tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67066459121743460992024-03-14T08:35:19.329+00:00Wicks' Word WebA collection of ideas, thoughts, reviews, rants and Wicksy witticisms.Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.comBlogger141125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-75705672415227132782016-02-05T15:31:00.003+00:002016-02-05T15:37:25.438+00:00An Evening with Paul Watson<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Paul Watson should have been on my radar years ago.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I didn't go to film school, so I can't really be labeled a philistine. I'm just happy his work has entered my documentary lexicon now.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I subscribe to an e-bulletin for a bi-monthly arts and culture event called <a href="http://www.seedfactory.co.uk/ebenezer-presents-2/" target="_blank">Ebenezer Presents...</a> based at a way-off-the-beaten-track venue called the Seed Factory in Aller, Somerset. Not everything on their events list appeals to me, but a night entitled: '<i>Splat! A Fly on the Wall, An Evening of Conversation with Paul Watson</i>' caught my eye and I decided to go, accompanied by my mum who lives not far from Aller.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Paul Watson's repertoire spans approx. 300 documentary films, and yet I hadn't heard of a single one. Watson is said to have spawned the reality TV genre in the UK, and this was plenty enough of a draw for me to make the journey from Bristol on a wet January evening. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Watson hates modern reality TV programmes, and he made this exceedingly clear in his opening sentence. I should have defended it as I work in the industry, but I can see how his fly-on-the-wall style has been eaten up, and mutated into a colder, less authentic way of portraying 'real life'.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I do side with Watson, especially after watching a montage of his work, and a feature length documentary titled 'The Fishing Party' (a portrait of 4 racist, misogynistic toffs enjoying a watery, rum-fuelled jolly in Scotland - which apparently was Margaret Thatcher's most hated film!). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Watson's main bugbear with modern documentary is that there's not enough time spent with contributors. Directors don't self-shoot, they watch from remote galleries with hot-head operators controlling multi-rig cameras. From the very start of his career, </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Watson was truly in the thick of it all. Through the lens, he's witnessed: death, marital breakdown, and had puke sprayed all over him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I agree that you loose a sense of intimacy with fixed rig cameras and there's never enough money in the budget to spend a decent amount of time building trust with your contributors. Although programmes like 24 Hours in A&E and First Dates give you unique access to some very volatile and unusual situations - the contributors are not spilling their hearts out to a filmmaker who's been filming with them consistently for 6 to 12 months.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Trust is something that is lacking when the cameras are fixed to walls and ceilings rather than being an extension of the filmmaker's body.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">We have an appetite for mindless, rambling, product placement-heavy TV now so I've no doubt that the industry will provide fixed-rig formats and 'structured reality' shows for sometime to come. Programmes like TOWIE and MIC are basically soap operas, except the 'actors' don't have to try too hard to learn their lines.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Like any genre of popular culture: documentary production has strayed from its origin in an avant garde fashion - but there are always going to be purists sticking close to the roots of the movement.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I'm guilty of watching (and making) mindless TV: sometimes I just need a warm, colourful, sugary piece of escapism.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">However, there is nothing more engaging and tantalizing than immersing myself in a proper independently made feature documentary authored by someone who's spent a year or more with their subject(s), stayed by their side while the subject wrestles with their personal demons. To Molly Deneen, Vanessa Engle, Louis Theroux and Asif Kapadia I will now add Paul Watson as my top-ranking UK documentary filmmakers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Their films may be uncompromisingly intimate, beguiling or tragic. Their films will also undoubtably make me question the nature of humanity and how we fit into this crazy, topsy-turvy world of ours.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">They keep my brain ticking over and encouraging me to be brave and dare to make challenging content too. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Links to articles and interviews with Paul Watson:</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/tvandradio/3560798/Paul-Watson-The-Family.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/tvandradio/3560798/Paul-Watson-The-Family.html </span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.bafta.org/television/features/paul-watson-a-life-in-television" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">http://www.bafta.org/television/features/paul-watson-a-life-in-television </span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.theguardian.com/media/2006/nov/20/mondaymediasection4"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">http://www.theguardian.com/media/2006/nov/20/mondaymediasection4</span></a><br />
<a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/programmes/newsnight/7140605.stm" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/programmes/newsnight/7140605.stm </span></a>Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-10353001765510921332016-01-27T12:41:00.000+00:002016-10-21T11:33:21.515+00:00Mendip Marauder<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSeAWy53bTI5CEjvXO9gMfROjKtzGPMwP3MXtezrPkuidECHaVo6zfOQLYCO0V9PmWJOvbjA2Dk37x3cZYho3eEs4puqnxPt_xLdwflzUYdLMKsgrPcx9Rq9hcN8HOTnq8YglCksD06K5U/s1600/IMG_1639.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSeAWy53bTI5CEjvXO9gMfROjKtzGPMwP3MXtezrPkuidECHaVo6zfOQLYCO0V9PmWJOvbjA2Dk37x3cZYho3eEs4puqnxPt_xLdwflzUYdLMKsgrPcx9Rq9hcN8HOTnq8YglCksD06K5U/s320/IMG_1639.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">What kind of title is that I can hear you thinking?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Sounds like some kind of distressing encounter in the countryside?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I'm actually talking about a running race, that sits within the 'Ultra' marathon category. 30 whole miles across the Mendip hills spanning the hinterland between Wells to Weston-Super-Mare.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">My old friend Maeve and I have been testing the waters with half marathons over the last few years (I've done 5 in total). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">We can get round in sub 1hr 50 mins, we know about pacing and fuelling for endurance. We decided collectively that we need to stop procrastinating and test our strength by entering something more challenging.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The London Marathon is too big and busy, and the other popular marathons are expensive (and probably overrated) so we began researching off-beat races in the UK and further afield. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">We looked into the <a href="http://www.marathondumedoc.com/" target="_blank">Medoc</a> (my personal front runner), more akin to a French jolly: you're given wine as well as water at pit-stops and fancy dress is encouraged, a Danish 'moonlit' marathon and a music-themed race in Portugal where rock bands play live at every significant juncture.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">But via Maeve's contact at The Guardian, (a running correspondent) we learnt about the <a href="http://www.albionrunning.org/#!mendip-marauder/dbl9w" target="_blank">Mendip Marauder</a>. We were assured that it's a well-organised race on mixed terrain.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">One of the biggest selling points for us was the fact that the organisers generously give you the scope to complete the course in 8 hours.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Marvellous. We could crawl it and still finish in time. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Some people will think we're crazy for jumping from half to ultra, but we've agreed that we're not going to take it too seriously. We'll walk up the big hills to preserve energy, take lots of healthy snacks and generally treat it more like a Duke of Edinburgh's Award expedition.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I know I will be fine getting to half marathon fitness. I could be ready for that in 5 or 6 weeks. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">For my last half marathon (which I completed in 1hr 44 min after completing a 60 mile cycle ride and attending a wedding in the same weekend!), I did some 15 mile runs around the North Devon coastline in training, so I think I'll be fine bridging between 15 to 20 miles.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I'm not feeling so confident about the remaining 10 miles I'll have to muster up energy for. My worst nightmare would be to pick up an injury before or during the race. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">To avoid this I'm going to apply a more mixed approach to training: running, cycling and swimming to build endurance rather than solely pounding the pavements/trails every weekend.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Obviously I will put in a few mega-long runs (aiming to do one or two 26 mile runs in July), but I know I'll avoid boredom and blisters by employing a triathlon style approach.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I've already made a few investments to bridge the void to ultra running: a decent pair of Saucony trail shoes, a squashable water bottle that will fit into a running belt, Compede plasters (I'm blister-prone) and a book written by American guru ultra pro Scott Jurek who has done loads of 100+ mile races on a vegan diet. I may try some of his recipes too.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I'll be fascinated to see how my body reacts to the strain of the extra milage, if my mind can block out the physical pain in those 20+ mile runs. At the moment I'm feeling quite positive and excited to finally be pushing for a really big personal goal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">If I hate the Mendip Marauder, at least I'll be with Maeve and we can cry together. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I'd be content giving up running for good and saving my knees from further disintegration. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">At least the Mendip Marauder is a small race (less than 200 participants), and thus there won't be too many spectators watching as my beetroot red face and haggard body limp over the finish line on Weston beach in August. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Fingers crossed there won't be a heat wave - for once in my life I will be preying for light rain.</span><br />
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Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-15829547418869046632016-01-06T17:31:00.001+00:002016-01-07T16:47:19.477+00:00Cornish Supper Club<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">What better way to say au revoir to 2015 than by being beside the sea side, pottering around the cobbled streets of St Ives: dodging the persistently pelting precipitation. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The continual torrent of rain and blustering gusts ensured that our bikes lay dry on the back seats of the car rather than upright , tackling the hills and coastlines as (rather optimistically) intended. Instead of being active, we had to give in to the weather and become holiday slobs. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Sometimes you just have to admit defeat and enjoy doing nothing much at all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">During an amble along a backstreet (St Andrew's Street) on our first day, we saw a blackboard </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">with dates written on it, </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">beside what looked like a residential house. Pinned to the inside of window was a menu and more details about Hidden Kitchen and Dining. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I took down the contact details. Most of the month's supper clubs were crossed through with red chalk pen (fully booked), which we thought had to be a good sign. Luckily there were a few spaces for January 1st, so I hastily called to book. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Hidden Kitchen was my first supper club experience. If I was shy (like I had been in adolescence), it might have been a nightmare. All 17 guests seemed to arrive at once, and we were thrown into a cosy, well presented reception room - promptly offered champagne and canapés by the hostess and her assistant. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There was one instantly obvious character in the room (Ray) who could have been mistaken for the host - he had a demeanor that reeked of confidence mixed with curiosity. It soon became clear that his wife (Mags) would also be fighting for the top dog 'character' position. They batted their seemingly innocent marital banter around like a scene from Abigail's Party. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am by no means dissing Ray and Mags. They were very amusing and helped break the ice: without them, we may not have partaken in much pre-dinner mingling. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Turned out that Ray and Mags were from Harrow, but had a second home in St Ives (the old Post Office), and about 8 of our party were their house guests. The whole gang had a mischievous rapport that, (for the prudish) might have bordered on vulgar. They liked a drink too, so only continued to get brasher and more innuendo-driven as the night progressed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Tim and I are used to eccentrics, so this behaviour was no bother to us. The remainder of the party (a Brummie family of 5), arrived late, with no time to spare for the pre-dinner mingling. They sat together at one end of the gargantuan table - but although they seemed a smidgen fish-out-of-water at first, they soon began to embrace the high-jinx. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I happily ogled the delightful dining room furnishings and interior design as our starter was served (a post-dinner chat with chef James revealed that the vintage chairs were all Danish, bought on Ebay. James took pride in telling me about his cunning money-saving trick of matching a midnight blue Farrow & Ball paint colour at B&Q.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The banquet style table (which seats up to 20), was gloriously rustic, cut from what looked like one giant piece of wood - complete with nobly bark edging all the way along both sides. James selects work from local artists to adorn the walls - these change seasonally and are all for sale. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">James came out to introduce each course, which was an intimate gesture that added to this type of bespoke dining experience. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Our main course was superb: herb crusted salmon, risotto of parmesan and rocket with a generous splash of salsa verde. Massive platters of garlic green beans and roasted peppers provided a gorgeous buttery accompaniment. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Fixed menus are perfect for indecisive people like me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The wine and conversation cracked on fiercely: there were some very interesting people in the mix. Plus everyone had one binding commonality: our love of St Ives. St Ives in the winter, St Ives in the summer, the conflict between second home owners and the locals - we covered all the bases. Although Tim was sat by my side, we barely spoke to each other all night! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Ray and Mags swapped places just before dessert: I think perhaps they were worried about missing out on some juicy gossip at the other end(s) of the table. Mags moved in opposite me - she wanted to know everything. It was hard to avoid her eyes and questions. She's a teacher, so I guess she's used to being domineering and driving debate. Very sweet though - bags of character. She reminded me of Dorothy Parker in her latter years: slim, keen drinker, inquisitive, serious bob. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Dessert was a scrumptious orange infused Tiramisu. Rich but not too filling, a zingy finish to a delightful evening. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">James and his wife Georgina (the evening's true host) mingled with us as we collected wet weather gear and braced ourselves for the first big rain storm of 2016. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">What a lovely couple. From a post-Cornwall gander at their website - it becomes clear that these two are no strangers to hosting intimate and luxurious dinner dos. They have a history of hosting Alpine chalet dining experiences for VIP guests. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It's obvious they know their stuff. Their hosting approach is my favourite type: relaxed and attentive (in an inconspicuous way). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Good luck to them - I hope Hidden Kitchen continues to thrive. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">They're doing something new in a coastal town steeped in a multitude of steadfast traditions. But times are changing and I'd advise anyone heading down that way to give it a whirl.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Going to a supper club might mean stepping out of your comfort zone briefly, but I can assure you: without noticing it, you'll be gently nudged back in... you may even have some new friends come the end of the evening. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><a href="http://www.hiddenkitchenstives.co.uk/" target="_blank">http://www.hiddenkitchenstives.co.uk/ </a></span></div>
