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.

Wedding Blues and Greys

I went to about 30 weddings last year.

Not as a guest (thankfully), but as one of many behind-the-scenes cogs in the 'big day' mega-machine. I can boast to having had a unique 360 degree omnipotent view of 'that' special day: I've witnessed every conflicting human emotion, every possible family rift, every booze-induced confession, nothing is sacred at a wedding - they are without a doubt the most drama-filled events of our lives. Nothing ever runs smoothly, and even if the bride and groom are blissfully unaware of any possible damaging undertone, someone somewhere is (inadvertently or intentionally) on the road to ruining the happiest day of their lives.

I honestly believe that these days (with all the added pressure to look beyond the realms of perfection and be seen to have spent a lifetime's wages on the 'big day') perhaps as few as 1 in 10 brides actually enjoy their wedding days. I've seen brides throwing tantrums about table settings/ flowers/ positioning of guests as soon as they've walked through the doors of the wedding venue/ stately home where I'm setting the scene for all this tension. So many expectations are supposed to be met (if not surpassed), and I think choosing a facade venue in the form of a stately home exacerbates the mounting promise of 'perfection'.

It's not big news that usually, the more money spent on a wedding: the less gratification those paying for it gain. The best wedding I've attended as a guest was for my best friend, two summers ago. I don't know exactly how much money was spent, but it wasn't much and this added to the general excellence of the day. The bride and groom are a designer and photographer, so they pulled in their own skills for all the decoration/ table adornment and personal touches. The afternoon reception was held on the splendid lawn of the bride's parent's home. The evening reception was held a minute's walk away at the local village hall - which had been transformed for the occasion. By getting every family member/friend/ friends of friends to contribute in some way or another, the happy couple had covered every aspect of the wedding for favours and the promise of a jolly good bash.

On a much higher-profile scale, but still endearing and intimately low-key, TV and film actress, Amanda Redman married her long-term beau at my place of work some months back. 200 guests (including the entire cast of New Tricks, Ray Winstone, Shelia Hancock and Lisa Falkner) graced the lawns and got royally sozzled. There was a massive amount of apprehension felt by the staff in the lead-up to the epic day... this being the biggest, most high-profile wedding hosted there to date. In my opinion, the current of stress that rippled amongst the head-honchos was a little unfounded, as the guests were not demanding the stars on a plate: they were polite, obliging and thoroughly respectful. We didn't really know what to expect, but near-on everyone behaved themselves impeccably well.

At times I had to pinch myself: my first customer of the day (at the new outside bar) was Ray Winstone along with a few of the old dogs from New Tricks. Ray asked for a vodka coke, and sent a shiver up my spine as he gave me a smoldering look and said, "thanks babe". I melted. He's literally my favourite British actor... I watched Nil By Mouth over 50 times when I was studying the film for my first dissertation. He's every bit how you'd expect him to be: smooth, witty, sexy and down-to-earth. He's the daddy after all!

His wife, Laura, was stunning - and so sweet to me just because I remembered what they were all drinking so they didn't have to ask. It was bizarre to be listening in to their conversations, I wish I was another step removed, (maybe just hovering above the bar) so that I could absorb everything, but unfortunately, I had work to do. Amanda was lovely, darling. I hear from the wedding planners that she was very nervous and so stressed she couldn't eat anything all day, but this was mainly due to worries that the few spots of rain that landed during the ceremony might lead to a proper down-pour. She needn't have worried: though the weather wasn't perfect - it didn't affect the outdoor setting for the majority of the proceedings.

I imagine that a hell of a lot of money was spent on their day, but it was by no means lavish or excessive. There were a few technical hitches behind the scenes, but I doubt if Amanda will ever know that there was a light sewage flow on the front lawn just hours before her 200 guests made their way to the pagoda or that the caterers temporarily forgot to place sparkling water on the tables for the wedding breakfast. The wedding was a triumph: everyone was at ease and in awe of the setting, the staff were buzzing from being in such company, and they all partied into the small hours without the faintest whiff of anger, resentment or bitchery in the air.

You really couldn't have predicted a bigger contrast to the next wedding I worked at. A bunch of pretentious Londoners who were bickering and complaining as soon as they arrived. There was a palpable tension between the two families and there were a few villains determined to make the weekend as hellish for everyone as possible. I think it was the worst case of bitchiness that I've ever encountered at a wedding. The bride was atrocious (though I can't help thinking that her spitefulness was a knock-on effect from those around her), demanding, from what I could gather, her family are a bit mafia-esque, wielding some special status in the town where they're from. No need to bring those airs and graces with you to the countryside, where all is meek and reserved.

