Rain Won't Stop the Pink Lady

So, you know, it's mid August - the 'height' of the summer. Thought I might be safe to assume that a lunch-hour picnic in the park would be safe. Huh.

It was sunny when I left the house - a few light clouds appeared to be peppering the horizon but I didn't think anything of it. Bag laden with salads, couscous, a rug and elderflower cordial, I headed to College Green to meet Alex and Polly. A few light speckles of rain touch me half-way down Park Street. It'll be fine.

Meet Polly and Alex - we make the sensible decision to lay the rug under a tree. Everything is laid out and drinks poured. Then it rains. We muddle on, eating quickly, but trying to ignore the increase in size of the drops falling outside the tree's reach. Then the drops permeated our canopy. Oh. Dear. We finish the food, I shiver and Polly offers her coat. (In my haste to leave the house, I stepped out in shorts, t-shirt and flip-flops.) It appears that the city's abundant tourist population is much more savvy than us natives - taking refuge or donning macs before it's too late.

We're British, we shall persevere. Until the splodges of rain are as thick and fast as beyond the tree. We have to make a decision. Cathedral or a coffee shop? Have to think quick, we're sheltering up again the trunk now. Cathedral wins as it's that bit closer. The foyer is already crowded - but it offers some shelter.

We burst out laughing, what else can be done?

Alex takes some pictures of the torrential down pour. As he does - we witness a beautiful but grotesque vision. A large lady in her late 50s comes into the foyer from the depths of the dry cathedral. She is wearing just a short pink dress which could be mistaken for a ballet tutu if she was five-years-old.

Without the slightest flinch she strides out into the rain, no quibbles.

What a woman. Brave and British. (I presume)

Five minutes later we leave tentatively. I give Polly her coat back, Alex and I walk up Park Street. As I get to the top - I put my sunglasses back on. The only real give-away that we've been through an 'ordeal' is the muddy flecks of water splashing up from my flip flops onto my ankles.

Boys In Blue Get a Makeover

Can't believe I didn't notice this on Saturday but the Police Station in Bristol (at the end of Nelson Street) has had an understated yet rather uplifting makeover. The building itself is (I'm guessing) Georgian or Victorian - quite imposing with a pollution-tarnished layer of dirt covering the ocher-yellow stone walls.

A very different form of graffiti has been employed here. Using reverse graffiti (cleaning away dirt to create a 'negative' style imprint), the artist has embellished the entrance to the police station with classic tattoo emblems like swallows and hearts adorned with the words "More Love" and "Mum". There's an artist called Moose (Paul Curtis) who I think coined the style... I wonder if this is his work? With there being so many world-renowned graffiti artists painting up the city last weekend, I suppose it wouldn't be such a crazy assumption.

The columns of the two grand street lamps that stand either side of the doorway have been fitted with knitted blue and white stockings - under closer examination, the knit reveals a complicated geometric pattern. Beautiful when properly observed but subtle enough not to upset the tone of the 'establishment'.

The piece de resistance has to be the sign hanging above the doorway. White lettering on blue background, it reads, "Holding Out for a Hero". I laughed out loud.

Again, subtle enough for most people to miss due to the traditional police colour way - but somehow the sign is saying: we, the police - we're fun. We can have a laugh too. I would love to know who came up with the concept. Was it the 'See No Evil' organisers? I should think so - I can't imagine the super-intendant of the station suddenly thinking... hummmm, today guys, we're going to be ironic. Today, we're going to give the people of Bristol a giggle. Today we're going to make reference to Bonnie Tyler's camp pop anthem.

Jokes. I need to buy myself a digital camera - words alone do not do this justice.

See No Evil Urban Oasis

The Bristol 'See No Evil' street art project (http://www.jondavey.com/panoramas/evil2.html) has reached epic proportions, not just in the size and scope of the concrete canvases that have been brought to life before our eyes, but in the way it has brought the city's inhabitants together to reinvigorate a woefully neglected part of the centre.

My mum and her best friend (who live in Somerset) came up especially for the NY-style block party, and I couldn't wait to take them to Nelson Street. We walked from Redland towards St Micheals Hill, which is where we got our first glimpse of the pinstriped paint-spiller piece, on the side of a 10 story building. The music on Nelson Street had managed to permeate all the way up here - surprising but adding to the anticipation. We arrived at the West Gate end at around 3.30pm and there was already a big crowd clustering close to the Team Love sound system as well as pockets of people ogling the art works.