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Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-38262848731416040672015-10-28T14:53:00.001+00:002016-10-24T18:26:46.112+00:00Wedding Venture<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5gzhFwaFnvIjFo5zajyWqHRIc52Fp0Bvy4CDRK5FVLyeRxIr2AibFt_103WN-H2aUG-Rsy9GA6MHt9YFHVaJ_alETymxqgUgEJs8_jBYHvf_pn07_b-ffIJuFNl8kM3eQQrjXNNys80Xn/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-10-28+at+14.35.09.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5gzhFwaFnvIjFo5zajyWqHRIc52Fp0Bvy4CDRK5FVLyeRxIr2AibFt_103WN-H2aUG-Rsy9GA6MHt9YFHVaJ_alETymxqgUgEJs8_jBYHvf_pn07_b-ffIJuFNl8kM3eQQrjXNNys80Xn/s320/Screen+Shot+2015-10-28+at+14.35.09.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">My exceedingly talented friend Kerry Bartlett recently made the brave decision to branch out into the wedding video market.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">A venture into the capturing of a couples' 'perfect day' on film would send most people into a panic-driven seizure, but Kerry is a seasoned pro - cutting her teeth in this market many years ago as a wedding photographer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I too have a lot of experience as a wedding service provider: many summers as a teenager spent behind the scenes at a stately-home-cum-wedding-venue gave me a robust 'bomb-proof' mentality and propensity to keep calm and carry on in the face of any unplanned wedding misdemeanour. I've witnessed fights, blood, oceans of tears (and some happy moments too!!). Nothing can ever surprise me at a wedding.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">When you're backstage at this type of 'production' - even though it is an exceptionally special event for your clients, if you've prepared yourself for every eventuality, you will come through with a satisfying outcome (and a sprinkling of cinematic gold dust).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">So, at the beginning of this summer I was delighted to be asked to accompany Kerry to a series of weddings, acting as her assistant (second camera operator). I was in the midst of a frantic spell on a medical documentary series for C5, but thankfully, weddings are generally on the weekend, so these extra curricular activities didn't interfere with my bread-and-butter production work. The weddings were a welcome glimmer of light relief to be perfectly honest. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I've witnessed most kinds of human drama during my TV production career, so working with a best friend, in a <a href="http://wickfarmbath.co.uk/" target="_blank">Mediaeval Barn</a> on a bright and sunny Saturday in the heart of the Somerset countryside seemed like a superb idea - a stark contrast to filming in stressful hospital environments the length and breadth of the UK.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I'm pleased to report that we work very well as a team. We have a giggle: singing in the car, setting up Go Pros in unusual places, stretching our limbs in order to create the perfect pan across a high-growing maize field with a cumbersome crane. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">We've produced three films together now. They're short non-dialogue music videos that capture the emotions and key points of the day. Kerry's style is elegant, intimate and ethereal. Improving all the time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">We thoroughly recce the locations in plenty of time before the guests arrive - looking for that prime backdrop that somehow encapsulates the bride and groom's personalities and also complements their outfits - without taking them too far away from the party they've been planning for months. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Shooting with up to three/four cameras means we can cover things from a multitude of angles as well as making sure we don't get blamed for kidnapping the bride and groom in order to indulge in Hollywood-style auteur filmmaking.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I'm amazed at the standard of Kerry's work and her speedy mastering of Adobe Premiere Pro and editing to music. I'm proud to be involved and hope that we go from strength to strength as a partnership. Fingers crossed we double our bookings next year.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Here's a a taste of what's on offer when you book this wedding-proof production duo:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<a href="http://www.kerrybartlett.co.uk/category/films/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">http://www.kerrybartlett.co.uk/category/films/ </span></a><br />
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Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-27159058169843805472015-10-28T13:10:00.001+00:002015-10-29T16:24:13.853+00:00New Website<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">At the beginning of the year, I spent my 'down-time' working on a website. It's so difficult when you're promoting yourself as an entity. It's a minefield. I used background colours that reflected my sunny disposition. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Seven months on and my website needs a re-vamp. Those colours and the 'sunny' style I had created made me cringe. I'm not really sure why, but it had to be changed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I've striped things back: made the site cleaner and easier to read. I've also cut down a lot of text - I know the fickle attention span of the average web browser. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Here it is, the new website:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><a href="http://www.hollywicks.com/" target="_blank">http://www.hollywicks.com/ </a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Creative comments most welcome readers! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-17889280404923609622015-03-04T15:35:00.001+00:002015-03-04T15:35:39.280+00:00Reality Killed the TV StarJoey Essex winning 'The Jump'<br />
Steph and Dom entertaining Farage<br />
Chris and Stephen in an EE advert with Kevin Bacon<br />
<br />
All examples of a new breed of TV personalities, known literally for their personalities. They don't have traditional star quality. They can't sing, dance or act.<br />
<br />
Celebrity is dead. Year on year, TV schedules are upping their content of mockucelebs - cheaper to produce, just about recognisable enough to gain an audience.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong. I adore Gogglebox. I even dabble in Made in Chelsea occasionally. But what I love most about Googlebox is the 'fixed' positioning of the characters. You don't see them making a cuppa or rooting around the sock drawer. And although the Gogglebox creators seem to want to keep that format going - the more outrageous characters are popping up in other realms of the TV stratosphere.<br />
<br />
I wouldn't be surprised if Steph and Dom get a chat show deal soon. I'm alright with that, though I'm not sure I'd watch it avidly. Shows like 'I'm a Celebrity...', 'Strictly Come Dancing', and 'Celebrity GBBO' now rarely have a full-quota of bonafide stars. The liquid gold has been diluted with cheap yellow paint.<br />
<br />
If a show has 'celebrity' in the title, you shouldn't have to spend thirty minutes of the show name-searching on IMDB. <br />
<br />
Alas, the reality TV format shows no sign of waning. No doubt there'll be weirder and wilder scenarios for the shallow reality puppets to go about their vigazzling and pejazzling in the public eye.<br />
<br />
I won't be watching. I call for the merging of factual genres to cease. Get back in your boxes. <br />
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<br />Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-78964314313101906362015-02-11T15:40:00.001+00:002015-02-11T15:40:56.109+00:00A Dumb CrushI feel the need to admit to something really embarrassing.<br />
<br />
I have a crush. A dumb crush in the form of floppy-haired, Californian teeth-whitened, male bimbo extraordinaire: Joey Essex.<br />
<br />
I don't exactly fancy him, I wouldn't actually want to spend any time with him (the constant hair playing would drive me to insanity), his brain is about 20 minutes behind his mouth, but I can't help admiring his skills. His snow sports skills.<br />
<br />
I have a invested interest in Channel 4s <a href="http://www.channel4.com/programmes/the-jump">The Jump </a> because I worked for TwoFour (the production company) recently, and I can ski/snowboard.<br />
<br />
There's no way in hell you'd get me on that jump - not for money, not for TV exposure. Even though I can chuck myself down a mountain without any effing and jeffing or screaming, the thought of doing 'extreme' snow sports sends me into a shivery mess.<br />
<br />
And yet, the camera told us that Joey was rather lacklustre in training (I dare you to refrain from laughing when Joey runs after his bolting snowboard, which eventually ends up in the river!), and astoundingly managed to avoid the jump till the final - Joey Essex WON! He won!<br />
<br />
According to Joey - when he really puts his mind to it: he wins. And it's true. Imagine if Joey put his mind to world peace or running the country? <br />
<br />
I was gunning for Joey to win almost from the get-go. He was the underdog. He defeated not only an Olympian, but a sturdier-than-sturdy rugby pro.<br />
<br />
Joey. I don't know what the future holds for you now you hold this coveted yet superfluous prize. You can actually do something. You have actual skills.<br />
<br />
You make a living from being dumb, but you fooled me for a week.<br />
<br />
This crush may crumble soon, but at the moment - I'm transfixed by your gleaming Essex smile and exuberant tomfoolery. <br />
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<br />Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-68903205103819234852014-11-13T15:23:00.001+00:002014-11-13T15:23:33.679+00:00Pool-side lungingI've witnessed many a social faux pas at the local sports centre of which I'm a member (see previous blog about excruciatingly slow swimmers). But pool-side warm-ups/cool-downs are a new experience for me. It's another socially unacceptable activity to add to the list, and this one rates very high on the cringe-o-meter due to the U.D.O.A (Unnecessary Display of Appendages). <br />
<br />
I know of only one man who does this.<br />
He can't be British. British men wouldn't have the balls (eh-hem, excuse the pun) or audaciousness to carry out this rather bold activity.<br />
<br />
So, this guy comes through the changing room doors: tall, lanky, middle-aged. He is wearing tight briefs (not quite speedos, not quite trunks). He slowly walks around two sides of the pool and positions himself close to the life guard's tower, facing us swimmers in the water.<br />
<br />
And it begins:<br />
<br />
Hip rolls - slow and deliberate, protruding his groin deliberately and holding the pose there.<br />
<br />
Lunges - All the way down, hands on hips, again tilting the groin forward.<br />
<br />
Torso twists - exaggerated and repeated more than necessary.<br />
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Toe touches - thank god your butt isn't facing the pool for this one.<br />
<br />
You repeat this routine after your swim too.<br />
<br />
Is he showing off? Is he trying to pull? Is he so proud of his Speedo-clad appendages that he gives them two opportunities to be paraded every time he comes to the pool?<br />
<br />
It's like car-crash TV - I can't help but glance over. Not to admire, no far from it!<br />
<br />
I cringe deeply. Speedo lunges are not going to start trending any time soon. Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-29883697183651475742014-11-03T10:51:00.000+00:002015-03-04T15:40:29.180+00:00Goodbye<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">When you’ve been friends with someone for 28 years, you take it for granted that you’ll know them for at least another
40. Taking things for granted is dangerous. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">You usually only learn this when it’s too
late to change things. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In this instance, I’m talking about a
beloved friend known since we were in nappies, who was stolen from us just as
she was giving life to her first child. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This was not a natural misdemeanour – my
friend forfeited her life due to the incompetence of the person responsible for
her wellbeing. When she was at her most vulnerable, starved of breath, this
person of supposed medical superiority made a catastrophic error. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I don’t believe it’s healthy to dwell on
the crime – we can’t turn back the clock. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">All I can hope for is that justice will
prevail.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It happened a month ago, and yet, it’s
still so hard to process. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">There will be no more letters, no more
calls, and no more get-togethers on birthdays and Christmases. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Last time I saw you, you were sat in the
long grass at Kew Gardens, in a circle of adoring friends. A summer picnic, a baby-shower,
the first I’d ever been to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The weather was perfect – the food
offerings bountiful, the banter whip-crackling. You were the picture of
maternal bliss: make-up free and beaming with health, a spectacular bump, even
at that early stage in your pregnancy. We talked of the house you were in the
process of buying and all the exciting nesting rituals you were having fun with.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I have since visited that nest: it is just
as you’d described it, but the tragic truth is I will never actually see you
there, tending the roses or feeding Isaac on the terrace. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">When I start to think about not seeing you
again – this is when I have to dig into the abundant treasure chest of memories
I have of our lives together, very much entwined together from your year dot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Although I was two years older than you,
and can’t actually remember you first coming along – we grew close and spent
many weekends and after-school nights coming up with enterprising business
ideas and letting our imaginations run wild out in the countryside and gardens
surrounding our childhood homes, separated by a measly half a mile. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">George’s Marvelous Medicine-style potions
and perfumes were concocted from grape hyacinths and whatever flora and forna
we could lay hands on. Dirt under the nails, a staple occurrence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Pom-poms and friendship bracelets were made
and sold from the wall outside your house – occasionally purchased by locals
taking pity on us. The meager proceeds were swiftly traded in at the Spar where
our penchant for E numbers was satisfied in penny sweets. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">There was one time when a local mafia-type
property tycoon stopped in his blacked-out Mercedes (rosary beads hanging from
the rearview mirror) to peruse our wares. He gave us our biggest sale, though I
don’t know if he actually took his purchase away with him. I just remember a
big shiny coin, maybe a 50p piece, the biggest one garnered from this particular
enterprise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Our parents were very salt-of-the-earth: we
regularly swam amongst the tadpoles in a lake, ate strawberries till our
stomachs hurt from fields owned by our parents’ friends, built dens on the
farm, modeled for Homes and Gardens magazine. Sounds idyllic: it truly was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Passengers in your mum’s Nissan Cherry, we’d
often sing along to ‘You Drive me Crazy’ by the Fine Young Cannibals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Long summers running amok, freedom never tasted
and felt so good. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We also spent a lot of time in the pub. The
Walnut. Oh course we were too young to drink, but drinking was the last thing
on our minds – especially when there was a rabbit warren of hotel corridors to
explore and cunningly acquire a stray bowl of chips when we knocked on the
frosted glass window of the kitchen. Jolly chef Ali never failed to pander to
our opportunist charms. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Summer pub expeditions usually involved us commandeering
cardboard boxes in which we would either sit in for a different perspective, or
try to race down hills in – though I’m not sure how successful this was. Boxes
were also used to picnic in, out in the garden. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We went to different school, but
after-school activities such as choir and brownies brought us together in the
evenings, after which we’d watch East Enders together. We nicknamed you Sanjay.
It was the era of hopeless Nigel and partner in crime Sanjay. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As teenagers we had separate friendship
groups, but then those groups came together for the awkward years of excess:
alcohol, parties, mischief. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Then all of a sudden, you were grown-up,
wise beyond your years and getting a serious career. Perhaps those years of
friendship bracelet making were setting you up for the sales prowess you
quickly developed as a young adult. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I selfishly hoped you’d take a job that you
were interviewed for in Bristol, secretly looking forward to the potential of
spending more time with you here. But you followed your heart back to Biarritz
and the dream job. And the dream man. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">You finally fell in love, the only thing
that had been missing from your fruitful life. With all the pieces fitting
neatly together, you beamed with confidence, self-assurance - reaching a higher
level of happiness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We were with you the weekend of the
announcement. The youngest of our friendship group to become an expectant mum.
