Thriller night.

Autumn has to be one of my favourite times of the year. I love the change of colours and the wind blustering around. It’s probably the most romantic season of the year, if only for the fact, I’m not sweating, or running away from wasps and bees to actually concentrate being out in the fresh air. I actually find the wind exciting and refreshing, sexy and bewitching. I also like autumn because it’s nearly my birthday, Children in Need, bonfire night and remembrance Sunday. The only thing I don’t like about this time of year is Halloween.

It is just another ‘Hallmark’, festival, commercialised to sell terrible outfits and sweets, much the same as Valentine’s Day.  I have yet to buy anyone a card for that occasion. It’s because I am actually very scared of Halloween, and I don’t like scary films. It stems from watching Poltergeist 1, 2 and 3 at a very early age and now there are several things I dislike. For example, full length mirrors are the best toy available in the bedroom. However, I have only just grown out of the habit of turning the mirrors round in my bedroom at night. I similarly have a hatred of dolls, human puppets and clowns thanks to that film, the shop windows in Prague were the only thing that marred my trip in one of my favourite cities. Furthermore, for some years, I was convinced, even in the day-time that the tree round the corner from where I lived as a child, was going to eat me.

I watched an interview with John Landis recently, and he confirmed that watching scary films at an early age has a deep psychological impact. Even at a later age, scary films can have an impact. I went to see ‘I am Legend’, all by myself with the impression that it was a thought provoking film. I spent half of the movie with my hands over my face, only to remove them at the worst possible moment; I nearly ejected from my seat. As much as I was committed to attending all the lectures of my favourite lecturer at university, I couldn’t manage a viewing of James Cameron’s ‘Alien’. The only two scenes I have seen, by accident, is when the female alien prowls her lair, and when the alien protrudes out of Ripley’s stomach. Even though I am well aware about the facts of life, those images can’t help but overshadow my fear of ever giving birth. I’ll be taking the surrogacy option every time…… I’m also guaranteed to be asleep well before mid-night.

Belated wish

It’s a little bit late, and I’m getting a little too old for wishes, but here goes.

Dear Jim’ll fix it,

First of all, I would have really loved to have been in a Kylie and Jason video. I played with my little sister all the time. We would put our records on and dance around our bedroom; sometimes she was Jason, sometimes I was Kylie. We used to know all the dance routines; I usually played Jason because I could pick her up and spin her around. Although, she suited playing either one, on account of her blonde hair, even if she can’t sing. But then, I’m not sure how well either of them can actually sing. Obviously, time has moved on somewhat, Jason has very few of his feathered blond locks left and probably had all his teeth replaced due to his abuse of cocaine, and Kylie’s had too much botox to sing, it’s time to find a new idea.

Dear Jim, I would like you to fix it for me. I would like to be the star of a musical film scene, or a pop video just like Bjork’s, ‘It’s all so quiet’.  Since you’re now in heaven anyway, probably smoking cigars, maybe you can arrange something with Jerome Robbins. Something like, ‘America’ from Westside Story, a big production with lots of skirts swishing. I will spend hours learning,

I hope you can fix it for me.

Re-growth

I seem to have a knack of not being in the wrong place at the wrong time. A rather last minute change of plan meant that I made a quick dash to Glasgow just before the riots occurred. I’ve always thought that Scottish men are very manly. Indeed, Scottish men have been voted the manliest men in the world. I’m not surprised to hear that! Compared to my recent stay in Italy, it’s easy to see. I don’t think I saw anyone walk in the rain for fear of ruining ‘the look’. In Glasgow, I have seen a number of men running marathons on the street in buckets of rain. It’s actually quite an attractive look, but I noticed something else about these, ‘manly men’ which caused me to notice them. More and more men are growing beards and I think it’s set to spread throughout the UK. 

According to the Times, it’s a growing national trend, and all the cosmetic companies are in fear of losing their newly founded market.  I thought this new awakening and maybe fleeting attraction was merely the result of my monthly cycle. However, it seems I’m just part of a trend set by the depression; a polarization of the genders. Obviously all women wading through the depression are in need of a hero, I consider Barbie and G.I Joe (with a beard) as the best example of the new trend. The theme tune could only be sung by Bonnie Tyler. 