The brides gran was the ring-leader in a gang of plump, miserable older ladies who plotted and moaned at a table in the bar for the entirety of the wedding day. Many tears were shed this weekend, I believe this may not have been the case if the Witches of Eastwick had just kept their mouths shut for one day. It's so selfish to cause such a scene, who's day is this anyway? I honestly can't believe that some people feel the need to vent their anger when so much is at stake. At one point in the evening, a particularly intense conversation between the witches and their other granddaughter results in all involved weeping - the atmosphere in the bar was like a morgue... any new entries swiftly ordered and went back to the dancing at a rapid gait. Things obviously got progressively worse, as two of the brides 'uncles' turned up late and in Batman and Robin costumes. They proceeded to get drunk as quickly as possible and were practically bursting with fight-juice.

The surprise 'event' of the night came from a couple of outside contenders in the 'who can ruin the wedding first' stakes. I'd watched in smug safeness as a man in a kilt and his girlfriend tried to clutch at their remaining grain of sobriety, both gripping the bar for support as they argued about his supposed level of drunkenness at the highly disrespectful time of nine pm. As the only sober party in this equation, I avidly followed the line of argument, the crux of which was about her wish to go home as he's embarrassing her and making a fool out of himself. They're both oblivious to the amount of attention their raised voices are gaining, and she seems to be getting drunker and drunker by the second as she demands shots from anyone who happens to be ordering drinks by the other side of her. They're slurring their words, he looks like he's going to be sick - but it's just a series of burps.

Their friends get involved: he's the man, he shouldn't have to go home, the groom will not allow it! She relays her anguish at them, but they don't care, he's highly amusing, he's one of the lads. Defeated, she tries to show her hurt by turning her back on him as he staggers back to the dance floor. She now swiftly downs another couple of shots and long drinks. Next minute, they're both nowhere to be seen. I hear from my colleague (who is also following this mini-soap-opera) that the couple in question have been booted out by the bride. Doesn't surprise us.

For a few minutes things settle back down into the routine set by the bitchy witches, who now have an extra thing to gossip about. Then, shock horror: the drunk girl has been found with massive wound to the head and covered in scratches and bruises. An equally drunk woman is trying to control the bleeding, repeating that she found the girl outside, that she had run out of a hedge screaming: dripping with blood. As all involved where so drunk, it's hard to fathom if this was a case of domestic violence or, if she just fell over and hit her head on something sharp.

I've seen fights and the odd drop of blood at weddings in the past, but this one had a much more sinister tone to it. The girl was taken somewhere more private, and at this point, the boyfriend arrived... and the wedding planner called for an ambulance. We had to try and remain calm, and divert any unwanted attention away from the incident. Rather impossible when these people appeared to be hounds for gossip and desperate for more woe and terror. The poor bride was livid that they had both come back inside the house, and unfortunately they would remain there for another hour - due to the lateness of the ambulance and then the girl's reluctance to go to hospital.

The police arrived. Not quite sure if they were called separately by one of the guests, or if they were alerted to handle the situation due to the ambulance's lack of attendance. Either way, this exacerbated the drunk man's anger, but strangely it also seemed to sober him up in a flash... maybe it was the guilt setting in? They questioned him in the back bar, as I was loading the glass machine: I heard his full story, my heart was flitting around, I was shaky. What a stressful night, and yet the time passed so slowly. The ambulance arrived before the police left, so they briefed the paramedics. The girl was adamant that she was fine and that she just wanted to go home.

The paramedics insisted that, although it wasn't life-threatening, she needed a few stitches as her skull could be seen - it was a deep wound. Eventually she was persuaded to go in the ambulance, aided by her now shocked-into-sobriety boyfriend. What a relief. Though they'd gone, the aftermath was not pretty. Word had got round the house, everyone was talking about it - everyone seemed to have their own little conspiracy theory about what had happened. Any atmosphere that hadn't already been poached by the witches had now been stolen by the outsiders, the underdogs - never to return. So ever glad I didn't have to serve those hideous people the following morning for breakfast.

I suppose what I'm trying to say, by way of this extreme example of wedding hell is that there is never a dull moment at a wedding, but instead of mainly being entertaining and sometimes heart-warming - they can also bring out the worst in people, regardless of who's special day it is.

Goes to show that money can't buy you love, class, style or grace - and it most certainly can't buy you a well-behaved family.