Overnight the street had been transformed into an urban oasis - complete with green astro-turf on the ground, baskets/pots/tubs overflowing with flowers, herbs and foliage covering all the mundane and unsightly objects usually associated with your average urban setting. Even the bus stops had been camouflaged in reams of fake greenery - further embellished with, "Bus Service Suspended" signs. Then you look up and see the finished pieces of graffiti - well most except for El Mac, who was was still working on his sublime 'mother and child' long after the music stopped at around 9pm - so much pride has gone into this event, and it's evident at every turn of the head.

Every area was accessible, there were few security guards and even fewer police - an unusual yet welcome gesture of trust. We explored a whole new world accompanied by some funky family-friendly tunes spouting from three sound systems - the distinctly poignant smell of paint still lingering in the balmy air. Up on the bridge crossing the street we got a proper view, though I was more intent on watching other people reacting to the Nelson Street take-over - such happiness in abundance. I don't think I heard a bad word spoken all day.

I'd say most of the people there had heard about the event through word-of-mouth and wanted to satisfy their curiosity, but you'd see the odd stag do or hen party (rudimentary element to any Saturday night in Bristol) happen upon Nelson Street and get a bit caught up in the commotion. A friend of mine over-heard someone saying "What's this - some kind of a hippy street party?", which I suppose it looked a bit like after about 7pm when the street's inhabitants became more inebriated. I think it was a good idea to stop the music and close down the street at 9pm, to preserve the kudos of such a good day and not let things get hairy.

I only had one cider and a few sips of wine - mainly as I needed to train for the marathon today (11.4 miles without stopping!), but I didn't feel like I needed anything else - it was such a naturally high day for me. I even managed to fit in a bit of sightseeing from the M shed (acting as tour guide for mum and her friend), the top floor terrace really gives you a unique view of the city - though it's a shame it's not quite enough of a panorama to incorporate the suspension bridge.

My night drew to a close at Castle Park, sat within a circle of friends discussing the day's events. Such intrigue and debate - where else would you see so much contemporary art for free, in the middle of a street? Or, where a ten-year-old boy can bust out his break-dancing routine in a circle of over-joyed parents and party-goers - everyone gunning for more?

Received a very encouraging text from my mum the following day, which read: "Still soooo impressed by the graff, may come again while it's still fresh." She also said the graffiti had inspired her to inject more colour into her ceramics - which is a beautiful and moving gesture. I would imagine that many others feel the same, and this should be exactly the kind of reaction the 'See No Evil' organisers were hoping to evoke.

Bristol is where it's at. Friendly, unpretentious, gritty yet hopeful.

I love this city - take a bow Bristol!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qfp6a0rEcqc&feature=player_embedded

Art Breaths Life

There's something brewing in Bristol - the cosmetic transformation of a concrete jungle.

Over the last few days, a terribly sad street in the heart of the city has been given a graffiti-centric facelift. Who'd have thought that a lick of paint could purvey such power. Last night Nelson Street (formally known for its tired office facades and limited retail outlets) was abuzz with people and a heady reek of aerosol spray paint tinged the air.

The organisers of the 'See No Evil' street art project (http://www.seenoevilbristol.co.uk/) - billed as the biggest of its kind in the UK and Europe, hope that this extravagant showcase of world class graffiti artists in the city's forgotten district will breath new life into the area. It is definitely already drawing a flood of curious locals, photographers and journalists - if today's crowds were anything to go by, the finale NY-style block party tomorrow should hit the mark.

I was desperate to take my SLR down there to capture the art-in-motion today, and it was a pleasure to see so many people cluttering the street, heads turned upwards in awe. If 'See No Evil' gets enough publicity, I would not be surprised if Nelson Street becomes more of a tourist attraction than Banksy's many statement pieces around the city - it's such an exciting adventure to experience so much artistic diversity in one place. The likes of Inky, Tats Cru and El Mac are topping the talent board of artists, with El Mac's black and white portrait of a woman holding a baby making a visceral, poignant and haunting statement at the top end of the street.

One of my other favourites is the understated 'oasis' mural with birds of paradise weaving around mountains and seascape. Beautiful use of colour painted over a series of dotty-textured metal grills. I can't wait to see how things evolve tomorrow - and I wonder if Banksy will add to this torrent of intrigue by contributing a piece?

