Writing about writing

It’s Wednesday morning and I’m sitting on my bed at 7.30am, fully dressed. No, I haven’t experienced a time warp. It’s part of my new routine; write before work at least once a week, keep the old fingers tapping over. It’s a funny thing, writing. Enjoyable, challenging, always subjective. But I’ll tell you what- as I look through old documents on my computer, I really have written some corkers over the years. Not, as you’ll shortly discover, in a good way.

Firstly, I draw your attention to a file called ‘Regret, by Ella Dove.’ Now, on first sight, this appears to be a ghastly teenage poem, full of the angst and woe that, thankfully, I never actually experienced as a child. I distinctly remember writing a poem about heartbreak and trying to rhyme ‘break’ with the ‘stake’ that I felt had been plunged deeply into my chest. I was about 14 at the time, so the most that had happened was a boy on the bus had made fun of my hair. I probably didn’t even know his name.

But ‘Regret’ turned out to be something else entirely. It was a piece written for my Open University course when I was 17 (yes, I know, had to get that in there...). Essentially, it was Anne Frank, except that it was a grown man hiding in the loft in wait for his ex-wife. That’s what Point Horror and Jacqueline Wilson does to you.

But let’s go further back into my childhood. Allow me to take you on a journey, old chum. Of course, these are ‘masterpieces’ that aren’t on my computer, but they’re so engrained into my memory (and that of my parents) that I could probably recite a lot of them straight off. From the Brussels sprouts that came alive and chased poor little Mikey down the road while his parents were out shopping to the hamster who fell into a post-box and ended up travelling the world, reading back these early stories often makes me question my sanity.

At school, it seems I favoured poetry above all else, which made for some wholly inappropriate rhyming, this RE project being a prime example...

Transubstantiation,

The Catholics believe,

Wine- blood, and bread- His body,

As they worship Him with ease.

Somehow, I’ve managed to sum up the whole of Catholicism and massively insult anyone having a crisis of faith. And that was just one stanza.

Indeed, no academic subject was safe. I refer you to the poem I wrote at the start of secondary school about Salmonella. To provide a bit of background, we were asked to do some research. Mind maps, diagrams, perhaps the odd pie chart for those blessed with the power of Excel. But I was not a fan of graphs. I didn’t fancy a straightforward fact sheet either. Oh, no. No prizes for guessing how I chose to present my research...

Salmonella, he’s a nasty little fella,

He gets in your food,

Which is very rude....

And so it continued; my own little form of rebellion. The poor, poor teachers. No wonder I wasn’t in Set 1 for maths- I probably would have turned my algebra into a sonnet. Let’s not even talk about the time I turned my speech for House Leader into a geeky version of Rihanna’s Umbrella...

I’m prepared for all the things,

That being house leader brings,

Chess, debating, science quiz,

Our house will be the biz

Still, it worked, I suppose. As the keen blog followers amongst you will know from previous entries, I still rhyme- and surely that's not a crime?

REVIEW: The Railway Children at the Kings Cross Theatre

Wednesday 14th January 2015 at 7pm.

Howling gales, torrential rain and BBC Outnumbered’s Tyger Drew-Honey in a garish tartan suit were what greeted me as I approached the Kings Cross Theatre for Mike Kenny and Damian Cruden’s production of The Railway Children. Not, I’m sure you’ll agree, wholly suitable conditions for sitting in a purpose-built theatre tent and watching two hours and twenty minutes of E. Nesbit’s classic tale.

The lighting rigs jiggled, the wind whistled through the canvas roof, there were plenty of suspicious noises loud enough for me to grip my seat and wonder whether the whole jolly ensemble might perhaps crumple on top of its anxious-seeming audience at any given moment.

Yet if one word could describe the theatrical experience, it would be professional. As raindrops  that felt like boulders pummelled above us and hyperbolic journalists scribbled frenziedly into notebooks (!), not one of the cast faltered in their enthusiasm, dedication and professionalism. I wish I could say the same for Tyger.