Nowt Queerer Than Folk

I love people.

They make me laugh a lot. And after an excellent weekend's-worth of people-watching opportunities in London, I was not expecting to pick up yet more eccentric behaviour on the bus home, but oh what a corker!

Katie and I were lucky enough to nab the disabled access seats (second from front for those uninitiated) which give you an extra foot of leg room. Happily settling into our as-comfortable-as-you-can-get-for-a-bus-journey positions we watched in silenced awe as an old lady tried to fight for her right to keep not one but TWO of the priority seats in front of us:

Old lady sits on the isle-side seat, with seat belt done up already, though it's ten minutes till lift off. Big momma lady with boobs as wide as her hips and crazy Afro/frizz hair bounces up the steps, deep takeaway box proudly guarded in both hands. She doesn't even glance down the bus: she wants the front seat. Old lady doesn't want to share with anyone, let alone a forthright young momma with more attitude than Russell Brand on coke.

Big Momma: "I need to sit there, (points to vacant window seat) can you move please?"

Old lady doesn't say anything, doesn't move - just shuffles her feet over so big momma has to squeeze past her very awkwardly. The window seat shakes as big momma forces herself in from a pivoted position. Old lady is leaning out of her seat so much that she may as well be sitting in the isle.

Once the driver is seated, old lady pipes up in defence:

Old Lady: "Excuse me, I booked a priority seat, not half of one!"

Bus Driver: "No, you booked one seat, so you paid for one seat, and that's what you've got."

Old lady mumbles incessantly, there is a bit more shifting from big momma, I assume cross words or maybe even rude words where exchanged... then silence.

I presume either the old lady was racist or she is one of those people who always has to have two seats no matter who wants the other free one.

Needless to say: old lady kept her half-out-of-the-seat position for the whole journey: I am 110% certain that her whole body was ridged with spite and resentment every second of that time.

Grad Bay Hell

I'm two steps from hell, stuck in a charity-fundraising-limbo worse than purgatory.

Three days without a sign-up, they'll be scraping at my back soon and I know who's going to ensure my demise.

The Grad Bay weasel. He's a shifty guy: a Dickensian caricature: part crackhead, part vermin, part jester.

Dancing around in beige slippers, greasy jogging bottoms and novelty t-shirts.

Never content, he prances and sidesteps - circling our pod, baying for someone to make a mistake so he can pounce, jeer and take us down. Or, on an all-too-rare occurrence: a swift karate chop/pat on the shoulder for good behaviour.

His hair is lank and grey-blonde: too much time spent in unhealthy places. His face is shallow; eyes as sallow as saucers.

Weasel sneer, weasel leer... why must you persist in tormenting us? Tiny dull teeth protruding, jutting your chin out to show your pathetic pride.

What pride can you possibly take, in making us wait for a tiny scrap of your wisdom? Wis-doom more like; jaded, resentment-addled deflections.

You were me once. You were scared, confused, unsafe. Only you have the weasel instinct, the thing that twists tight and forces you to beg, beg, beg. Make the sale. Rinse old ladies of their last pension scraps. No, I can't do that.

Actors play other people. You don't have to act any more. You've been promoted to head of the grad bay floor. You witness our amateur dramatic group grappling with the emotion, the tone, the inflection. But you don't care. The targets are not going up, and this affects your pluck.

How long till he shoots to kill? Do I fit the bill? Probably will, if I don't get my fill.

The sooner the cull begins the sooner I will escape the torment. Please let it be me, I've never been fired before. If it's going to happen - this is the optimum time and place. A hot house where nobody expects to thrive, sprout buds and flourish. Best to be cut and displayed outside, not left inside to fester like the grad bay jester.

Chaos with a capital "C"

Arrived in London after a refreshingly pleasant National Express journey hosted by a jolly, wholly unpatronising driver who had who good banter as well as manners. As we made the short crossing from Victoria to Putney Bridge, a sense of excitement embellished the air... the odd spray of Carnival colour dipped and weaved amongst the hum-drum weekend crowds. Maybe I'm just more alert to such hyperbolic statement in apprehension for an event I'm yet to experience: the colour and atmosphere spelling out both a dart of danger and a spell of joy.

Maybe it's just the way London makes me feel. Edgy, yet fully prepared to embrace whatever the city can throw at me today.