The other triumph of this event is the 'pop-up' club (complete with mini-replica of the Millennium Square Mirror Ball, coloured light box seating cubes and an almighty sound system provided by Team Love) at the West Gate building separating Lewins Mead from Nelson Street - it's a prime location for any business, but why has it been left to fester for so long? Whatever the reason, I hope people will realise that this ought to be the beating heart of the city and the 'See No Evil' project is setting a precedence now.

I've proudly been living in Bristol for a year, and in these austere and trying times, it's refreshing to witness a vibrant, thought-provoking act of city-love by those who want to make art the centre piece for change.

More tomorrow, but while I'm waiting to get my pictures developed (five days is the swiftest option in Boots these days!), here's some links to the best found on Twitter so far:

http://www.lobstervision.tv/seenoevilbristol#

http://twitter.com/#!/SeeNoEvil2011/status/104579622754205696/photo/1

http://bristolculture.wordpress.com/2011/08/19/welcome-to-bristol-by-tats-cru/

http://twitter.com/#!/SeeNoEvil2011/status/104571493698117634/photo/1

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/culturepicturegalleries/8711647/The-See-No-Evil-graffiti-project-in-Bristol-Britains-largest-street-art-project.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-bristol-14577524

Black Cab School Run

I don't suppose many people can say they were delivered to primary school in a London black cab... well, not in the Somerset countryside anyhow.

I suppose I had quite an obscure childhood - living in the middle of nowhere and having parents who didn't want to send us to the closest, most average of village schools. They wanted to send us to Enmore C of E Primary, which was around 6 miles from our cottage. This caused a few catchment-area problems. We were not alone though, my parents closest friends who had two boys the same age as my sister and I were also gunning for Enmore too.

So, somehow, we were entitled to transport via taxi to school. I do not remember exactly when the black cab made an entrance into our young lives - before that we had had 'Colin Cowpat' (obviously named for his distinctly bovine odour), a quiet man with wiry hair a bit like Gene Wilder in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, alternated with Ray who smelt of really cheap aftershave and looked a bit like what the biker from The Village People would have looked like if he'd sat in a car all his life.

Even now when I return to North Petherton to visit mum, Colin Cowpat and Ray can often be identified cruising the village in their (possibly) updated rides. Imagine some of the sights and sounds they must have witnessed since my childhood!

So, for some time, Lilli, Tom, Richard and I shared this weird environment with our chariot drivers... I don't really remember if there was much chit-chat, but I do know that we all dreaded the days that the black cab appeared to collect us. Black cab driver was an archetypal 90s boy-racer... probably into the rave scene and definitely not concerned about our lives. Cabs are big, especially when you're under ten years old. If a cab is tearing down country lanes twice over the speed limit with four little bodies in the back - there's no way of keeping in your seat. I definitely remember white knuckles featured quite regularly. 'No Limits' by the Euro dance duo 2 Unlimited also featured very heavily - at top volume. Ekkk.

Boy racer didn't speak to us through the plastic division. Inside we were probably all thinking we were going to die... perhaps we did shout out for him to slow down, but I doubt he ever heard or cared. Bring back Colin Cowpat or Ray - please!

That was one of many quirky school transport issues we faced. Another rather scarring one that sticks in my mind is the times when no taxis where available (or perhaps we weren't entitled to them any more?) and the car wouldn't start in winter. On those dire days, we'd get up extra early and have to cycle (regardless of snow/rain/wind factors) to Richard and Tom's farm - a good two/three miles up and down some ferocious hills, in order to catch a lift with them.

Getting to secondary school was almost as perilous... more later.

Willow Man Looses his Stomping Ground

There's a scary amount of development occurring along a stretch of the motorway between Dunball and Bridgwater. I was shocked to see that the once enormous, landmark figure of the Willow Man has been barricaded in by ugly mottled green buildings - more like giant lego blocks, along with what I presume is yet another housing estate.

The gracious and charming natural beauty of the Willow Man has now been dwarfed and shunted into obscurity. This is man again nature writ large. I suppose he's been there for quite few years now, and sadly some of the fibres holding his frame together are straying - a bit like an untamed birds nest. There are many other motorway attractions nearby to distract bored passengers - most notably the Maunsel Monster (a 10ft dinosaur who recently got knocked over) and the carnival camels. These obviously have their charms... but old willow man, striding through the grass, arms outstretched somehow summed up a more serious message of freedom and heritage - built from the willow trees that dominate the surrounding Somerset levels.