I have established there are five types of men with beards and facial hair. I’m not including the kind of bum fluff that Justin Beiber needs to shave. They are; trendy stubble, wild bohemian, elderly wisdom, distinguished gentleman and hobo scruff.

Starting with designer stubble, consider the example of Hugh Laurie in his role as Doctor House. Or if you’re not careful guys, there’s the gay stereotype, step forward George Michael. Or the unfeasibly and heart-breakingly handsome Tom Ford. But this is a sore point for me and my soft face. It looks attractive, but it’s akin to a child’s fascination with a hot plate on the cooker. It’s fascinating to see, it desires to be touched, but it’s bound to burn later, Sitting on the fence with facial hair just isn’t right, it should either shaved off to Gillette four-blade-precision, or grown just long enough to be soft. Even compared to the category of hobo scruff, it’s still my least favourite.

Of course, I wouldn’t be attractive to those sporting the hobo scruff style alla My Twit from Dahl’s’ ‘The Twits’. Thanks to Dahl’s story-telling, I’m still fascinated with scruffy beards and have been since my childhood. I always used to wonder if men with beards could store crumbs for snacks, the odd cornflake or crisp.

Although, this shouldn’t be confused with wild Bohemian, the most relevant example is Keith Farnel, a comedian from Ireland. I recently had the (mis) fortune to be picked on during his stand-up routine. I rather excitedly put my hand up when he asked the audience, “Who thinks they have the best job in the world”. I was thinking of the day job at the time, but I realised not many had put their hands up, either they were smarter than me, or just miserable. This type of beard is much neater and softer, the likes of which is seen on professional men, such as, lawyers, engineers, encouraged into the normality of 9-5, who would happily live without any of the prestige or money to be, well, a stand-up comedian and happy. I know such types from real life; you meet them in book shops, at poetry readings and in cool jazz music shops or music festivals.

The best example of ‘distinguished gentleman’ I can provide, given my current location, could only be Charles Rennie Mackintosh. This man has a restrained elegance, one that has gone out of fashion. I can only think of a few living examples. An old school friend of mine, even though he is younger than me, had these qualities, even at 15 years of age. This leads to me suspect these men enter the world with beards, moustaches and received pronunciation.

As for ‘Elderly wisdom beard’, this is usually only seen once a year on Christmas day or in the Worthington sweet adverts. Saint Nicolas, or at least the modern incarnation we all know and love, has a long, white beard. Although, ‘Elderly Wisdom beard’, is also worn by some real fruit cakes. Yet the effect is the same, not a single person would dare to question a man with a long white beard and a twinkle in his eye. After all, who wants to wake on Christmas day with a lump of coal in their sack?

Scat girl

It turns out I have been a little self-deluded. Like everyone else, I have a fantasy career that exists in an alternative universe, if I wasn’t doing my current job(s). I’d always imagined I’d be a jazz singer. I’d be singing songs from the capitol masters, something fun and bouncy or raw and tender, particularly, Peggy Lee. Or folk/jazz music from later on in the 70’s, from Brill House singer/song-writer, Carole King, deep, resonate and personal. But it appears, I’m not that deep, vocally of course.

It’s a little vain, but I only ever wanted to sing cool songs. I think it’s in reaction to some of my earlier musical influences. Some of which, were not cool, at least not at the time. I went to a school with a rather progressive head teacher and maths teacher. Instead of the usual stock of Christian songs, our assemblies were enhanced by the songs of ‘The Beatles’ and ‘Simon and Garfunkel’.  The Beatles are cool, but it must have been one of those moments in musical fashion that they weren’t.