After a short stop in Putney to off-load belongings and get changed, we head for the tube to Notting Hill Gate. Helen and I sit next to two Rastas armored up with vuvuzelas hanging from their chests with Caribbean ribbon. The conversation between them was enlightening and amusing. Man 1 was obviously a seasoned carnival-goer, whilst the other (Man 2) was either exceedingly precautionary or a carnival virgin, like me. The conversation started with a bit of light banter:

Man 1: "Why you no got your phone, bro?"

Man 2: "I ain't got no credit, bro!"

Man 1: "Well, what ya gonna do when you get lost? You's scared you gonna get it nicked, innit?"

Man 2: "Nah mate, no point bringing it with no credit - I just got the important things here in this bag."

(He points to a cheap sports bag with a drawer string and two thin string straps, that is pressed to him on the front of his chest like a baby in a sling)

Man 1 laughs.

Man 2: "Couple o' cans o' Guinness, and me jacket, that's all I need."

Man 1: "Ha, couple o' cans o' Guinness! What if they snip here and here." (He gestures thieves cutting the strings of the bag)

Man 2: Well... at least if they do get it... it's only a couple o' cans, eh? And not me phone, camera and wallet!"

Man 1 laughs hysterically.

At this point, Helen and I are barely able to control our giggling, and luckily the doors open. Uh oh, look at the crowds. It's solid all the way up the stairs and the crowd is also just as thick from behind. Man 1 and 2 exuberantly honk their vuvuzelas, they seem to be making their way through the crowd even though it's at stand still. Just as Man 1 gets up to the first set of steps, he turns back on the rest of the masses still getting off the trains, blows his vuvu and shouts:

"GET USED TO IT!"

Priceless.

Notting Hill Carnival is certainly one of a kind. Messy, chaotic, anarchic. I get the feeling that the true heart of the matter is missing (more style over substance), it's as though the cutting loose has taken centre stage and the culture lurks in the background... not quite comfortable to perform in front of such hungry revellers. I don't think the family day is particularly child-friendly, there were times when I felt a little uncomfortable, though this was mainly due to my lack of tolerance in crowded places. Maybe I wasn't drunk enough... but after queueing for Caribbean food in the rain for what felt like and hour and a half my carnival spirit was somewhat diminished by a chill on my back and an empty belly.

Later in the day, the sun made a prolonged appearance and we were able to watch a section of the procession on a less-frequented side street. The procession was exactly as one would expect: vibrant, soulful and melodramatic. Yellow paint was sprayed into the audience, chocolate laced the air as the performers grabbed handfuls of the gooey brown stuff and planted it on their fellow dancers and the unsuspecting audience. (I admit to hiding behind a tree at this point - as good as it smelt, the appearance of chocolate can just as easily resemble a bodily excretion of a much lesser appealing variety.)

But after the procession and the sunshine vanished the mood changed and things felt a bit on the apocalyptic side. Every conceivable corner of every street harboured a mountain of takeaway boxes, chicken bones, drinks cans and smashed glass, rubbish was literally flowing onto the through-fare, god only knows what it must have looked like ten hours later in the unforgiving dawn light. The irony is explicit. I've never really seen Notting Hill without the carnage, but when you look up and see the glorious architecture and wealth... juxtaposed with the boarded up window fronts, tagged cars and messy debris at street-level, it's hard to imagine this district as a highly respectable neighbourhood... where the Hugh Grant yuppie/yucky blockbuster movie was set a few years ago. Where do the residents put their cars for the weekend? Do they dare leave their homes at all?

The rum and ginger I was swigging warmed me from the early-evening chill, but I was ready to voyage back into the 'regular' chaos of the city after the sun disappeared. It was impossible to know where to exit, every route seemed to be teeming with police ready for action. Wild eyed, wobbly legged zombies appeared to be fencing us in. A strange and eerie twilight fixed the scene, I watched the last glint of the sun fade through the obscure window of a tower block which surely marked the divide between well-to-do Notting Hill and its underbelly. The fallout seemed to reach well-beyond the periphery, the roads car-free for what felt like a mile more. Then: over a bridge and we hit civilization again, there's a bus with our name on it. Cocooned by the warm, yet stale aroma of public transport, we breath easy and watch the madness unfold at a staggeringly slow pace. There's a fight at one set of lights, but the police are swift and intervene quicker than any one could imagine.

We realise how exhausted we are. I ditch the rum and ginger and we head home, an early night and a leisurely day of touristy fluff in the morning somewhat more appealing than a convoy into rebellious mayhem.

I think I'm actually getting old.

Enemy On the Door

I'm at war.

I'm at war with the man who guards the door.