We were overjoyed to hear the news and that most fulfilling of journeys started
for you. Devastatingly, it was also the last of your journeys. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I have met you boy, held his warmth. He has
your eyes. He is your being. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I will see him grow, develop his own unique
personality. But I will be hoping he keeps your curiosity, your appreciation
for nature, your verve, your calm and clarity of perspective.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Out of sadness there is light. He will be
your light. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-10304118795559528082014-09-29T14:02:00.000+00:002014-09-29T14:02:28.923+00:00My summer in the "Ugly, lovely town"<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">The
good, the bad and the Mumbles<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWhS468pE25C3osXaYhz51-l9yyLgZqxGo0EoNSoyBCbFVurGDFBR6lsvX_HH2cz8qMlOI1ni6kgAc8RFsYMMkYjG1qYJHh03TzKKLekulrXXioV6T1KBZ8G8H88boMozkpPwE5DJ-kC5A/s1600/IMG_0033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWhS468pE25C3osXaYhz51-l9yyLgZqxGo0EoNSoyBCbFVurGDFBR6lsvX_HH2cz8qMlOI1ni6kgAc8RFsYMMkYjG1qYJHh03TzKKLekulrXXioV6T1KBZ8G8H88boMozkpPwE5DJ-kC5A/s1600/IMG_0033.JPG" height="69" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I’ve landed in a foreign town, not far over
a bridge that cost nearly £7 to cross. They speak another language. Welsh. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">They speak a lot of Welsh too – I feel a
bit like a teenage Exchange student trying to make sense of the pithy garble in perplexed excitement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The Telesgop TV office is next to a giant Amazon warehouse, slap
bang in the middle of a business park that is very much in the midst of major
plastic surgery (the bit where the doctor draws dotted lines around the chubby
bits, then prods and stretches the skin to work out what to do with the mess in between his fingers). On the other side of the park is a film studio unit where an American production company regularly practice explosions that rock the foundations. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My colleagues at work chortle and
cuss in their native tongue, and I thoroughly enjoy hearing the rollicking
tones and try rather unsuccessfully to guess what they’re on about.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Swansea is an odd place. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I find it apt that Swansea’s most outstanding export (Dylan Thomas) brandished it the “ugly, lovely town”. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">A contradiction, but an accurate one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Dylan was born but only a mile away from
where I’m staying and yet the modern Swansea landscape is pitted and
scarred by many a horrendous architectural malfunction and years of abject disrepair. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s a bit of a wasteland with smidgens of joy to be found it you’re prepared
to poke around a bit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I like poking around. And I have a new
bike.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s obvious that Swansea has been through
some very tough times. Much of it looks cheap and poor – residential parts
remind me of Channel 4s ‘Benefits Street’. Only there appears to be a Benefits
Street lurking around most corners. Kids playing tennis across the middle of
the road, not even stopping to let me pass safely on my bike.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I notice that the council don’t even
provide residents with black wheelie bins. As I set off on my bike on collection days, the rubbish is piled high in plastic bags: thin cheap ones that are prone to sea gull attacks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s a coastal city – at least for protection
against the razor-sharp beaks of sea gulls – give these people some bins!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">You can’t fault Swansea in other respects,
mind. The ‘friendly-smiley’ barometer points high up the scale, as if the
city’s people (like many Eastern Europeans) have come through the
oppression and can't help but put a brave face on things, an outward projection of strength – things are (slowly) on the up-and-up here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Things are on the up-and-up. There’s SW1
and a new Uni being built near the marina. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">You can buy two meals and two alcoholic
drinks for under 20 quid (that's without stepping foot in a Wetherspoons I hasten to add!!)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM7IeZcMUyafLLxDt0wDs1kOsJiufl9kaFssqAR2nk6kPFQcbMLAUdNEyJj8eJ2mJqasp94-nKEiyuOo9NYInRjAOg2qJIreZZLz_ynploklxEGcUgjk7PmC-cr2EH9o-DM5jh9a7QOZdH/s1600/IMG_0046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM7IeZcMUyafLLxDt0wDs1kOsJiufl9kaFssqAR2nk6kPFQcbMLAUdNEyJj8eJ2mJqasp94-nKEiyuOo9NYInRjAOg2qJIreZZLz_ynploklxEGcUgjk7PmC-cr2EH9o-DM5jh9a7QOZdH/s1600/IMG_0046.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">You also have some spectacular coastline
and hills at the periphery, the Mumbles and Gower beyond. I’ve peddling past
volley-ball matches on the beach, a boarded up pier not quite ready for summer, yet bristling with gaudy promise.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2dILfcJ5w_cNEp9dIwrsMYtW5IMsQlHVwPQDqaf22I8xHxyUNdbpyfNroMC5zS2Ow1xpDUPY0EN0LBv_nOntiFZMMl-CzmMjxgBGZYOAUcqc3DSLEpy-LF45WGvxA-rXH9c7fgLf7nOO/s1600/IMG_0186.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2dILfcJ5w_cNEp9dIwrsMYtW5IMsQlHVwPQDqaf22I8xHxyUNdbpyfNroMC5zS2Ow1xpDUPY0EN0LBv_nOntiFZMMl-CzmMjxgBGZYOAUcqc3DSLEpy-LF45WGvxA-rXH9c7fgLf7nOO/s1600/IMG_0186.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And there’s been some sun. I wasn't expecting that. Especially after a local taxi driver proudly informed me that Swansea is one of the UK's wettest places. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSlC30XUgDwN0k7nfOSiS9bw32bA-LoOdcPrwAQa3BapnM2gQYCMO5f69_OJcsEIA6TPzik7jMMKFSU8jNULB0EBVH10SsrKS-TfjREzdTdM_994iXd_1C35zt7rOJLHGukG5byHM6Yu1E/s1600/IMG_0037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSlC30XUgDwN0k7nfOSiS9bw32bA-LoOdcPrwAQa3BapnM2gQYCMO5f69_OJcsEIA6TPzik7jMMKFSU8jNULB0EBVH10SsrKS-TfjREzdTdM_994iXd_1C35zt7rOJLHGukG5byHM6Yu1E/s1600/IMG_0037.JPG" height="69" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I suppose, like Dylan T, I have been inspired
by the Swansea landscape, inspired to write this. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">So Swansea, you still have the propensity to encourage creativity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Dylan T speaking beyond the grave??</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">P.S. I'd strongly recommend the Dylan T exhibition at the Swansea Museum. There is a replica of his favourite pub inside. And you can sit in the very spot where Thomas took many a boozy afternoon snooze (on the cold stone museum steps).</span></div>
Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-62528667479859307582014-03-04T10:58:00.001+00:002014-03-04T11:18:10.930+00:00Another one lost to the subliminal heights It's no wonder adrenaline junkies are drawn to the mountains as thieves are drawn to diamonds.<br />
<br />
Mountains are sublime and dangerous - a hedonistic and addictive allure. To those hungry for snow-topped peaks with hidden depths and untracked territories, the mountains are a candy store of endless curiosity. <br />
<br />
During two unparalleled winters skiing and snowboarding in Chamonix in 2009/10 - I teetered on the perilous edge of danger more than a few times. After a knee injury mid-way through my first season (sustained during the first run of the day, skiing over-ambitiously, hungover, on piste) - whatever 'no fear' attitude and bravado I had build-up over those first few months instantly diminished as my mortality became lucidly clear. <br />
<br />
After a recovery which took about 7 weeks, I got back up the mountain (a gazillion times harder than getting back on a horse after a fall) and began to play safer - not veering off-piste too far, not going as fast as I knew I was capable of going. I decided to check into the 'safe' skier brigade. Definitely a minority group in Chamonix.<br />
<br />
Last week a friend phoned to tell me someone we knew had died in an avalanche out in Chamonix. He was 27, a very skilled skier - well-seasoned seasonnaire making sausages (his nickname was Davey Sausage) to pay the bills and training a local youth football team in his spare time. Always smiling.<br />
<br />
I only met him properly once last year, when he stayed at my house in Bristol for one night with a group of my Chamonix friends. He got up early to buy and cook breakfast for us. Simple but kind gestures like this stick in your memory.<br />
<br />
I was shocked to hear the news and it brought back a familiar pang of pain. Familiar because I'd lost someone special to the mountains the same year I had my skiing accident. Ed Cakebread (aka Gateaux Pain) chose the same shabby barely-chic art nouveaux-style watering hole as me to earn a living at that winter. Like freshers, we were thick as thieves: the gang competing to go out and get smashed every night as fervently as we promised to get up the mountain (with or without hangovers).<br />
<br />
Like me, Ed was a beginner skier, but unlike me, he was brimming with testosterone and determined to fly through the ranks and become a pro asap. He did progress quickly, perhaps too quickly.<br />
<br />
A short time after my accident (Ed was my knight in shining armour that day - buying sweets to get my sugar levels up after the shock, and looking after me until I was ready to get back into town), his family came out to Chamonix for a short holiday.<br />
<br />
Keen to show off his new skiing prowess, Ed took his family to Grand Montets (the most challenging area of the resort), and proceeded to go over some of the jumps in the park. These park jumps were mostly reds - and fatally, he pushed himself too far, got too much air after one jump and landed flat on his back. His heart stopped instantly.<br />
<br />
The news dented the town like a giant meteor. Mourning and longing took hold. In a way, having his family there helped - we were able to build a more rounded picture of Ed - the Ed who lived in England. We swapped stories and everyone wrote pages and stuck photos in a memory book for Ed's family to take back home with them.<br />
<br />
Like Davey Sausage, Gâteaux Pain was charming, perma-happy and on thrill-seeker overload. On the hunt for that perfect day of synergy on the slopes.<br />
<br />
I'd class myself as a fair-weather skier now, like the day-tripping Italians in their duffle coats and Ray Bans - content to do a few runs interspersed with generous doses of sitting on a sun-drenched terrace, sipping vin chaud.<br />
<br />
These brave and peerless guys pushed the boundaries - gave everything they had, sacrificing themselves for that perfect moment in the snow. I hope their final moments were sublime, perfect, exhilarating. I also hope that when their bodies touched the ground, they felt nothing. <br />
<br />
There's risk in everything we do, and yes, skiing is definitely at the top end of the risk barometer.<br />
<br />
Live each day as if it's your last.<br />
<br />
Davey Sausage and Gâteaux Pain thrived on this mantra and that's why we'll always remember them for the amazing things they <u>actually</u> did.<br />
<br />
Procrastination was not in their dictionaries. Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-33683620447980392822014-02-24T15:32:00.001+00:002014-02-24T15:37:19.003+00:00Life in the Slow LaneBeing told you're fast should be perceived as a compliment.<br />
Being told you're too fast might still be taken with some sense of achievement.<br />
But being told you're too fast- in the context of slow lane swimming is not so much of a boost.<br />
<br />
The first time I encountered fat man slow - it was his rotund belly with sticky-outy belly button and faded Hawaiian shorts that caught my attention. That was certainly not the pinnacle of his presence in the water though. <br />
<br />
His repertoire of strokes seems to consist solely of the breast-stroke under-water style: blowing giant bubbles every time he goes below and coming up, he pulls the best drowning carp-mouth I've seen on a human. He must have impressive lungs.<br />
<br />
I know toddlers who could take on an entire TA assault course in the time it takes fat man slow to complete one length.<br />
<br />
I'm not one for over-taking (I'd rather cut my lap short and turn back the other way), but all three of the others in the slow lane were over-taking him, so I'm afraid I jumped on the over-take band wagon.<br />
<br />
Wish I hadn't.<br />
<br />
I've just made my third or forth over-take in 10 minutes. I'm at the deep end, about to set off on another lap. Fat man slow suddenly unleashes his pent-up fury on me. In a winey, loud Truman Capote toned voice he vents at me:<br />
<br />
"You're too fast! You shouldn't be in this lane. You should go in the other lane!"<br />
<br />
Too shocked to reply, I darted off very quickly. I avoid confrontation like David Cameron avoids answers in 'Prime Minister's Questions' and my brain goes to mush when it does happen, so there's no chance of me finding a remotely satisfactory rebuttal. <br />
<br />
Another time at the pool fat man slow gets in just as I'm finishing my session. Phew.<br />
<br />
However, I had been swimming with several fairly competent swimmers in the slow lane for 30 mins previously, and I can't help but feel sorry for them - knowing what they're in for, especially if they haven't yet experienced fat man slow's uniquely tortoise-in-slow-mo swim style.<br />
<br />
As I come out of the showers, back into the changing rooms - I hear a bit of a din coming from the pool. Someone else is falling victim to fat man slow's angry vendetta against normal speed low-lane swimmers.<br />
<br />
"You're going too fast! I wish I was as fast as you, but I can't go any faster! Please use the other lane, it's not fair." I couldn't help but chortle a little bit. I didn't hear a reply in defense.<br />
<br />
It makes me wonder if this happens every single time he swims? What makes me angry about the situation is that if you're that slow - you've got to be acceptant of some under-cutting and over-taking - same as on the roads. There's no rules against it. It should be fine as long as the over-taker leaves a wide enough berth.<br />
<br />
I'm also extremely annoyed that he vented his anger on me in particular. Why me when there were four other fellow over-takers in the slow-lane at the time?<br />
<br />
I don't think he's ever likely to graduate to the middle lane, so to avoid any future slow-lane angst, I've decided to move to the middle lane instead.<br />
<br />
Sure, I'll have to deal with being the over-taken one from time to time, but I'd rather that than being publicly humiliated or having my progress consistently hindered like a minnow stuck behind a whale. <br />
<br />Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-81857867263422104912014-02-04T16:50:00.001+00:002014-02-04T16:54:35.498+00:00A Dip into the UnknownMy friend Annie recently blogged about trying out a new pool as an alternative to running for safer pregnancy exercise. I'm doing the same (minus the bump!)<br />
<br />
I've just enrolled at a private school Sports Centre just round the corner from my new flat. It's got everything you could ever need to keep toned (inc. badminton courts!) but it's weird because there's a constant stream of students either walking past the windows with swaths of text books held to their chests as I'm cross-training in the gym or clogging up the entrance in excitable teenage huddles.<br />
<br />
I feel a bit out of place but at least they're polite, well-spoken kids who (hopefully) aren't likely to put chewing gum in my hair as a dare.<br />
<br />
In her blog, Annie remarked at the awkward 'lane etiquette' at her leisure centre of choice, surprise at the very public communal showers and subsequent topical debates going on between the soap-lathering swimmers.<br />
<br />
I'm glad there's private showers at my new pool, though I have to say I'd love to overhear a good debate between two pensioners on the morality of the people in 'Benefits Street' or Prince Charles' visit to the flood victims on the Somerset Levels. Hopefully I'll come across some eccentric characters soon.<br />
<br />