I suppose he'll either be left to fester or perhaps be removed to make way for more development. What a shame, but then isn't this just one more example of nature being eclipsed in the name of 'progress'.

Rogue Knitting

I know that rogue knitting is not exactly a new phenomenon, but I'm delighted to be experiencing it first hand in Bristol.

For those unacquainted with knitters of the rebel variety - it basically entails people with a penchant for anarchy and goodwill leaving little yarn-based presents attached to everyday street furnishings... ie: lamp posts, benches and railings.

The first piece of rogue knitting I encountered here was in Stokes Croft: A rainbow band embellishing a lamp post just below eye-level. Aha! Good work, a bit like graffiti artists: you've managed to give the city a unique piece of art without shoving morals or ethics down people's throats. It's funny, quirky and completely harmless. I love the thought of gangs of Bristolian knitters patiently waiting till the clubs have closed and the streets are clear to sneak out and twitch their needles ferociously huddled around a lamp post. Perhaps I should try and make a documentary about them - reach the inner-circle, become initiated. How hard could it be to infiltrate such a clan? I can't imagine that they'd make me take a fraternity test.

The second example of rogue knitting I've encountered was just the other day, up the top of Redland Road. When my phone won't give me enough signal to take a call or receive messages (which is 99% of the time), I hike up the hill. There's a small park with a few benches lining the grass looking across the city. As I passed the last one, I noticed a white mouse sitting on a pink sleeve, woven around the arm of the bench.

A mouse you say? Yes, a little white (knitted) mouse with little pin-prick black eyes. He was facing the view, stationed on a soft pink blanket. How romantic, though he could have done with a little chum, non? I will go back and take a picture as soon as I've bought batteries for my camera - I hope he doesn't fall prey to vandalism or cat-attack in the meantime.

Watch out rogue knitters - I'm determined to catch you at it now!

Bus Stop Brawl

It was just after 9am in the morning. Still a little sleepy, I approached the bus stop on the main road leading through North Petherton (the village close to where my mum lives).

I was jolted into fully-fledged adrenaline-fueled consciousness by the bizarre scene that unfurled as I put my bag down on the pavement to wait for my National Express:

A large (most likely pregnant) woman, in her early twenties stood beside the bus shelter, gently pushing a buggy containing a mixed-race toddler. Inside the shelter (around 15ft away from the woman) slouched a short black man in a scruffy tracksuit - a handsfree set/ipod headphone plugged into one ear. An empty push chair was positioned close to him.

Like a car chase scene from an action film (minus the handsome hero), a people-carrier taxi swerves across the oncoming lane (facing the wrong way in the bus bay), bumping the curb and screeching to a stop. An angry fat man with grey joggers and a massive paunch bounds into the bus shelter and begins to shout a derogative steam of abuse at the black man - their foreheads practically touching. In fact I initially thought that a headbutt was surely going to be planted.

The crux of the fat man's 'beef' I began to realise was the idiocy of the black man and his treatment of the woman standing by... who was trying her hardest not to react to the scene. I swiftly realised that the black man was the father of the toddler (and potentially the unborn child?). Their distant stance at the bus stop definitely pointed at some recent feud or breakup. But why did they have a push chair each, and what part did the fat taxi man have to play in this obscure situation? After a few more very loud expletives at close range, the taxi man stormed out of the shelter, pointed a threatening finger at the woman accompanied by a sentence along the lines: "You're both as bad as each other - should of bashed your heads together..."

Without any though to the highway code or road safety, the taxi sped off again, crossing lanes- screeching tyres leaving black marks on the tarmac.

I was shocked and wished I was anywhere else. I was the only person witnessing the scene on their side of the street, and now I had to endure the aftermath.

The black man came to the edge of the shelter and mumbled to the woman, who tended to the toddler - who remained remarkably unscathed by the shouting. Maybe it was used to this kind of behaviour from its parents. The woman mumbled back, though neither looked directly at each other. Intermittently, she angrily answered her phone with, "WHAT?!", listened for a minute or two and then hung-up on the caller. The woman hide her dismay well, but did look round at me a few times anxiously. The man kept trying to get the attention of the small boy, cooing at it but not daring to go any closer. She continued to argue with the man and the person on the phone until their bus pulled in. Half of me wanted to get on and follow the story, but I also wanted to get out of this hellish situation.

She pushed her toddler on and paid for her ticket. The man followed soon after with his empty push chair. I watched curiously as the woman sat down near the front and the man folded his buggy, put it in the storage area and then took a place right at the back of the bus.