He hates me.

Won't let me passed unless I shake my plastic pass,

In his face: what a waste.

He's got the hump - someone please give him the bump!

Then I can get on with my lunch,

But may still need to punch this most terrible grump.

He really seems to care that I don't meet his stare.

But I don't dare: I'm too pressed to care.

Too pressed to care.

Stop with the sneers, it won't win you cheers!

Just let me through, clear of you.

To the door, and on to the call-floor.

To help the poor.

Selling Lives

I am currently in the business of selling lives. Children's lives.

Every ten to fifteen minutes from 1 pm until 9 pm I must try to act my way through a script that is designed to make people part with £18 - a month.

I must tease/manipulate/induce guilt/empathise/cajole people whilst remaining 100% impartial and committed to the cause at hand. Do not deviate. Big Brothers are watching. There's one Big Brother per 'grad bay', though there may be more listening: every call is recorded. We can get fined £5000 is a 'declaration clause' is not tacked on to the beginning and end of every call.

It starts with: "This call may be recorded for training purposes", and ends with something reassuring the caller that we only take £337,000 in admin costs for "calling people like you."

I have to talk to the elderly: the unemployed, the terminally ill, the students, the time-wasters, the insane, those too young to commit, yet eager to answer the phone whilst mummy struggles with the youngest. All walks of life and the others you forget about. The ones everyone forgets about - that's why they're the worst to interrupt as they've been storing up all their jaw-mangling spite just for you because you're the first person insane enough to call them. Not my fault: the system picks numbers at random.

It's not uncommon to talk to the same person three/four times in a day, (partly due to others pressing 'Call Back' when they can't be bothered to record a proper outcome) but as you've already spoken to many faceless voices in between... you're stuck in auto-pilot mode and they get the impression that the bond you formed earlier was a false pretense. Well it was.

And yet the numbers keep coming, and there's barely a moment to regenerate you self-esteem and bolster confidence levels.

Some people here have been 'on the phones' for between 5 to 12 months. On the phones. Reading a script. How is that possible?

I have no desire to be here longer than it'll take me to re-claim the training hours we put in (three days worth)... but clever people above the Big Brothers only dispense that after a month on the phones. On the phones. Clever, very clever indeed. I need that money: I must count down the days before it is mine.

I've never done a job like this before: I never will again. I'm a creative not an actor with a heart of gold. I respect the cause, I enjoy the lunches in the park with the other 'Grad Bayers', but this is not real life.

This is selling lives.

Have you guessed what I am yet?

The Village Within

I'm sure many people have pondered the benefits of villages within cities. My fresh eyes have only just been warmed by such a concept.

I like the proposition very much. I like this village very much. It is but a short (but vertically challenging) walk from Hotwells, and it has everything I could possibly ever want. If I could site all the best ingredients for living somewhere, Clifton would roll out of the 'best places for Holly to be' tombola. I fell in love today. It's a village within a city, it has GREEN spaces, water, a massive bridge, a Thai deli, posh charity shops, a spiffingly quaint fruit and veg market, an antiques/vintage archade, a Thali Cafe, model-Georgian architecture... oh the list could go on and on and on - and I've only actually spent one morning there thus far. I get excited about these things, and I'm not going to apologise. This is exactly why I moved to Bristol: to find my own little piece of heaven (a place like home in the countryside, but with more choice) in a vibrant city.

It's almost a bit too perfect... (ventured there on a blissfully lazy/sunny Sunday morning) so I'll have to see if I can lift the veil and hunt for nasties in the week... maybe in the evening. Maybe Clifton turns into a chav ghetto on a Friday night? Or (more realistically) maybe I'll out the guerrilla organic society planting tomato seedlings in the raised beds of their well-to-do yet ignorant neighbours?! I doubt either are true, but I will certainly be spending more time in Clifton before I can officially crown it king of the burbs.

I am a country girl at heart... and although I think I'm coping well with my week-day trips to work in the big cider apple - I will certainly relish the slower/quainter west side of the city. So very happy to find such a diamond of a place such a short amble from my already ideal abode. I'm in danger of becoming as smug as a Shoredich trend-bender, but without the style fascism. What I mean is that though I won't be flouncing around with a pug in one hand and a coffee in the other... I will be enjoying the quiet self-satisfaction one feels when one becomes a chameleon (after spending many years in practice at matching its surroundings) who finally finds its perfect backdrop.

I shall make it my absolute mission to fix the heights of Clifton as my permanent backdrop before next year's spring has sprung.