They were certainly in abundance at a private hotel pool I used to be a member of in Falmouth. I'd do a ridiculously early swim six times a week so, believe me: I got to know the pernickety habits of the bemusing regulars. There was one Mrs Trunchball-esque battle axe who looked fearsome in her plastic cap and thunder thighs. She didn't budge for anyone. Her lane was her lane, end of.<br />
<br />
The absolute pinnacle of eccentricity came in the form of a 70-something-old man smothered head-to-toe in tattoos and piercing. The cherry on top of this near-naked assemblage, as if he didn't have enough adornment already- was a speedo <b>thong</b>. Yes, really. They ranged in style from paisley to psychedelic swirls. Always colouful. Always a bit too much cheek on show.<br />
<br />
What a character indeed. None of the regulars batted an eyelid. Funny to think that I probably wouldn't have recognized him in the street, with all that body art covered up. I wasn't phased by the tats or piercings particularly, but the thong was rather amusing.<br />
<br />
You've got to have balls to carry that look. <br />
<br />
Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-18919824105784994042014-01-29T11:29:00.003+00:002014-01-29T16:45:08.962+00:00The ArchluteHaving recently moved to Clifton (the poshest part of Bristol...where all the slave owners expressed their wealth by building the mansions that I can see out of my living room bay window) and having a curious nature, I decided to take a walk on the wild side last night. I went to a club. A club that plays music, but not of the kind that involves glow sticks and hot pants.<br />
<br />
With boyfriend in tow, we entered the Bristol Music Club just at the end of our road. The programme was titled 'The Early Baroque', which I'm aware of in terms of the artistic movement, but I'm not at all familiar with the music of that era.<br />
<br />
Taking our seats in the tired but comfortably warm auditorium, I was pleasantly surprised to see the isles filling up - bearing in mind it was a bleak and damp Tuesday evening in January. <br />
<br />
I had a niggling apprehension that the night might be a bit old-school (fuddy-duddy) as the programme featured quite a lot of recorder, but the first trio up on stage was a man with an indistinguishable stringed instrument that nearly touched the ceiling even when he was seated, and two expression-full sopranos, one who was old enough to be my grandmother.<br />
<br />
I scanned through the programme as the ladies belted out 17th Century songs in Italian - searching for a name to put to their accomplice's instrument - ah ha, it's an archlute!<br />
<br />
There must have been about 20 strings to it. It looked a bit like something Errol Flynn would have played in Sherwood Forest to woo the ladies... but the neck - the neck of it looked like a traditional lute spliced with a giraffe. <br />
<br />
To illustrate the ridiculousness of the length of the archlute, with impeccable comic timing - when the player stood up to take a bow, the top of the archlute hit one of the spotlights in the ceiling.<br />
<br />
As well as making a crashing noise, a cloud of dust (or plaster) showered down on him. This caused a bit of a titter amongst the crowd, and the man on the stage although looking a bit embarrassed, took the accident in good humour.<br />
<br />
He must be used to it. With such a cumbersome piece of kit.<br />
<br />
After the interval, archlute man and his sopranos came back for a second set - we had to wait a while as he tuned up. Yet again, he had to apologize - but made it into a joke by saying that the archlute was a labour of love as he spends about 50% playing and 50% tuning. <br />
<br />
The recorders weren't actually too bad. In fact a Sonata in F major was quite captivating, especially when it was explained that the composer had written the sonata in imitation of bird song.<br />
<br />
Will we go back? Yes, I think so but not every week. There was a bar with a bowl of peanuts on it. An eclectic audience - all appreciative listeners, though I was definitely the youngest person there. <br />
<br />
Maybe I'm mellowing, but I'd rather be the youngest person at an intelligent and enlightening music club than the oldest person in a flea-pit 'clubbing' club. Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-82005634018943924122013-10-31T14:55:00.003+00:002013-10-31T15:34:24.702+00:00St Jude DogConversation overheard in a Glastonbury charity shop yesterday between a woman working behind the desk and a lingering female customer:<br />
<br />
(As predictably British as ever, the conversation is about the wake of storm St Jude, three days after its unassuming wave of disaster tickled our coastlines)<br />
<br />
<b>Lingering Customer:</b> "I had a dog called Jude... you know, named after the song 'Hey Jude'<br />
<b>Woman behind counter:</b> "Oh, lovely."<br />
<b>LC:</b> "She died last year, actually on St Jude's day. The feast day.<br />
<b>WBC:</b> Oh, right.<br />
<b>LC:</b> "Yes, it was terrible actually. She'd been ill for a while and I thought it was her time to go. I nursed her on my own, knew she was giving up. I was on my own and I had to make that decision.<br />
<b>WBC:</b> Oh, oh dear.<br />
<b>LC:</b> "I took her into the vets, the vet agreed to put her down. But it wasn't until this year, with the storm, and it being named after St Jude...that I realised my Jude had been put down on St Jude's day last year.<br />
<b>WBC: </b>Oh right.<br />
<b>LC:</b> "And it makes me think. Perhaps, if someone else, if my husband had been with me. At home, when I thought it was Jude's time to go - maybe he'd have said, no, it's not her time. She'll pull through."<br />
<b>WBC is silent, looks on awkwardly</b><br />
<b>LC:</b> But it's funny how the storm last week was called St Jude. Makes me think it's somehow making me remind myself about my dog Jude - seeing how the stormed happened on the same day that Jude died last year... <br />
<br />
<br />
Made me chuckle a bit and think how funny it is when people try to sort of free-style associate stories with current affairs and weather patterns... Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-25521167842662779132013-10-31T11:38:00.001+00:002013-10-31T11:38:06.208+00:00Scurge of the press Being a Bristol resident I was obviously aware of the Jo Yates story as it unraveled a few winters ago, and reading the vilified articles in the press about Chris Jeffries, landlord and for a time, suspected murderer of his tenant Jo.<br />
<br />
The images showed a wild-haired man, looking somewhat wild and disheveled. Small-minded people reading the tabloids would have no doubt made assumptions about Jeffries. But the derogatory and hurtful words and misleading images of Jeffries used in the press at the time have no doubt caused his friends and family much suffering and stress before the full press liable story was exposed.<br />
<br />
Until recently, I wasn't aware that Chris Jeffries is a member of the same gym as me - has been probably for longer than the three years I've been going - yet it didn't strike me that this was the man from that press frenzy, even though we've been in the gym at the same time probably a hundred times.<br />
<br />
It was the gym manager who first alerted me to him - only because we got on to the subject of documentaries and he mentioned that a certain major broadcaster was soon to be filming in the gym as part of a documentary about Chris Jeffries and his ordeal with the press and the police - clearing his name and appealing for compensation for his treatment while being under suspicion for the Jo Yates case.<br />
<br />
That image of the wild haired-man did stuck in my mind, and sure enough I saw a man in the gym (a few days after my conversation with the manager) with similar facial features - but now with very short, dark hair around the temples. A very slight and quiet man, who moves much more gracefully through the apparatus than any of the other men members.<br />
<br />
Ah ha, I thought, that's Chris Jeffries. I wonder if the stress he's been through, (wether inadvertently or directly through that derogatory image and words used in the press) caused him to change his image?<br />
<br />
Either way, I was intrigued to see him - to think about everything he must have been through over the last few years - all that unnecessary pain and anguish caused by a few vindictive, shallow-minded and callous editors. I'm happy to hear that he's at least received damages from eight newspapers who reported on the case. I hope he's finding peace now - I'll look forward to seeing the programme.<br />
<br />
This article summarizes Jeffries' ordeal very well:<br />
<a href="http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/22eac290-eee2-11e0-959a-00144feab49a.html#axzz2j9Dg9rc9">http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/22eac290-eee2-11e0-959a-00144feab49a.html#axzz2j9Dg9rc9</a><br />
<br />
Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-797428010639082962013-10-29T19:39:00.000+00:002013-10-29T19:39:11.789+00:00If you go down to the woods today...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exactly what fairy tales are made of. I could imagine the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland reclining on one of these. There were many others but this one was the most impressive as it was (as yet) untouched/un-munched. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Such stark whiteness<br />pencil sharpener furled<br />embezzled in delicate lamb-soft moss</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj0FoQXbP2gY72Box_4yPNWE4Vowy83NWPnO1MXaejjSe2-w5HgUf9JPl76JmYcI7XhbCM44nSevVrW9TVgVnoUPBMM6nxKqNTn9yPcDNaiUPgzAUspeYLc6uFwGSIwIZX9CGwtnFPyXe1/s1600/2013-10-19+12.31.06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj0FoQXbP2gY72Box_4yPNWE4Vowy83NWPnO1MXaejjSe2-w5HgUf9JPl76JmYcI7XhbCM44nSevVrW9TVgVnoUPBMM6nxKqNTn9yPcDNaiUPgzAUspeYLc6uFwGSIwIZX9CGwtnFPyXe1/s320/2013-10-19+12.31.06.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A twisted woodland fit for a Tim Burton movie</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHIk1oIbApMcaR4Q4-Y3HqtU04LUEFflYzhTtXEBS0fYAanPDlvDmXxJ067mFoXKJORDeMafZwrSR61Jzeu6twhhmyX13auQAPwrnnV0gCcxgHRgdl5MIPhupeim_LSnEkxY00L8MSlK-d/s1600/2013-10-19+14.44.17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHIk1oIbApMcaR4Q4-Y3HqtU04LUEFflYzhTtXEBS0fYAanPDlvDmXxJ067mFoXKJORDeMafZwrSR61Jzeu6twhhmyX13auQAPwrnnV0gCcxgHRgdl5MIPhupeim_LSnEkxY00L8MSlK-d/s320/2013-10-19+14.44.17.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A quiet and special moment caught as the sun came through and made the earth warm after a torrential two-hour downpour. Could double for dawn mist - deceptively mysterious. </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNYJVDgJlCQcO7uJ3vT5DjF8sQ9VZ-oyNBW-5jdd_QaQvGZ8ZylmvpvHbjw7rl0LrWACBNwa2EjVBJje2fUmJuK3uxeSDZ04iOgKKzKfyfFIRrK5ZuYV7nXODiMAX9dxY_ZU-gcJEX2aXP/s1600/2013-10-19+14.49.13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNYJVDgJlCQcO7uJ3vT5DjF8sQ9VZ-oyNBW-5jdd_QaQvGZ8ZylmvpvHbjw7rl0LrWACBNwa2EjVBJje2fUmJuK3uxeSDZ04iOgKKzKfyfFIRrK5ZuYV7nXODiMAX9dxY_ZU-gcJEX2aXP/s320/2013-10-19+14.49.13.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Otherworldly light on an autumnal afternoon</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmyPgy8tnx5b7x9Qt-FlDu052U5RMltmMv_K-EpCxLzCDgkrDRFIdISFqja6HxFFxyY_nZVge4ld5zj22eh47KWDmhzINRidpSe9gHnS0GmGV5ysTjVyQCb6eK6R5rU-eQp37dZXnSytVC/s1600/2013-10-19+15.31.59.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmyPgy8tnx5b7x9Qt-FlDu052U5RMltmMv_K-EpCxLzCDgkrDRFIdISFqja6HxFFxyY_nZVge4ld5zj22eh47KWDmhzINRidpSe9gHnS0GmGV5ysTjVyQCb6eK6R5rU-eQp37dZXnSytVC/s320/2013-10-19+15.31.59.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A line of whipped clouds on the horizon at Porlock Weir</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqmB70CzUE8H_LLdkKoZ1mxkCyJYdpt3CMJ2CMb7_AJhRrHSuqehZf1eIZIYegVudObah0wAGX0EKxo97qJkPbhzDeik0JCzyBCZVoy-g8KoY7gSzQEi4Js556jQWTcbmzg4_cVNJ8Oiy9/s1600/2013-10-19+15.37.33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqmB70CzUE8H_LLdkKoZ1mxkCyJYdpt3CMJ2CMb7_AJhRrHSuqehZf1eIZIYegVudObah0wAGX0EKxo97qJkPbhzDeik0JCzyBCZVoy-g8KoY7gSzQEi4Js556jQWTcbmzg4_cVNJ8Oiy9/s320/2013-10-19+15.37.33.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An endless wave of pebbles</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRqEjbHJlQhThFxCnfYSMVsi2GIAri6FA0X5QZHar00klRT6jYbw1EHNk4jbUEHqR3p5wOlveF784hbLoN4vkfr1Os8SUdmUGuvy4WCwCVhCbKaZebqh-k6FewKDecIJFBxXKsmg4P7-Wk/s1600/2013-10-19+15.41.02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRqEjbHJlQhThFxCnfYSMVsi2GIAri6FA0X5QZHar00klRT6jYbw1EHNk4jbUEHqR3p5wOlveF784hbLoN4vkfr1Os8SUdmUGuvy4WCwCVhCbKaZebqh-k6FewKDecIJFBxXKsmg4P7-Wk/s320/2013-10-19+15.41.02.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ships all at land</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYAI-YyqB-fk4o9Cdv_5iWc-nDiJZodqFVqzs-m4NIz8uwp1dWRpl4KOftsW4oHAZWjrepiuNp_FYxN6im0mH5cm951MQdXLKzXre6h0kCePzaN7YTilf29MvBrdIxVooNauUREeZPn7k/s1600/2013-10-19+16.01.37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYAI-YyqB-fk4o9Cdv_5iWc-nDiJZodqFVqzs-m4NIz8uwp1dWRpl4KOftsW4oHAZWjrepiuNp_FYxN6im0mH5cm951MQdXLKzXre6h0kCePzaN7YTilf29MvBrdIxVooNauUREeZPn7k/s320/2013-10-19+16.01.37.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The pomp and ceremony of a Regatta circa 1908, Porlock Weir - a tradition that I hope has stood the test of time</td></tr>
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<br />Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-29329372236430800422013-10-29T14:38:00.003+00:002013-10-29T14:38:38.914+00:00Thank you Huxley<div class="p1">
<b>Antic Hay</b></div>
<div class="p2">
<b></b><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I'm enjoying a bit of a reading renaissance. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Maybe it's the turning of the seasons that breaths an instinct within me to snuggle down, in a comfy corner and disappear into someone else's life. It's about a book a week - or more accurately one a weekend at the moment.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I learnt to be a very speedy reader back in the days when devouring three/four books a week was standard procedure for keeping-up in BA English(with Media) classes. Then there was a time when 'the career' took over and books would be dipped into/skimmed/read but not consumed or unintentionally deserted for months at a time, so passages would be re-read over and over accidentally with only the vaguest feeling of deja vu. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
The follow up to 'Easy Riders, Raging Bulls', which title evades me, is case in point - all I remember is that it concentrated heavily on the arrogant and fastidious early career of Quentin Tarantino, but was no way as engaging or memorable as 'Easy Riders' overview of the explosive arthouse scene in Hollywood during the 60s and 70s - before cinema got homogenized.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I really recommend devoting yourself to a book over a weekend. You're in absolutely no danger of forgetting characters, rereading chapters or loosing your page/makeshift bookmark. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
What I enjoyed more about consistently chugging through 'Antic Hay' by Aldous Huxley in less than 70 hours was the joy of finding new words and hunting down their definitions (somewhat lazily on my android). Maybe my vocab has diminished, or maybe it's just Huxley's superior possession of the English language but either way - there are some BIG FAT BUTTERY words in 'Antic Hay' and that's inspiring to me.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Here's some delicious, delectable Huxley-plucked words that I ear-marked because they're definitely worth trying to slip into conversation:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
*<b>Gormandizer</b> = Someone who eats gluttonously; gorging</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
*<b>Rabelaisian </b>= Display of bawdy/earthy/course humor (Ref. to Francois Rabelais, a major French Renaissance writer of satire and bawdy jokes)</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
*<b>Callipygous </b>= Having beautifully proportioned buttocks</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
*<b>Hobbledehoy </b>= A clumsy or awkward youth</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
My favourite is hobbledehoy - mainly because of the way it makes your mouth feel quite awkward while saying it. </div>
Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-17385772506883417442012-10-18T16:55:00.002+00:002012-10-18T21:18:46.920+00:00Last hint of summer...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm no stranger to mountain life (having spent two winter seasons in Chamonix), but I am unacquainted with the mountainous regions of Southern France, without that familiar dusting of snow.<br />
