itself off to its nearest neighbours, will forever make me mad. 

As a forty-four year old sleepless woman, I no longer need to be seduced by the imagined glamour of ex-pat living. But I wish I had the choice to be. So if all I can do to feel part of the world I was promised at fourteen, is watch Eldorado throughout the night, that's what I'll do. 

Have a lovely week, folks.