Stepping into the foyer, audience members were immediately transported into an Edwardian station’s waiting room. The attention to detail was remarkable, from the miscellaneous suitcases dotted around the floor, to the ‘refreshment room’ (otherwise known as a bar) and cast in period costume milling around and exchanging pleasantries with passers-by. It even smelt like a station; that damp, slightly musty odour reminiscent of school dinner kitchens and old umbrellas- though perhaps that was just the rain.

 Either way, I was impressed, and when a crackly tannoy announced that the train would be departing in two minutes, we all hurried to our respective platforms, one or two depending on which side of the traverse staging we were seated, everyone thoroughly caught up in the experience.

The set itself did not disappoint. Joanna Scotcher’s clever design consisted of a train track with moveable wooden stages, pushed into the centre by a group of lads with sooty faces and boiler suits. There was plenty of sound, plenty of bustle and plenty of steam. The real 60-tonne steam train loaned from the National Railway Museum stole the show, delighting adults and children alike when it chugged in before the interval and for the finale- a genius addition.

Indeed, ‘adults and children alike’ is a most appropriate description, and captures the essence of this production perfectly. Whilst full of subtle comment and wit, the clever script was such that it also managed to hold the younger audience members captive, their eyes wide and faces glued to the stage throughout, barely a fidget in sight.

Narrated through the eyes of an older Bobbie (Serena Manteghi), Peter (Jack Hardwick) and Phyllis (Louise Calf), the tale is told backwards, and from the beginning, there are no illusions about it being a play. The audience are told at points to use their imaginations, and notably, before the interval, a cheeky Calf instructs them to ‘go and get an ice cream or something while we clear all this up.’

Calf, it must be said, glows with just the right amount of childish exuberance. Though sceptical about her pouting and baby-like mannerisms at the start, I found myself watching her expressions closely, sometimes to the detriment of her fellow ‘railway children.’ Whilst Hardwick offered a consistent level of only-boy angst and protective gestures, Manteghi comes across as slightly too pompous for Bobbie, a performance which had plenty of gumption but didn’t always yield sufficient warmth. That said, the three work beautifully together, pulling off the feat of portraying children whilst seamlessly stepping out of their roles to deliver plot and commentary.

Caroline Harker delivers a strong and believable performance as Mother, whilst Downton favourite Jeremy Swift is charming in the role of kindly station master, Mr Perks. His Northern accent, it has to be said, is wholly convincing throughout.

The ensemble work together in a flawlessly smooth manner, with no visible mishaps or clunky set changes at all. The children in the cast must be particularly commended for their professionalism; often faced with lengthy scenes and few (if any) lines, they remained focussed and in character, a sign of brilliant direction on Cruden’s part. Not one smiled sneakily at a parent or called out ‘Daddy, my daddy’... Oh, wait.

It was with rapturous praise that the audience left the auditorium. All seemed highly impressed, except Tyger, of course, who was much keener on squeezing his lady friend’s buttocks. 

Ode to Woman's Weekly

So as it turns out, I'm a poet (and I don't know it). I won't crowd this blog entirely with rhyming couplets and verse (otherwise you might... curse?). Anyway, this one's for my beloved Woman's Weekly, as requested by a colleague recently...

Woman’s Weekly, what a mag,
It really is such fun,
The departments beavering away,
There’s something for everyone.

All the knitters sitting round,
Their needles loudly clacking,
Yarn balls rolling, patterns galore,
Creating things- and yakking!

Lifestyle and home, they do their stuff,
Desks piled high with card,
They craft, they sew, they choose designs,
Their hands all working hard.

In features too it’s go go go,
Celebs- stage and TV,
Are waiting for us on the line,
To talk about cups of tea!

The fiction team, they sit behind
With expert eyes they look,
For new writers, so to find,
The next serial or book.

Up in the kitchen it smells divine,
The cookery pros are baking,
They bring down trays, we all delight,
In goodies for the taking.

And ‘well, why not?’ we ask ourselves,
With few airs, cares or graces,
We’re focusing, we need a treat,
It’s time to stuff our faces!

Yes Woman’s Weekly, what a place,
All kinds of laughs we have,
Each day we’re writing with a smile,
Your favourite little mag!