Did he have another mistress and another baby to attend to? Or were they going to swap the toddler into his buggy at their destination and go their separate ways? What had the man done to spark such a violent attack from the taxi man?

Perhaps I will write a script which explores a possible situation.

Showreel

Please watch my latest showreel for an idea of what projects I have been working on over the last year or two.

http://vimeo.com/25211699

Here's a bit more explanation for two of the latest projects as they are still in development:

'A Prickly Relationship'

At the moment, there's a short cut (9:37) which has been entered into Branchage, Encounters and Aesthetica mag comp, as well as Shooting People's 'Film of the Month' comp. So, judging on the reaction it gets from those submissions, I may pitch a long-from doc to horticultural digital channels, as there's over two hours of footage that could be very insightful for cacti enthusiasts.

'A Prickly Relationship' will be screened at CineMe in Bristol on 28th June: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=232502106764892

'A Stately Facade'

The footage in my showreel was from a short teaser made with one of the lead subjects, Kirsty Hughes, but I recently shoot footage with her parter, eccentric Baronet, Sir Benjamin Slade, and currently editing the footage together with Kristy's to make a much more entertaining and substantial teaser. I want to co-produce with Level Films, but we need to find a bigger indie company to co-produce with before approaching broadcasters. I want to make a series with the tag line: An observational documentary about a stately home-come wedding venue run by eccentric baronet Sir Benjamin Slade and his partner, Kirsten Hughes.

I will upload a link for the initial trailer soon.

Cotham Characters

I moved from Hotwells (pretty but uninspired) to Cotham/Redland (quiet, grand and well-connected) a few months ago, and still have a feeling of smug satisfaction at finding such a perfect location.

I live on a leafy street of grand Victorian houses close to Redland train station, Clifton Downs, Whiteladies Road and a vast array of independent stores and boutique charity shops that are always boasting designer garb from pampered students who need to downsize before they go home for the summer. This is a student-centric area, but when they give away such fine clothes, who can complain about the odd bout of noise pollution or badly-managed recycling boxes?

I feel safe here, I know that one should never let ones guard down in the city, but I can't help thinking that it's ok to walk home alone at 2/3 in the morning occasionally because it's such a quiet and unassuming area.

What I most love about Bristol is that it doesn't really have a centre, but it is more like a collection of wildly differing boroughs attached by a somewhat heartless high street shopping quarter which I suppose could be called the middle. Cotham and Redland are nestled close to Clifton, so keep that air of wealth but minus the over-flux of pretentious designer shops. On the other side, Redland is neighbouring on Gloucester Road/Stokes Croft anarchic arts quarter and includes my favourite cinema (The Cube), where you can watch a film for £3 on a Tuesday and take booze in with you.

I explored St Werburgh's (between Gloucester Road and St Pauls) for the first time last weekend, for a street festival centred around the local farm. As we queued up to enter, I was thinking we were about to step into a village in the middle of a Somerset village, complete with allotments, pigs and bails of hay. A host of local bands played from the belly of a lorry as merry people country-danced in accompaniment. Bunting criss-crossed above the streets surrounding the village green where the music was bellowing from and local stall holders sold homemade food and crafts.

I don't know south of the river very well yet, but I intend to check out the Tobacco Factory - and North Street soon. I also need to give my bike an airing and explore the Bristol to Bath cycle path (along the canal with many fine watering holes to explore en route.) Summer may not be looking too promising weather-wise - but at least there's plenty yet to explore in the peripheries of a city with intrigue and character at every turn.

Talking about characters on corners: there's a man on the corner of Chandos Road, Cotham, who is is guaranteed to be sat on his low garden wall as soon as the sun puts in an appearance. I walk past this corner every day, and have noticed the man (late 50s maybe early 60s due to sun-induced prune-like skin) turn as brown as a nut almost over night. Sun worshiper or not, this man must enjoy being part of the outdoor furniture... and there's nearly always someone stopped and chatting to him. Which I'm glad of, as when there isn't anyone stopped and chatting to him: I feel obliged to smile at him when I pass by as he always seems to peer up from his book at the sound of footsteps.

I suppose that if I could ever afford to retire early, I'd enjoy spending my time outdoors reading - but preferably not being overlooked by passers by. I suppose the man on the wall is either in need of the social engagement he gets from being in such a prime stop and chat position, or he's a bit of an extrovert who wants to expose a large amount of his body to achieve the optimum tan. Either way, he is part of the furniture on that street and I'm curious to see if he continues his post throughout the summer.