Goodbye Countryside, Hello Big Cider Apple

Well, I've finally gone and done it. Moved. To the. City. Bristol City, cider capital of the West country. Not at all surprisingly, I feel right at home already.

For a start, I can see patches of green and many trees from outside all of the windows in my flat. The traffic noise is a bit of a give-away, but aside from that - I don't feel as much 'out-of-water' as I thought I might. (There was a loud dog-fight in a court yard close by on my first night... the owners seemed to be at war along with the dogs, but aside from the menacing bickering I felt safe peeping from a safe distance four flights up and hidden behind a tree.)

On the fourth floor, to the north I can see the city, the masts of the SS Great Britain, a bit of the river and some green space. From the South facing windows I look out onto a reasonably busy one-way system and above that, the splendor or Clifton. I hope soon to excel upwards and migrate to this place of designer charity shops, delis and running clubs. One day, Clifton - you will be mine.... If I can ever find a good job.

In my rush to leave the countryside in pursuit of something a tad more cosmopolitan, I didn't think it necessary to secure a job. I thought get there first and the rest will follow. Not so simple in times of recession. Also, I neglected to take into account the ratio of over-qualified post-grads to meager media jobs. I sent a CV and cover letter for a writer's position on a magazine, thinking next step, at the very least, I may be invited to interview. Oh no. Nothing is ever that easy. Due to the "volume and high standard of applications... we've set a brief for you to prove you're really interested in the job" The director wanted applicants to provide a 30 second piece-to-camera video (cut, and edited by applicant) and to send it back in a week. What? So I have to invest my time and money producing a film so you can see my face on camera... before I get an interview?! No, I don't care about the job that much. Maybe the wrong attitude, but before an interview? If I had gone to them for an interview - if it went well and I liked the staff... well maybe then I'd be prepared to make a video. Bloody hell, I'm a bit scared. What if there's that much competition for every job I go for?

So, unemployed with new city bills to pay and a new lifestyle to up-keep, I was in a bit of a panic... and also suffering a mighty bout of self-confidence bashing. Not only have I been out-of-the-loop (larking around in the French Alps) for effectively nearly two years, I can't seem to muster up the enthusiasm for following a story like I did when I first entered the world of words. I'm perfectly happy to blog (even though my followers can be counted on one hand) - hello? Is anyone out there? But, when it comes to even thinking about pitching a feature idea I can't energize my mind into motivation. I blame it on the crap rates for freelancers. I blame it on the competition. But what is it really? Well, as much as I hate to admit it: it's a money thing. Right now, I need stability. Writing features, or even pitching features can take days away from me, writing the bloody things takes me at least a week. So why should I spend a week and a half on an article for less than £200? I'm just not going to do it... unless rates increase and journalists get proper recognition for their art. Never going to happen. Not in the 'digital world'.

So, I am rather ashamed and ever so embarrassed to admit that I am temporarily (ONLY temporarily) working in a call centre. But it's not as bad as you're thinking. This is a call centre for charity fundraising campaigns. So, basically I'm a street-botherer... but on the phones. There... I've said it. Well, when you're in severe financial meltdown (blame it on living in the snow), and you've signed up with all the agencies in the city, and you've handed your CV out to all and sundry... you have to take the job. Immediate start... paid weekly... commission for sign-ups... weekends free. There are perks!

I was so reluctant to go for the interview, but my doubts were lessened when I spent time in the office. Turns out this office is full of people like me: creatives struggling to get creative in their chosen industry... having to supplement their living by calling people to talk about sponsoring children half-way across the globe. Funny old world. I like to think it's going to be character building. I'm prepared to do most things if I'm in good company. I think this motley crew of artists, musicians, filmmakers and odd-bods from business redundancies are going to be amusing. They will also doubtlessly provide me with some gold dust for scriptwriting. I can't wait to witness the micro politics. The relationship patterns, oh the conflict... gossip, it's all going to come out.

I'm supposed to be contracted to 13 weeks here, but I don't know if I'll be able to last it out on the phones. I know how annoying it is to be called at home by a cold-caller... I know a lot of people only have the attention span of two seconds... can I handle the rejection? The put-downs? The ignorance? We'll see.

I will of course, be on the look out for more appropriate jobs in the meantime. But it looks like I may have to be prepared to take a few steps down the ladder in order to gain my place on the Bristol scene. This will also be a confidence demolisher, but I'm of strong stock. I can take it.

Second day of training tomorrow. World Vision: I am your minion (for now).