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Last Saturday, my boyfriend and I set off for Nice on a Sleazy Jet flight - destination: an apartment in La Brigue, a charmingly rustic village, close to the Italian boarder, north of the city.<br />
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As I've experienced many times in the past: reaching the mountains is no mean feat - that's why they're never densely populated. Life is hard beyond 1,000 ft.<br />
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Nothing gets the heart pumping more fervently when you're just clicking into holiday-mode and a seemingly minor faux pas quite significantly threatens your plans. In retrospect taking the laissez faire attitude on day one was a mistake: especially when you've only got one train service option that day, and the ticket office has a queue that would rival one at any UK Post Office during the week leading up to Xmas!<br />
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Jolted out of holiday-haziness by this distressing sight, I jumped on a much smaller queue for a ticket machine close by and nervously navigated the menus knowing that one wrong move could make the difference between shelling out for a hotel room in the city or claiming our pre-paid apartment in the mountains.<br />
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With a minute to spare we raced to the furthest away platform and claimed some seats literally as the departure whistle screeched out.<br />
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With two hours to regain our composure, we sank into comfortable train upholstery and bathed in the glorious scenery beyond the glass: interlocking mountain ranges, ravines and topsy-turvy dwellings clinging to rocks like sandy-coloured barnacles.<br />
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La Brigue proved to be a well-positioned base that presented us with the opportunity for many adventures, and a trainline that offered access to the varying terrains of an Italian ski resort (Lemone), the cote d'azure coast line and a menagerie of ancient French towns/cities. I say well-connected - but actually when the train is your only route out of the village (north and south) - you have to be astute to it's sensitive disposition and live by the timetable like a geeky university fresher.<br />
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Our apartment had two balconies - one of which opened onto the village square: the hub of the place, where dogs and drinkers and market stalls popped up at peak times during the week. There were four restaurant options (only one of which we were successful in sampling as the others either gave us 'no room at the inn' gestures or appeared to be open only on very special occasions), which was initially frustrating (for city dwellers far too used to having everything on tap within a half-mile radius), but encouraged us to become dependable on the local produce and cook our own takes on authentic cuisine. (Dauphinoise Potatoes, garlic chicken and lashings of cheese smeared veg).<br />
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A wood burner provided us with evening entertainment... to fall asleep watching the flames licking at the glass was a delightful alternative to a flatscreen TV. La Brigue was as quiet as quiet can be - though the day the fountain outside our apartment wasn't flowing really indicated a new level of noise-redundancy. It was a welcome retreat, but again, took a bit of time to adjust to after spells of manic work life in Bristol and London over the last six months.<br />
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We quickly got to grips with our surroundings - trekking around the hinterland, collecting wild-growing herbs, chestnuts and kindling on our rambles. On one of our walks up the valley, a group of old farmers were gathering apples from an orchard and one garçon kindly gave us a couple of handfuls - saying they were strictly only for cooking with. I baked them later that night, their waxy texture complimenting a locally-sourced honey, oozy, melty creme fraiche and a dusting of nutmeg. A simple delight tasting all the more sweet for the good-natured gesture behind their appearance on our table.<br />
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On another ramble back from Tende (ten minutes on the train, two hours or so by foot!), during the descent to La Brigue lingering tentatively around 1,500 ft, we very surprisingly met two people on ponies - the sound of their hooves scraping the rocky terrain reached us long before their physical form appeared. A salt-of-the-earth man (sans helmet), led confidently - (though the ponies' laboured breathing and foaming flanks signaled a turbulent mood), followed by a slightly nervous-looking young lady - also sans protection.<br />
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We joked somewhat tentatively about them being very brave for attempting this climb when we were tentatively planning our every step and we only had two feet to coordinate. Several minutes later we heard the clatter of hooves again, which I thought signaled more ponies coming up. I was quite wrong. What we saw was a rider-less pony wildly jolting and jerking down the mountain - nostrils flared and drenched in sweat. On approaching us, it whinnied loudly and tried to pass.<br />
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Flummoxed and worried, I tried to grab the mangled reins, but the pony kept prancing around. There was a ruin of a shack close to us, with the walls still intact, so I thought that maybe we should coax the pony in there until we could reunite it with the owner. Several tentative moments passed during which my boyfriend successfully grabbed the reins, and got flung around as the pony began to settle and we tried to calm it.<br />
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I waited around the corner to see if I could see the owner or hear any sign of distress. Shortly after, the man who'd been leading earlier came charging down on his pony, shouting in indistinguishable French. I admit that my basic knowledge of the French language has waned, and faltered even more in this stressful situation. He leveled with us, shouted more, gestured for us to give him the reins, jumped off the pony, grabbed both ponies and continued to run down the mountain with the ponies tumbling clumsily close to him.<br />
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We were rather shocked and felt perplexed as to how we could help the situation. I presumed that the man was going down to raise an alarm for the poor girl who presumably had fallen off the pony, and to tether the loose ponies somewhere in the village. We carried on our descent, and were surprised to see the man talking to someone on the road - the loose horse still roaming the grassy area close to the footpath. He was gesticulating - I guess to raise the alarm, then disappeared up the mountainside again on his pony.<br />
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It was a strange situation - we don't know what happened to the girl or the loose pony. I suppose the ponies are used to the mountain terrain, but they're also wild creatures, and why wouldn't you wear protection when embarking on such a precarious activity?<br />
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After a few days of challenging hiking and mountain biking - we treated ourselves to some city/beach leisure time - closer to civilization and simple luxuries such as supermarkets and bars that give you complimentary bread sticks and chips with your order. Villefranche-sur-Mer was my firm favourite beach town, reminding me of a scaled-down Barcelona with a much more idyllic and clean beachfront. The mid-october sunshine was warm enough to tempt us into the sea several times - definitely warranting an ice cream of the nutty variety as a reward.<br />
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Another sparky idea was hiring the marvelous 'Velo-bleu' bikes dotted around Nice, a scheme very similar to Boris's Bikes in London. The purchasing of a membership card was comically over-complicated, but once the account was set up in the transport centre, we couldn't help but maximize the service to whizz around the city - including the beach promenade (dodging bladers, runners and doddery tourists) all the way along to the airport and the seaport busting with bling yachts at the opposite end. We probably got a bit too carried away, as the bikes' rather ruddy three-gears certainly couldn't cope with the hills beyond the port, but we covered a lot of ground regardless and were pleased with the accessible and plentiful drop-off points for our weary steeds.<br />
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My other stand-out destination was a sleepy village called Saorge, perched, nay clutching onto the side of a south-facing mountainside that glistened gold when viewed in the early morning light the first time we were alerted to the existence of the village by an excited local on one of our numerous train journeys down the valley. I only wished we'd discovered Saorge a day earlier. Wednesdays seem to be a ghost-town day. Reading the tourist board on entry to the village we got excited by the prospect of a honey producer, butcher, plentiful dining options, a few bars and a cafe. Bingo!<br />
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However, after a diligent search through the narrow streets - the <i>only </i>establishments actually open were a small cafe and its adjoining gift shop. Having not eaten anything since breakfast (it was now 3.30pm, and we'd also failed at finding food in the village across the other side of the railway line), the cafe looked like mecca and there was a menu board outside that suggested that they sold sandwiches. Actual sandwiches, with about four fillings to choose from!<br />
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We confidently ordered a pan bagnet and a fromage et gambon in French, along with coffee and tea. The ethereally elegant lady who took our order said it simply was not possible to order sandwiches - why hadn't we phoned to make an order? There was nothing on the menu to signal the transaction she so fervently insisted was 'de rigueur'. We were flummoxed. Maybe the tea would come with a complimentary biscuit that would keep our appetites under control till dinner?<br />
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We waited with baited breath. The lady popped her head round the door frame and said something like, 'I've managed to order your sandwiches... they will arrive soon... though you should have phoned first.' Where were the sandwiches being made? Would they arrive before we needed to get the last train back up the valley?<br />
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In the meantime out beverages arrived. What a delicious sight: gorgeous china wear from a bygone era, tea in a massive pot complete with one of those contraptions that stops the leaves escaping into the water. Our cups were large, and perched on the side of my coffee cup was a petite homemade biscuit, and next to my boyfriend's teacup nestled a rather generous slice of honey cake (probably sourced from the honey shop just opposite - where we purchased a jar of chestnut-infused nectar and some hazelnut praline about half an hour previously).<br />
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The spread on our table looked so magnificent I had to take some photos. Saorge felt magical: verging on the edge of humanity - and this otherness was also reflected in the sublime-tasting produce. Our sandwiches were soon delivered by a local man, who then stopped in for some tea. Definitely the best sandwich I'd tasted all holiday: a fishy, crusty ensemble oozing with oil, herbs and juicy tomatoes. Such a shame we had to make a dash for the train and that the bar next door was closed - we both agreed that had it been open, we'd stay for some drinks and sample the enticing array of tarts listed on their specials board. <br />
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On our last day we woke late to a rather cloudy skyline - the first during our holiday. Determined to make the most of it, we got on the train to Limone - a ski resort just two stops (through a very long tunnel) from La Brigue. A picturesque town only tainted by the fact that it was also a ghost town (inter season), and that the ski lifts were closed, but as the cloud wasn't lifting - we weren't too miffed.<br />
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We soon found a trendy cafe bar in the centre and I sank a few espressos laced with Amaretto to give me the energy to hike. The rather forlorn man in the tourist info centre (I suppose he had every right to be forlorn - being posted there to give info to people during the quietest time of the year) gave us a map and suggested a fairly short walk we could do that gives a good view of the resort at higher altitude. We set off and snaked through a wooded pathway that sadly illustrated a disturbing imbalance between abandoned chalet construction and natural beauty.<br />
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We reached the top following a rather quaint sequence of wooden signs with lemons depicting our chosen route, and settled with a bottle of cider - making sandwiches from our various scraps of cheeses, hams and pate. We hadn't passed a single soul. After our picnic we took the same route down and tried to find the ski lift station, to see if it might be worth making a return trip once the winter snow had made an appearance.<br />
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There were some good accommodation and ski pass combo offers in a brochure we picked up, but it's so hard to tell if the resort would be worth coming to if the place doesn't have that seasonal buzz about it when you're actually there.<br />
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Slaves to the train timetable, we waited for our final locomotive to arrive at La Brigue, 6:30am the following day. Uh oh, it's late. Not late enough to warrant panic, but enough to know we had to be on-guard during our change at Ventimiglia. That was fine, and we had enough time to grab a quick takeaway Italian style coffee, to go with our honey-covered croissants.<br />
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On arrival at Nice train station, I was desperate to find a toilet, so as my boyfriend went to join the queue for the airport transfer, I ran onto the platform to find the facilities. As I ran along, I saw some familiar faces. Not familiar faces from real life - but faces from the movies. And they were making a movie right at that exact moment. It was Jude Law and Richard E Grant, and the scene was one of the first for a movie coming out next year called <a href="http://www.empireonline.com/news/story.asp?NID=35496">Dom Hemingway</a>. I didn't know that at the time - I only really realised it was a movie set as I clocked the director and started noticing people beyond with ear-pieces as well as a white Rolls Royce parked round the side, which I'm presuming was for the characters' getaway.<br />
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It was such a surreal encounter - I really hope I didn't interrupt the scene with my scruffy, end-of-holiday attire and manically contorting 'busting-for-the-loo' face. There was nothing holding the general public back, so I guess they didn't want to call attention to the production by cordoning off the platform.<br />
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I was so tempted to stick around, talk to one of the loitering techies/runners and find out more about the production - but we had a plane to catch. Emerging from the toilets I tried to walk past again - as nonchalantly as possible this time. I came out of the station grinning like a lunatic, bursting to tell my boyfriend about my first proper 'movie set' experience.<br />
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I know there's loads of waiting around and epic ego-clashing intrinsically linked with drama production, but that fateful day I walked into two A list actors' bubble for a fleeting moment, and I liked it very much.<br />