Another regular character who lingers close to the man on the wall is the lady flogging greetings cards. She's a large, brightly coloured lady of mid-50s age and always seems to have a lot of misjudged makeup experiments on her face. I always see her on the same street, just off Cotham Hill when I'm carrying bags of shopping from Sainsbury's, so already I have a good excuse not to stop and buy anything from her. She's not a tramp - too well dressed and fed - but she's definitely not all there in the head as she talks a little like Tubbs from The League of Gentlemen shop sketch. She starts muttering as soon as you approach her:

"Lady, buy a pretty card?"

I usually try and avoid eye contact and mutter back, "Sorry I don't have any change".

I can feel her eyes on me as I rush by, and often she will continue talking to me or make an observation like: "Oh blue trousers, I've never seen a lady in blue trousers."

I haven't seen her selling cards anywhere else so I can only presume that she lives on the street and is a batty artist. I suppose the prints could well be hers - I never look close enough to make a proper assumption though. I admire her perseverance, but wish she would broaden her pitch area so I didn't have to bump into her quite so often.

Cider and peas with Bob and Dolly

Going through my address book just now, I came across a familiar name (Bob Boulton - an old neighbour of ours) which instantly gave me a warm feeling and a particular memory of him flooded back to me.

Bob and his wife Patricia (in their late 70s) lived next door to my family home for around six years, and although we didn't exactly live in each others pockets - they were characters of the highest order... coming from very privileged backgrounds and with a touch of opulence and authority that was quite alien to us. Bob is an ex-Sergeant Major, and Patricia worked as a secretary for the Queen. They married and then divorced and married again recently, when they realised they couldn't quite live without each other in old age.

Patricia had a stroke a year or two before they moved to Sussex, which left her fairly immobile and greatly hindered her as she used to love painting. Bob reminds me of a tank: he's tall, robust, strong without being completely bionic and agile: all traits he no doubt picked up from being in the forces. He also makes the BEST G&T ever (a hefty glug of Bombay with ample lime and ice), and is a true gentleman with a glint in his eye that makes me think that he would have been rather ravishing 50 years ago and no wonder Patricia took him back.

I miss them both dearly, but the resonant memory that I referred to earlier is one days that will always sick in my mind - a gloriously idle day where nothing and everything was perfect in the day's unplanned beauty. Let me set the scene:

Lilli (my sister) and I were pottering around at home. It's a lovely sunny day in July or August and we agree that pea-picking is the order of the day. The fields that surround our house are full of pea plants and they will disappear soon, so we head out with a few bags and containers between us. As we leave the house, we hear Bob in his front garden tending to his new terrier puppy, Dolly. We discuss our pea-picking plan and he expresses an interest, so runs inside the house to find his own bags. We play with Dolly as we wait.

Next, we are striding up the track, Dolly on a lead, getting under everyone's feet. The field opens out into a much bigger one and we decide this is where to begin. It's harder than we first expect: the pods are firm to the pull and many of them feel dry - as if the contents might be shriveled already. I am selective, but I do not have the patience to concentrate on the selective process. So, instead we let the conversation take over and I think Bob relaxes into story-telling role, though I don't remember anything in particular. It's just lovely to be around someone who is so confident and natural. Dolly is eating the peas that we throw for her, and I wonder why Bob has not let her off the lead.

I suppose we stayed out in the field for an hour or so, but collectively decide that enough is enough when we find more dry pods than succulent ones on our patches.

Bob suggests a refreshing cider in the garden, to which Lilli and I gladly agree. So we stride back with our supplies, leaving them in the shade under Bob's porch, sitting at the patio table whilst awaiting Bob's return with cold drinks. He gives us a choice of a few Sheppy's ciders in bottles and we drink down the cold, bubbly liquid. Bob and Patricia are more than partial to an afternoon aperitif, but it's only usually a special occasion for us girls, so we melt into our seats and soak up the sun as Bob prattles on in his warm yet authoritative voice. He'd make an excellent Pixar hero. I think we have another cider, Dolly bounding around - how can something so little have so much energy?

The cider has zapped our energy, and we think about the prospect of making something of those wilting peas. So ends our day of cider with Bob. I wish there could have been more, but that one day will always be remembered, so it will remain special and treasured.