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<br />Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-78105236685678642162012-05-17T14:32:00.006+00:002012-06-14T06:48:08.848+00:00Doc/Futures<span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">I'm </span>overwhelmed<span style="font-size: 100%;">.</span></span><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">After years of skirting around the media industry - not-quite finding my niche, but enjoying the </span>tumultuous<span style="font-size: 100%;"> ride and various soul-shacking </span>knock-backs<span style="font-size: 100%;">: I've finally found my true calling.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">Documentary. I love people. I'm curious. I'm a perfectionist when it comes to organising. What does all this tell me? I was born to be a documentary writer/producer/director.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">So, thus far, I've dabbled (fairly successfully) in journalism (published in The Stage, The Ecologist, Stranger Magazine), copywriting (commercial clients include:</span></span><a href="http://www.architecture.com/" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "> RIBA</a><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">, </span></span><a href="http://www.kier.co.uk/construction/company.asp?co=10&x=1" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">KIER Construction</a><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">, </span></span><a href="http://www.travelzest.com/" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">TravelZest</a><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">), PR (Clients include </span></span><a href="http://barefootbride.co.uk/" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">Barefoot Bride</a><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">, </span></span><a href="http://www.rainbowfitness.org/" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">Rainbow Fitness</a><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">), short drama (</span></span><a href="https://vimeo.com/41668802" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">writing</a><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">/</span></span><a href="https://vimeo.com/38647159" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">producing</a><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">/</span></span><a href="https://vimeo.com/32774008" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">directing</a><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">/set design/marketing/distribution), commercial video/internet viral production, </span></span><a href="http://wickswordweb.blogspot.co.uk/" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">blogging</a><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"> and </span></span><a href="https://twitter.com/#!/Holly_Wicks" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">Tweeting</a><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">. </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">That, coupled with a smidgen of life experience in rather exciting countries (two winter ski seasons in France, one summer in California), and more years than I'd care to admit part-timing in hospitality - well I think it's all stuff that's finally merging to give me a glorious </span>advantageous view point of the world, its exceptionally diverse people and sources to draw on now I'm mature enough to process and reflect on everything I've learnt along the way.</span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">From my hospitality experience I can boast a matrix of odd situations / people / locations that are ripe to be fictionalised or </span>actualized in documentary form, I suppose depending on access to these people and their level of interest or receptivity to either proposition.</span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">From my writing experience - I know I can churn out words at a smart pace, with as much artistic flair or user-friendliness as required. I can pitch, review, analyze, critique and create a tone for whatever audience I'm writing for. Long form or short - I'm undaunted by the variety of briefs I have to tackle, it's all experience and I think my journalist's 'thick-skin' helps me deal with rejection and realise that nothing is ever wasted, there's always another outlet that will more perfectly fit that particular idea. I will find a home for it. (But also know when something's dead in the water - to let it go and move on to pastures new)</span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">It was a strong determination to re-connect with my grandpa two years ago that spurred me on to independent documentary production. '</span><a href="https://vimeo.com/25225871" style="font-size: 100%; ">Prickly Relationship</a><span style="font-size: 100%;">' was born partly through </span>curiosity<span style="font-size: 100%;"> and partly to re-establish a relationship with a man I'd know well as a child but not as an adult. I approached grandpa Stephen to ask if I could film him talking about his </span>gargantuan Cacti plant collection. What ensued was a deeply moving exploration of a man with a life-long passion for horticulture that is as strong as his religious faith. I'm incredibly proud of the film, and incredibly privileged to have documented/archived one extraordinary man's story before his story is jumbled by old age and infirmity. </span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >Most fittingly, Prickly was screened in Bournemouth (Stephen's home town) a few weeks ago. A proud moment for all the family, even though none of us were able to attend. I'm still touting the film around to festivals and such - but the excessive entry fees make it mean feat. <span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">I felt completely at home interviewing (again, I suppose my journalist background plays a part in being able to strike up a good </span>rapport<span style="font-size: 100%;"> with contributors), love listening to people's stories and piecing a story together in the edit. My editing skills are not very developed, but I like to think that I know how to construct a documentary narrative, helped by my screenwriting tuition and years of watching/reading drama.</span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">Delightful how it all feeds in together. Love the fluidity and complexity - and that documentary is so </span>outrageously<span style="font-size: 100%;"> unpredictable, yet you have to predict certain 'plot-points' and be able to adapt to situations that might either take you closer to the drama or inadvertently lead to a dead-end. I suppose, again, as I'm so used to the </span>unpredictability<span style="font-size: 100%;"> of people in all areas of my work and social life - I know I can cope in any situation, keep a clear head and act diplomatically, or gauge the bigger picture and adapt to support and resolve. </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">Since making 'Prickly Relationship', I've mentored and developed a few other projects including <a href="https://vimeo.com/38464218">Brave Face</a> (working closely with award-winning writer/director Peter Snelling)- made teasers for and pitched '<a href="https://vimeo.com/38647159">A Stately Facade</a>' at Cornwall Film Festival, Encounters Short Film Fest, DFG Mini-Meet Market, Doc/Futures workshop and even got invited to a meeting with <a href="http://www.loveproductions.co.uk/">Love Productions</a> who are keen to develop the story further. </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">I'm beginning to develop a style and savvy that complements my personal outlook on life, and my grasp on the industry is increasing through an avid interest in research and a desire to be at the top of my game when it comes to marketing my work and keeping up with social media to hook an audience. </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">All this </span>persistence<span style="font-size: 100%;"> is paying off. I was recently invited to attend a fabulous documentary workshop in Newcastle a few weeks ago (as part of </span><a href="http://sheffdocfest.com/" style="font-size: 100%; ">Sheffield Doc/Fest</a><span style="font-size: 100%;"> Doc/Futures talent development scheme), where for the first time ever - I engaged with a room full of docu makers with an equal amount of passion for storytelling as me. An </span>absolute<span style="font-size: 100%;"> pleasure and </span>privilege<span style="font-size: 100%;"> to be surrounded by a bunch of caring and creative people all eager to share their ideas and give </span>invaluable<span style="font-size: 100%;"> feedback. I felt at home in that realm, embraced and supported, ready to be nurtured and comfortable to talking about my projects and being open to future collaboration.</span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">In the past (I've only ever attended short film festivals or events geared towards fictional film production), I've found networking events and festivals a bit excluding and </span>cliquey - feeling like an outsider with no inclination to bother the commissioners/celebs/speakers or strike up artificial relationships with people who may or may not be able to further my career. </span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">I've learnt to be an observer at these social events and act accordingly depending on the mood and my personal confidence to be brave enough to use my subversive schmoozing tactics. Sometimes I'm fairly </span>successful<span style="font-size: 100%;">, and the more natural and personable I am, the more receptive people are.</span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">After the workshop in Newcastle, the twenty attendees were </span>eligible<span style="font-size: 100%;"> to apply for an access-all-areas delegate pass, free accommodation, travel and mentoring for all five days of the Sheffield Doc/Fest this month. So fired up from my new learnings and new documentary contacts - I set about holing myself up in my bedroom/office (PJs being uniform of choice) for the </span>entirety<span style="font-size: 100%;"> of the May bank holiday weekend in order to write two </span><a href="http://www.ifeatures2.co.uk/" style="font-size: 100%; ">iFeatures2</a><span style="font-size: 100%;"> submissions (5,000 words approx in total) along with my pitch for the festival pass. Not since my Masters dissertation have I written so much in such a short space of time. </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">I was in my element - thriving on the pressure/necessity to produce words... using the</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> coffee hits and nervous energy/sleep deprivation to feed my creativity and test my capability to the limit.</span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">I was ever-so-slightly-unhinged by the Tuesday deadline - having to write one of my <a href="http://vetofilms.com/">partner's</a> biography in the last half hour and find links to his work online certainly tested my shattered nerves - but by gosh, the sense of </span>achievement<span style="font-size: 100%;"> as I hit 'submit' for the final time was well worth </span>teetering<span style="font-size: 100%;"> on the edge for the love of story - or the distant yet vaguely realistic promise of documentary </span>notoriety<span style="font-size: 100%;">. </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">I leant a lot about myself that weekend - after I'd given myself a little time to reflect and come down from the adrenaline high. I learnt that I can perform under pressure, I'm willing to take risks - truly push the </span>boundaries<span style="font-size: 100%;">, and that I have a brilliant team of friends and collaborators to draw on when I can find funding for my next project. </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">Even if my two submissions don't get selected for further </span>development<span style="font-size: 100%;">, I've got two treatments to edit and improve on (giving them the time to breath and send out for feedback), a list of </span>people<span style="font-size: 100%;"> I'd love to work with in the future and my name has been attached to two documents that may be being read by some </span>influential<span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span>honchos<span style="font-size: 100%;"> at </span><a href="http://www.creativeengland.co.uk/" style="font-size: 100%; ">Creative England</a><span style="font-size: 100%;"> which could somehow influence my career and get me noticed by the right people in the industry.</span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">As if I wasn't already riding a high from all the writing, I then found out last week that I'd been one of the lucky 10 (selected from 40 applicants) to attend Sheffield Doc/Fest as a delegate. Over-bowled doesn't even begin to describe how </span>privileged<span style="font-size: 100%;"> I feel. It couldn't be happening at a more </span>poignant<span style="font-size: 100%;"> time, when I'm just brimming with ideas and passion for </span>documentary<span style="font-size: 100%;">. So eager to prove my dedication and determination to become a feature documentary producer/director. </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">I know I still have much to learn and that I really need to develop my director's 'vision', but this opportunity will </span>undoubtedly<span style="font-size: 100%;"> give me that all-important push in the right direction. </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div>Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-72011794960563809082012-04-03T18:25:00.003+00:002012-04-03T20:02:56.030+00:00A Face to a Crime<span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">I received a press clipping in the post from my mum the other day. She likes to keep me in the loop with various happenings in the area where I grew up.</span></span><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">This bit of news had a particular </span>resonance<span style="font-size: 100%;"> for me as the startlingly pretty girl in the photo accompanying the piece was one of the documentary contributors I worked with on a <a href="http://www.firstlightonline.co.uk/">First Light</a> short film commission just before Xmas. </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">Rhiannon was the only girl at the young offenders residential centre who wanted to participate in the documentary, and she certainly made an impact - even before we knew her story. She was carrying around an aura of damaged hopelessness. She wouldn't hold eye contact with any of us, and her body language was very closed. I noticed scars on her arms from self-harming, and although she had a stunning figure, she seemed to be completely lacking in confidence - choosing to sit away from the rest of us in our first meeting... drawing her name in sprawling graphics on a piece of paper at the table - eyes down when she spoke and circling over the letters, tracing them like that's all she could do to keep her temper at bay. </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">The only twinkle of positively that we witnessed from this fragile-looking girl came when she exclaimed that we might be able to help her become an actress in Hollywood. My heart sank - I know most teenage girls dream of being enveloped in the glitz and glamour of stardom but did she really think that talking about one of more than 30 crimes she was waiting to be charged for (at that time) could possibly help project her as a screen </span>siren<span style="font-size: 100%;">? </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">Rhiannon's boyfriend had to fill in the permission form I gave her as she wasn't sure how to spell their address. The other four contributors (all boys under the age of 21) opened up quickly and told the stories leading to their crimes straight to Pete with the sound recorder - but Rhiannon asked to be alone for her interview. When they were finished - the anguish on Pete's face alone told us that her story had been tragic.</span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">During a short break, Pete revealed that Rhiannon's story involved drinking, and a stealing spree - culminating in an unprovoked attack on a much younger girl in a park. Even though I knew she was incredibly damaged, I couldn't get my head around the fact that the quiet yet volatile girl in the next room had bitten another girls' breast, then pulled her along the ground by the hair, until friends stepped in to make Rhiannon let go. </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">The week-long shoot was incredibly haunting and emotionally draining, as the stories unravelled and our friendship with the contributors deepened. I didn't feel unsafe, or threatened - the only thing I was worried about was keeping an eye on the petty cash and camera kit, as we knew several of the resident were serial thieves. Ironically enough, although they didn't steal anything from us, the week after, Pete got a call from the kids' youth support leader to say that two of the boys we'd interviewed had been kicked out for attempting to steal the TV in the communal area - an area they </span>blatantly<span style="font-size: 100%;"> knew was monitored by CCTV cameras. </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">I'd wondered why this First Light film had taken so much longer to be released - the other we made around the same time, </span><a href="http://www.mypockets.co.uk/braveface.htm" style="font-size: 100%; ">Brave Face</a><span style="font-size: 100%;"> (about a community of young people affected by the summer riots in Edmonton) went live a few weeks ago. I suppose now, seeing Rhiannon's face in the local press means that she's finally been sentenced for the crime she talked about in the documentary</span><span style="font-size: 100%;">. I haven't yet seen a final cut of the documentary, but I do know that Pete didn't want to show the faces of any of the contributors in case it threw up any legal disputes. </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">Rhiannon has been sentenced to ten months at a Young Offenders Institute, and pleaded guilty to the crime. At the time of filming, she showed little remorse for the attack - as did all bar one of the other contributors. Will this sentence put Rhiannon on course to a happier life? I'd like to hope so - it would be such a waste of life to see her get sucked down again, repeating a routine of </span>escapism<span style="font-size: 100%;"> sort through drink and drugs which will inevitably lead to violence. </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">I feel such great sadness looking at her face in the black and white picture in front of me - I mean I have no doubt the courts reached the right decision, but I spent a week with this girl and I definitely witnesses moments - no, sparks of </span>intelligence<span style="font-size: 100%;"> and wit hidden - </span>buried<span style="font-size: 100%;"> below a steely exterior scarred by years of neglect and abuse. It's going to take a lot to make Rhinannon whole again, but I think the first and most poignant thing that's missing from Rhiannon's life is love. But who's going to give that to her when most of the people she knows are also lacking the capacity to love and be loved? </span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div>Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-80287085111142669802012-03-14T23:22:00.011+00:002012-04-01T21:30:01.443+00:00Needless worry or needful adrenaline-kick?<span style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; " ><span>Well. I </span>needn't<span> have worried about the race - my finish time, or what to eat the night before - anything really. I made it. My second Half Marathon outing, was actually (a bit of) a breeze in retrospect.</span></span><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">I was sick with nerves the night before. Woke up at around 5.00am on race day with enough </span><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">nausea blighting my stomach to render sleep </span><span>obsolete<span>. I wasn't actually sick, but I then spent those tentative pre-race hours rushing around worrying I would forget something important like my timer chip or race number, or safety pins. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div><span ><span>I got my bag of stuff together and walked up to the bus stop, thinking that today of all days, my legs could do without that 40 minute walk to Temple Meads station. However, there wasn't another bus (being a Sunday after all) until 9.30 and I needed to be on a train to Bath by then. In a panic, I ran back down to the flat (only about 30 strides away) and rather apologetically got my housemate Victoria out of bed to give me a lift. The station was heaving with runners and a barrage of spectator-baggage, but somehow I managed to get a seat in 1st class - there wasn't an inch un-trampled anywhere on the length or </span>breadth<span> of the train. </span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><span>I agitatedly listened and watched as close-neighbouring runners discussed their morning routine, pinning their numbers on - eating bananas: checking playlists. I felt alone, scared - like waiting for the first day of an elite club I had tasted but didn't quite feel qualified to be embraced by. But, I knew that I'd see a few familiar faces at the <a href="http://www.pennybrohncancercare.org/">Penny Brohn Cancer Care</a> tent, and that mum and Phil would be there at some point, once they'd swum through the </span>furor.<span> </span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >After a few (perhaps unnecessary) portaloo stops on entering the Runners Village, I found the BPCC tent and Andrew (fundraising manager) wished me luck and offered me a banana. No thanks.... too nervous... hope I've had enough water to keep me hydrated but not too much to make me need another pee - (I have this OCD-esque tick with running where I'm not allowed to stop for ANYTHING, not to walk, not to drink, not to check my laces - once I'm going, I'm going). </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><span>As we chatter, I hear the anouncer calling us up, and I join the ever-expanding crowd of idiots in spandex, headbands, make-shift utility belts loaded with energy-fueling potions and bare skin - mostly silent, interspersed with nervous ramblings from (I'm being </span>presumptuous<span>) first timers. </span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><span>It took around 15 minutes to reach my place near the front - I had a little 'c' next to my race number, which meant I was in the category of 1-2 hour finish time runners - felt good to be amongst the serious people. I looked to my left and saw not-to-convincingly-disguised actress/TV presenter, Nadia Sawalha on my left pimped out in all the latest gadgetry, calmly chatting to her partner in equally body-enhancing armour. At this point, even though I was tempted to listen to their conversation - I plugged into my iPod and began to zone out - as I always do when psyching up for a run. Music is an absolute necessity, and I'm glad Andrew told me to hide my iPod (they are banned, though I don't remember reading about it in the programme!), as I'd have been rather perturbed had it been confiscated at this </span>pivotal<span> point.</span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><span>Vampire Weekend's '<i>A-Punk</i>' got me off to a gleefully bouncy start - mood-lifting music for such a glorious morning. So glad I strategically crafted a playlist to accommodate the different transition points in the race: light-hearted and bouncy for the first 40mins, harder/faster for the mid section then </span>euphoric favourites for the home-straight. Seemed to work pretty well, and I was very glad to have sewn a pocket into my shorts to hold my iPod and energy gel pouch so I was hands-free for maximum arm propelling. </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><span>I ran at a constant pace, just outside my comfort-zone for the duration and although I didn't feel quite the same adrenaline buzz that I had achieved at my first half marathon last year - I was still ecstatic to have shaved 8 minutes off my previous finish time. Did the handful of jelly babies grabbed and snaffled from a bowl on the sidelines of the second lap give me the extra energy boost I needed to push harder through the 'runner's wall'? Was it possible the weird pouch of sickly, banana-flavoured gloop (aka super intense-carb gel) provided a placebo or a real sixth-gear lever to help me sail towards the final straight? I'm pretty sure through sheer will-power I would have made it unaided - though I mustn't dismiss these man-made stimulants if they offer even a vague hint of physical/mental </span>empowerment<span>.</span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span ><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span >I'm annoyed with myself for not studying the course map more thoroughly before the race as I think I could have run faster through the last mile or two. But, as I didn't see the last couple of mile markers, and I wasn't really familiar with the end part of the route through the city - I didn't properly push for a sprint until the finish line was in sight.</span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span ><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span ><span>I passed the line neither grinning like a lunitic nor waving my hands in the air. I didn't clock my time on a fancy-pants wrist watch, or collapse in a heap. I was relieved (as it was such a hot morning) though not too tired. I continued walking all the way back to the runners village - picking up my medal, and goody bag along the way. Mum and Phil were waiting for me at the PBCC tent, and both </span>exuberantly<span> hugged my sweaty torso. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span><span ><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span><span >I was one of the first PBCC runners back (out of 30 running for the charity) and also the first girl. See my official race placing <a href="http://bathhalf.sportsystems.co.uk/ss/results/Bath%20Half%20Marathon/830">here</a>. I chatted to a guy who'd been level with me a lot of the course... we'd played a bit of a game of over-take, undertake - though I think he finished a minute or two before me in the end. I ate some gorgeously healthy PBCC-homemade flapjack and did some stretches in the sun. Mum handed me a hand mirror and a wet wipe so I could remove a crust of mineral-sweat from my eyebrows (who said running wasn't glamourous?!). </span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span ><br /></span></span></div><div><span ><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span><span>Mum, Phil and I then walked through the centre of Bath, stopping for a coffee and to watch the street busking. We were booked into Bath Spa at 2pm, and my god was I ready for some water-immersion to rest my bones. The roof-top pool was heaven - an oasis in the midst of a </span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">desert of sandy Bath stone and </span><span><span><span>tiles. I lolled in the shallows until it was time for my treatment - a German sauna involving hay and camomile scented heat filtration. Strange yet oddly enticing. Couldn't quite imagine myself lying in a meadow but the </span>naturalistic<span> scent did make me feel deeply relaxed. I'm glad I opted for the medium-heat booth though as my body's capacity to fight light-headedness was on the verge of collapse. </span></span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div><span ><span>20 minutes later I emmerged from the treatment room feeling calm, serene, hungry and a little dizzy, so we headed to the cafe for a smootie and chicken sandwich. Energy levels perked back up, we decided on one last 'scented pod' steamer, then I trawled through the rabbit warren of inter-</span>compartmental<span> changing rooms in an attempt to find my locker again. </span></span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >I said goodbye to Mum and Phil as they caught their onward train at Temple Meads, jumped on a bus back to Redland and cooked myself a healthy yet decedent stir-fry with coconut milk and peanutbutter satay sauce. Followed swiftly by bed, though it took some time to drift off as I could feel every fibre of my being reconfiguring/rebuilding and contracting/expanding in order to repair from the race. It was such a strange sensation and then I suddenly got very cold, so I had to get up, boil a hot water bottle and take an iboprofen. Next day I was only achy round my lower back - headed off for work on my bike, walked off the back pain and was back in the gym the following morning, with achy knees being my only gripe. </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div><span ><span>I've officially been training for almost a year now (combo of running/cycling/gym) and it's just kind of become </span>normality<span>. I'm sticking to a healthy yet challenging routine - where variety of terrain and duration are keeping me on the path to long-term motivation. I've not felt this fit in years, and although the weight is not exactly falling off, I do feel strong and toned and ready for the next race. </span></span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span ><span><span>I find it strange that although I am not a competative person, I do enjoy the buzz of race day - there's a need for the crowd to be there to help me face-up to those last few miles. I think I need it to make me forget my body and focus on mind over matter. The fundraising for </span></span><a href="http://www.pennybrohncancercare.org/" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">Penny Brohn Cancer Care</a><span><span> is another push - I don't think I could do all this as a personal challenge alone. I've raised almost £1,000 in two races, and although I know it'll be harder to beat higher money targets now most of my friends and family have contributed - I guess I'll just have to be more innovative with my fundraising methods/tactics. I'm thinking a spring fete themed cake bake-off may be my next endeavour to raise my combined target of £300 for the Bristol 10k and Half Marathon later this year.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >Gulp. Better get my trainers on - it's Sunday and the sun is shining - absolutely no excuses not to activate those endorphins. </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >If you'd like to donate to PBCC, my JustGiving page is still open for online contributions: <a href="http://www.justgiving.com/Holly-Wicks0">http://www.justgiving.com/Holly-Wicks0</a></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span > </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span ><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span > </span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></span></div>Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-23764834575145112602012-02-27T21:34:00.009+00:002012-03-02T07:38:33.775+00:00Struggling to reach second-time euphoria<span style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>So, I'm just 13 days away from my second 1/2 marathon </span>outing<span> in six months. I'm not afraid to admit that I'm more scared than the first time around: firstly because I haven't managed to raise anywhere near as much money for <a href="http://www.pennybrohncancercare.org/">Penny Brohn Cancer Care </a> (total is at £150 at the moment, which doesn't even cover my required donation) thus far, and I want to get a faster race time - which means I need to push harder to make my body stronger.</span></span><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span>I've been keeping up a regular running/gym pattern (around 6/7 hours of fitness a week) since I was basking in the self-congratulatory sense of achievement when brandishing my first 1/2 marathon medal in September 2011. I've been increasing the intensity/duration of my runs over the last few weeks, and adding more resistance training in the gym to strengthen my upper body. I know I'm fit, if not fitter than in the lead up to the Bristol 1/2, but for some reason, I can't quite strike the same note of utter </span>dedication - can't quite loose my body's gripes in the total mind-over-matter mentality<span>. Perhaps, like with everything in life: your first time is always the most special or memorable. It's impossible to recreate that moment of euphoria. </span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">I know I can try harder with fundraising, but I needed an extra push to remind me why I'm putting myself through this again. For a start, to see my mum </span><span>positively brimming and buzzing with enthusiasm after her three day residential course at the Penny Brohn Centre in Pill helped me to understand the ethos of the charity and gave me a greater insight into their work with cancer sufferers. Penny Brohn's ethos is to help cancer suffers live with cancer - 'live' being the </span>operative<span> word. The NHS or 'sausage factory', as my mum and her best friend (who has had both breasts removed due to cancer) call it, remove the life-eating cells, but Penny Brohn Cancer Care enable cancer sufferers and their families deal with life once they've been spat out of that machine - lost, confused and emotionally weak. </span></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><span><span><span>The number of caner sufferers is predicted to steeply increase and although more </span>efficient <span>treatments and procedures are also increasing- there needs to be more of a support network to make sure cancer sufferers can readjust to life after invasive surgery. The Penny Brohn method has been </span></span>practiced here for thirty years, and though the charity was founded in Bristol - the team are currently setting up outreach centres, which will meet the needs of patients </span><span>around the country </span><span>more directly.