Thanks Bob.

A Prickly Relationship

A day full of filling out festival submissions: must be a good sign.

I have a new project to seed, to throw into the wide world and let the people into an alien yet clement world, where prickles and spikes are magnified from a safe distance.

I am talking of a short documentary I have just finished about an 80-year-old man who has been collecting cacti all his life. This man is my grandpa, and I'm proud to have been able to bring his obscure and fascinating obsession to an audience he's never had, but greatly deserves.

I always remember visiting the cacti houses as a child, when we used to visit my grandparents in Dorset. The collection has had several moves in its lifetime - a mean feat considering some of the specimens are 6 ft tall. My grandpa is a very determined man, so it's no surprise that he's managed to keep the collection going, (nurturing exotic species from all over the world), never faltering to keep his enthusiasm in-check - even though now the collection is diminishing due to his age and ill health. The collection is currently housed in a small-holding, by a small village called Low Ham, Somerset.

Grandpa Stephen thinks that this will not be the cacti collection's final resting place, as they plan on finding a more manageable retirement home soon. The harsh winter has rather dented the collection's magnificence, when I visited recently, the warmth of atmosphere and general vibrancy had faded. Dad and I agree that grandpa should weed out the dead plants in order to see the thriving ones and nurture them.

The main reason I wanted to make this film was to reconnect with my grandpa (there was a period of around 6/8 years when I didn't see my grandparents due to a family feud that has since been resolved). I wanted to document a hobbyist (obsession/perfectionism seems to be a re-occurring theme in my work!) and also archive a rare character with such superior knowledge of a peculiar subject.

Grandpa knew exactly what he wanted to say: he was exceedingly easy to direct and came equipped with a clipboard outlining all the topics to cover in the interview... seemed like he was more prepared than me. Dan Gale accompanied me, daring for a camera man to want to get so close to what was essentially a health and safety inspector's nightmare: a prickly hell.

Thankfully neither of us were injured during filming, but grandpa shed a few drops of blood in order to demonstrate a few nifty tricks. It was so funny to watch him move around the cacti house (imagine two or three garages tacked together with a plastic roof, botched together but the man himself), quite heavy on his feet (tripping and stomping over debris), yet extremely gentle and mothering to the cacti themselves. He tickles, strokes and nuzzles them as if they were pets. Touching and entertaining to watch, but then, when you've had an 70-odd-year relationship with these alien beings, I guess you get to know their individual personalities.

Many of them have names too. The most impressive specimen has to be 'Sampson', an 7ft beast from the Agave family, which has outgrown its poly tunnel and the two tallest prongs have pierced through the top - poking through like Jaws' fins. "He's becoming a bit of a small problem", says grandpa - the biggest understatement of the century. Sampson did have a tiny girlfriend, Delilah (around 4ft, and positioned just a few metres away), but she is shriveled and decaying due to the lack of warmth over the winter... I wonder if Sampson will die of a broken heart? That might solve the problem of what to do with him if they move (I hear you gasp at my callousness, but how else can he be dealt with?!)

I did the initial edit with my uncle, Lars, who was delighted to see grandpa's history documented in HD glory. As a professional director/producer himself, we zipped through the footage (2/3hours worth) to get a 20 min cut over the course of a weekend. We both felt that we couldn't go any further with it until the project had time to settle and until I'd decided what I actually wanted to do with the format and exhibition.

I have directed subsequent edits with Alex Richardson (http://alexrichardson.co.uk/blog), who helped me cut it down to a neat and tidy 9 mins. Any more cutting and you'd loose the essence of the story, along with the quirks of the character. I chose an eccentric music track called 'I'll take you home again Kathleen' by Vernon Dalhart, which is under public domain license due to its release date of 1926. I think the piece complements grandpa's up-beat attitude to life, and gives the film a playful tone that again, suits the character and subject matter.

I've entered 'A Prickly Relationship into 4 festivals so far, and I have also contacted the Sky Horticultural Channel to see if they'd like a cut for broadcast.

I know in the scheme of things, this film isn't likely to change the world, but it's an honest and funny portrait of a man whose passion for prickly things is as strong as his religious belief - and believe me: that's saying something profound.

Casualty in the Bank

So, I've been living in Bristol for about seven months and I've just spotted my second local celebrity (the first being Justin Lee Collins who can be seen on his own reading a paper all over Clifton on a Saturday).

The second was a bit more exciting and unexpected. Unfortunately, I can't recall the name of this second celeb, but he's been on Casualty for a number of years (not quite Charlie's longevity, but close), and other TV programmes... possibly East Enders.

I walked into Lloyds Bank in the centre of Clifton Village, queuing up behind a man in a wheel chair. We're being held up because a man (said celeb) has just handed over bag loads of coppers. Sigh. I can see the disappointment in the cashier's eyes as she weighs the change and bags it up in more manageable amounts. They have a bit of a joke as she asks him how he'd like the cash in return. He puts it on his card.

They share a bit more banter, then he turns and that's when I recognise his face. He looks a little sheepish as he leaves the bank.

I have a bit of a giggle to myself. Times must be hard: I haven't yet been desperate enough to empty my penny bell jar since the credit crunch!

Please Let Me Go

The second film in two weeks to leave my heart pallid was Never Let Me Go. I wish I could have gone - away from this drivel.

Based on a screenplay by Alex Garland (of The Beach fame), Never Let Me Go is a creepy, boring slightly Sc-fi film that is too mixed up to serve you up anything meaningful. For a start, setting a film about children born to be harvested for their organs in the 70s/80s is wrong. That kind of futuristic mumbo-jumbo should be set in a time that is unfamiliar to us, so we can at least try and believe the world they live in.

Seeing trout-pout Keira K et all at a distinctively normal-looking boarding school, doing fairly ordinary things, in a slightly stunted way doesn't make you want to believe that something really gross is happening to them. The only thing that reminds you that they're captive is the 'asbo'-type scanner bands they wear on their arms. As they never try to escape or seem remotely interested in attempting to engage with the outside world, it not only makes them boring characters, it also stunts the drama potential.

Unfortunately, this film is a concept film. I think Never Let Me Go has been wrongly-advertised, because you think it's going to be kind of a costume drama with depth. Once I realised it was a concept film, I couldn't believe the characters, couldn't care for the characters because they didn't try hard enough to defy their destined life-path. It's slow moving too, and not enough happens - there's too much talking and not enough doing. I was so bored I was looking for continuity glitches: I never do this intentionally. I saw two modern cars, one drove by in a scene where the lead characters go visit 'Madame', and another parked close to their retro 80s car outside 'Madame's' house. Bad mistakes that took me further away from the 'action', and made me more mad that it wasn't set either in present day or future.

The only real pleasure I gained from watching Never Let Me Go was seeing Weston-Super-Mare as the backdrop to the cafe and pier scenes. Being a Westcountry girl, I feel very proud to see a childhood and teenage haunt being used in features... more money for the local economy and all that. Hurrah for Weston.

New. Egotistical. Director.

I hate it when a new director stunts his growth into featuredom.

Take my latest example: James Mullan. He's the 'New Egotistical Director' of 'Non-Educated Delinquents, a film that could have given Shane Meadows a run for his money (edgy social realism but with Non-actors this time). Instead Mullan has added a few over-superfluous scenes that actually take you completely out of the reality he creates and leaves you feeling cheated and dumb-founded.

There are two scenes in particular that I have to mention. The Jesus dance scene and the finale scene where the lead boy walks (unscathed) through the middle of a pack of lions with the boy he maliciously rendered handicapped a few years previously. Utterly ridiculous. Considering that the rest of the film is as naturalistic as is possible (sets, use of grainy 70s film, local non-actors), it seems so strange to undo all the good work by cutting in two scenes that should have been axed at the scripting stage.

But why did the script editor/producer allow the scenes to stay? Well, it's a case of vanity and it's a glaringly obvious case of new ego. Directors have a vision, and in the early stages: as in, when they're making shorts - they can do pretty much whatever they want to as that's what sets them apart and gets them nurtured and trained up for featuredom. However... once directors start making features: they have to cater for much larger audiences and that means they are supposed to water things down. But by this point, their egos have been bolstered and have grown into giant triffids that thrive on drama.

"How can I make this film an award winner?"... is what they start thinking. This is the point where their 'artsy' ego steps in. "I know, I'll put two highly-unrealistic, cringe-worthy, abstract scenes that people will praise for their 'symbolic resonance' and 'diverse metaphors'." Pants.

If you're making a film based on true events, with amazingly natural non-actors and set in the past: stick to that world. Don't play with the nuances that were going to quite possibly give you a nod towards greatness.

Put the ego away and concentrate on creating a film that sticks to its guns and delivers what it says on the tin.