</span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span>I'm so glad I took up the offer to go along to a special 'Runners Day' at the Penny Brohn Centre (6 miles out of Bristol) on Saturday - an opportunity to meet other runners raising money for Penny Brohn, tour the facilities at the centre, be given expert tips from a physio, a nutritionist, and training expert and also use the day as the perfect opportunity to try out a new running route that encompassed 12.34 miles along the </span>estuary<span> between Pill and Leigh Woods. </span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span>I set off in the sunshine, with iPod tuned to a new training playlist, with just a roughly written set of directions in the pocket of my Fred Perry tennis shorts, hoping that the weather would be kind to me. It was a beautifully warm day, and I was fired up - excited about the new route and having a meaningful interval to look forward to. I made it to the centre in 48 minutes, covering just over 6 miles. </span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span>As per usual, I strode in looking like a punched beatroot, and was greeted by Andrew, the fundraising manager - who had been at the finish line at the Bristol 1/2 marathon, and was probably not surprised to see me in such a state, as I'd been in the same condition then too. The centre is part </span>Georgian<span> mansion, complete with cedar trees lining the drive and sandy stone walls glowing warmly in the early spring sunshine. There are additional wings surrounding the old chassie, tastefully and complementarily fitting in, with ornate but unpretentious landscaped gardens dotted around the expansive grounds. </span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span>We were offered all sorts of holier-than-holy ethical teas with no less than three milk-but-not-milk alternatives to cows stuff. Impressed - they take nutrition very seriously, as was represented in the gluten free/wheat free mango and pecan squares smuggly waiting to be consumed. Yumm, probably tastier (and much less calorific) as a ten </span>kilos<span> of butter-type recipe from Nigella. I opted for two glasses of water to cool myself down a bit, followed by a Chai with Organic Manuka honey and rice milk.</span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span>Even though I was the only one who looked the part of the dedicated runner - I was the novice of the group. The trainer who talked us through race-day kit and trainers had done about 6 full marathons, 12 1/2 marathons and countless ridiculous rough-challenges for those runners who have to have pain as their companion at all times. The other runners where all either seasoned 1/2 marathon runners or in training for the London Marathon this year. I was slightly in awe... never been much of a running geek, but being in a room full of pros for the first time made me excited about running again - I wanted to learn about their experiences and how they get through the runners 'wall'. (Which I think is the technical term for my lack-luster.)</span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span>After a demo by a physio on how injuries are picked up from dodgy running technique, and how to prevent this, we then talked carbs, sports drinks (which I detest and will not be adding to my routine) and pre/post race day eating plans. I learned a few surprising facts about energy expenditure and the importance of eating protein to rebuild muscle after training. Aside from that, we discussed trainers, kit and looked at a whole bunch of scarily </span>expensive<span> 'tights' which apartently help circulation and support the flabby bits to decrease wobble and make you more </span>aerodynamic<span>... I will not be convinced to part with £62 for a pair of glorified leggings. No thanks, I'll stick to my hotch-potch approach to attire and avoid cotton, which I totally agree is the runners worst enemy when it comes to sweat-entrapment.</span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span>I gulped down an extra half of too-good-to-be-real cake and a tour of the centre commenced with Andrew taking us top to bottom incorporating treatment rooms for reiki, massage and contemplation, an art room, nutritional demo kitchen and group-</span>therapy<span> rooms. The art room is apparently the least used room in the centre which I found surprising and a great shame to see all the new resources sitting dormant in a light-filled space facing the formal gardens. </span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">I thought the centre felt like a luxury spa crossed with a hippy commune - minus the hippyish </span><span>pretensions/procrastinations and not a whiff of </span><span>incense</span><span><span> to be made </span>drowsy<span> by. Oatmeal carpets, warm oaty-coloured walls, calming lighting, floods of light through generous windows, and quiet aside from the faint sound of the water features outside: the Penny Brohn Centre would make anyone feel </span></span><span>instantly</span><span> </span><span>at home. </span></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><span>The centre used to be £900 per resident for a three day retreat, but the team recently decided to loose the exclusivity tag, making it is free to anyone suffering or in recovery from cancer. Before I set off, Andrew and the runners discussed why more people don't know about Penny Brohn - there are hundreds of cancer charities, but none of them take the same approach to non-invasive therapy: bolstering the body by teaching sufferers the </span><span>importance</span><span><span> of using a strong </span>immune<span> system to fight again the </span></span>alien<span> cancer cells attacking their bodies. </span></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>I hope that the emergence of more Penny Brohn Centres around the country will create awareness and drum up more support from independent donators, corporate sponsors and government agencies. In the meantime, I'll keep trying to spread their good work - I've seen such a positive change in my mum's attitude to life after cancer, she's still brimming from her time at the centre over a month ago, and is looking forward to returning again soon for a week's retreat - where I know she'll try and get that art room full of people creating pieces of work that address their worries and release some negativity and apprehensions. </span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>Back out in the sun, a little after 2pm, I hit the tow-path, following the meandering estuary back under the suspension bridge and back up to Clifton - clocking 6.34 miles in 50 minutes - head up, powering through, hitting my stride. Nothing like a dose of inspiration to fuel one's personal motivation.</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><span>Please donate to Penny Brohn Cancer Care and support my marathon effort here: </span><a href="http://www.justgiving.com/Holly-Wicks0">http://www.justgiving.com/Holly-Wicks0</a></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span> </span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></span></div>Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-28179082849472135952012-02-05T16:34:00.003+00:002012-02-07T22:28:50.224+00:00Nights at The CubeMy education in indie cinema has reached a new level of heightened obscurity. <div><br /></div><div>I was getting delightfully accustomed to the eclectic and offbeat offerings at The Watershed, then I strayed deeper into the indie abyss and stumbled across The Cube Cinema, just off Kings Square, Stokes Croft. The Cube is so off-kilter that it makes The Watershed feel like the director's luxury suite at Cinema De Lux. The location alone should have signaled the alternative nature of this venue (it's wedged between a couple of intimidating tower blocks, just behind a rather attractive Georgian facade.) But with the tempting invitation to screen a film for free on an ample cinema screen in a city of diversity - I eagerly crossed the threshold with my short documentary, <a href="http://vimeo.com/25225871">A Prickly Relationship </a> in hand ready to join the list in the Bluescreen pot-luck filmathon.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have screened films from my repertoire on every successive Bluescreen night since - amounting to four very different experiences. Like karaoke: open film nights must be taken with open expectations: some numbers make you want to pull your eyes out, whereas others can trigger fits of sniggers or squeals of joy. Due to the mixture of amateur and professional filmmakers in attendance - you're always sat amongst seriously bonkers enthusiasts or seriously pretentious auteurs (of the jaded or aloof variety) and a few semi-grounded filmmakers like me. There is of course also a hinterland of the average/clever/arty/jokey/weird/exploitative persuasion. </div><div><br /></div><div>You are encouraged to introduce your film, which is a great chance to scope out the competition and gain an insight into their mental stability. There are always a few 'technical hitches' along the way, and the chap who hosts the night always always misreads names and film titles (a mixed misfortune of low-lighting and bad handwriting from entrants) - which adds to the comic absurdity of the event. </div><div><br /></div><div>If your film is swallowed by the DVD machine or (in one case so far) you're subjected to two uber-boring 10 minute photo-montages because the DVD menu is on a loop and the technician can't be bothered to stop it/doesn't realise, I have learnt that you must sit still, breath long and hard and let it wash over you. </div><div><br /></div><div>Last week's screening was extra entertaining as my ex-housemate Jamie's boyfriend, Fred came along. He's quite opinionated, and doesn't especially like the Cube as it is (bit low-brow for him), but he'd agreed to come as Jamie's music video was on the bill. But Jamie had made a grave mistake - arriving late. That means your film will be last on the bill, which basically means that not many people will see it, as the population decreases in the auditorium depending on how good/bad it starts and how long the films go on for (1am being the current record finish for Bluescreen's 10th year anniversary screening!).</div><div><br /></div><div>I giggled in hysteric glee as Fred squirmed and huffed his way through the first two films on the bill: one - the double bill skateboarding photo montage mentioned earlier, two - a hideously cringy drama which included an angry psycho keeping a young man hostage then wrestling him on the floor for what felt like an eternity. Uh?!</div><div><br /></div><div>Fred needs to learn to take the rough with the smooth if he's to become a Bluescreen vet. </div><div><br /></div><div>By far the most amusing offering thus far comes in the shape of a mockumentary series titled 'Brenda'. I've been lucky enough to catch every episode (4), and have to say that although initially it confused me and left me cold - the story has evolved and I confess that I've become hooked to this bizarre micro-soap-op about a straight man who pretends to be a tranny in an attempt to capture the affection of his best friend who happens to be a lesbian. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have to admit that I didn't realise 'Benda' was a mockumentary during the first episode - I thought it was just a bunch of odd-bods from Stokes Croft playing with a camera. But, as the story has developed, I think it's actually quite clever and a little bit funny. Mainly because the guy playing Brenda is gargantuan - about 7ft and the least attractive tranny I've even seen. So, you can imagine the shrieks and stomach-clutching that occurred when 'Brenda's' two veg made a three-second appearance in one scene. Just about every inch of Brenda has been laid-bare for all to see now, so what can possibly happen next?</div><div><br /></div><div>A woman who's film was rejected/spat out of the machine about mid-way through the line-up got in such a huff with the recording device she was playing with in her lap (to record the sound of her own film being played? Or researching the competition? Odd any way) that she shouted quite audibly, "Stop turning yourself on!", (directed at her machine I presume), which promoted a ripple of giggles across the audience... and wether out of embarrassment or resentment, she and her companion abruptly left. </div><div><br /></div><div>The interval is always a welcome chance to air concerns about the sanity of the congregation and recall the films made by the inconspicuous-geniuses hidden amongst us. Also the time for everyone who forgot they had a drink beside their feet to knock over said drink and spend an additional £2 on a replacement. </div><div><br /></div><div>The best films always seem to proceed the break, though maybe that's just because you know there's light at the end of the cube-shaped-tunnel. Audience figures have ranged between 30 and 60, though as I said, past the 11pm home-time call for week-day workers, numbers dwindle considerably. The die-hards stay till the very end - (yes I can lay claim to being one of those ridiculous creatures). </div><div><br /></div><div>Cube nights - are film nights subtlety vailing vaguely organised chaos, but enjoyable if you don't go with any preconceived expectations. Where else can you show a film for free, watch a hotch-potch, occasionally exceptional array of moving images crafted by regional talent? Get thy self down to The Cube and experience Bluescreen for yourself - just don't take your caravan-fetish montage and expect a genuine round of applause. In fact, I might suggest a ban for montages of any description. </div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div>Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6706645912174346099.post-17782824369058812102012-02-04T22:33:00.005+00:002012-02-05T16:25:39.299+00:00Big Fat Nightmare Gypsy ChristmasI caught up with a friend a few weeks ago for a coffee and as we hadn't seen each other in a while - we backtracked to how we'd both spent Christmas.<div><br /></div><div>Mine was fun, relaxed and boozy - everything the festive season should be. Sam's was utter chaos and if I'd have had to face the same situation... well - I don't think I'd have made it through to see the New Year.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sam is a duty manager at a hotel on the outskirts of Bristol. She'd been landed with a hefty Christmas day shift: the only member of staff on duty all day, she had around 40 residents to look after until the night staff took over at 11pm. </div><div><br /></div><div>40 residents might have been daunting enough if something went wrong and you had no backup. But my jaw dropped when Sam unravelled her story of the day from hell - when she realised half the residents were Irish gypsies, who had managed to smuggle in a rabble of friends to stay and party in their rooms. </div><div><br /></div><div>They were drunk by 10 am in the morning. Stealing things and causing trouble in the corridors by midday. Sam had to try and control them, as well as assuring the other residents that she'd evict them before dark. The gypsies would not adhere to her pleas for them to leave the building, so she called the police. She didn't want to - worrying that it would upset the local bobbies special day. She couldn't call her boss as she was equally anxious about spoiling his special day with the family. She was well and truly alone in her fight to restore peace at the hotel.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sam knew she had every right to evict them - the incriminating footage was safely stored on CCTV, but the sheer power in their numbers and audacious behaviour rendered her rather useless. The gypsies were teasing her, picking her up, ignoring every remonstration.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sam called the police. She hoped the theft element of their behaviour would be enough alone for them to help her. Two officers arrived. They were not very helpful. Sam stated her case, detailing all the offenses. They remained fairly nonchalant, uncommitted. </div><div><br /></div><div>It wasn't until one of the gypsies made a racist comment to the black officer, that they stirred into gear and began evicting the gypsies and all their messy entourage. </div><div><br /></div><div>As if that wasn't enough, Sam then had to stay on an extra hour or so to explain the situation to the night staff and get everything settled and tidied to resume service. </div><div><br /></div><div>The only thing that saved Sam from breakdown was the words of commendation from the non-gypsy residents who witnessed some of the ordeal and saluted her brave fight to regain power.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bravo Sam! </div>Hollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14687043079024815155noreply@blogger.com0