My maths teacher’s handlebar moustache was not cool; he was in his element when my school celebrated its 25th birthday. All the pupils were required to dress up in vintage 60’s clothes for a school party. It was either that, or you were with the music teacher tastes, performing musicals. But only the real goodies and the brave took the solo parts in the choir. I was also a goody, but I was shy and I hid in the orchestra. It was certainly different from the musical influences I experienced at home….Queen, Guns and Roses, and Dolly Parton……… Somehow, I know all the verses to ‘When I’m 64’ and I’m a walking jukebox for the Queen music catalogue.

I’m deluded myself that I’ll get to sing the cool songs, I’m firmly with the goodies in Andrew Lloyd Webber land.  Even though he’s earned a score of Grammies, Tony, and Golden awards; writes fantastic songs for sopranos; and he’s popular and rich, but he’s not cool. I can reach a top A, but I can’t get down to the low notes. It’s been process of elimination, (and realisation), discovered from recordings and during lessons that’s left me sulking. I’ve lost my jazz superhero. It seems I either have to wait until I’m older, or consume vast amounts of doughnuts and chocolate.

Age ain’t nothing but a number.

For the lucky few at least who never seem to look their age. At the moment, I’m placing myself in that category, although it may just come back to haunt me at some point. When I’m a suitable cadidate for ‘Ten years younger’, then you can all laugh at me. I can justify it without the use of male flattery, which I enjoy, but don’t take too deeply on board. At 23, I went to buy a lottery ticket and was refused. Last year at 29 years of age, I went to a family planning clinic and was told I could come for appointments in the teenager’s clinic. Some teenagers I’ve seen look very old. At least on the surface I appear young, but I rely upon regular hair dying for my grey hairs, and a little of bit of concealer for my 4 eye wrinkles. In order to conserve this look, I should follow the ‘Nicole Kidman School of Smiling’, which is not smiling very much at all. I don’t think I could deny myself the pleasure. There is also the question of my dodgy left knee.

I know for certain that I’m getting older when I hear everyone else complain about getting older. Plus, I can’t ignore the fact when most of my friends are now a two-for-one package. That is, a visit to see them often includes their husbands. This might be OK in another world I’ve mingled in. In fact, as all my female friends’ bellies have swelled, visiting friends is a 3-4-1 package these days. I have to recall my duties as big sister and try not to get freaked out by baby spew on my dry-clean-only clothes, and large baby’s heads. Soon enough they’ll be teenagers, and then I’ll be certain I’m old. I had rather thought I would have been married to Morten Harket by now.  I don’t remember if my childhood plans included babies, but then I was innocent and I just wanted to sing A-ha songs. This was perhaps my only example of good taste as a child, and thankfully it’s still true now. Bros and Michael J. Fox were also on my childhood dream list; my only excuse is that it was the 80’s. I even had dungarees and a perm at one stage, for that I can partially blame my mother.

It’s not very rock ‘n’ roll, but I actually want to be old before kicking the bucket. I don’t want any more than a casual cool glance from the undertaker. There’s nothing more pointless than a pretty corpse, little good will come of “such a shame”.  I’d rather, “well she’s had a few knocks”, then my spirit would be able to chuckle with “and then some more!”  Of course, who doesn’t want to age like Brad Pitt, or Elizabeth Hurley? Susan Sarandon and Sigourney Weaver aren’t doing so badly either, but that’s Hollywood, and even the ladies without enhancements haven’t had a tough life. I have much better examples from real life to follow.

So far, I’ve learnt’ that most Italians tell you what they like in reverse order starting with what they don’t like. I’ve met two outstanding ladies in the last few months that are a breath of fresh air. One is 62 and goes sailing and takes a number of classes. The other has just turned 40 and is only just beginning her voyages. She has so much energy she reminds me of a pinball. She’s always laughing and smiling about something when you see her. In Russia, I knew a lady of 65, she took two steps at a time on the stairs and had boyfriends twenty years her junior. She used to take me to the best restaurants and we’d get drunk together in Keivskaya shopping centre at 2pm. She also had the brave habit of pretending to be an ignorant tourist to distract police men from bullying Kazakstanis. I’d settle for any portion of their attitude to life. This is the key; age is an attitude not a number. If you’re the kind of person who complains all the time, negativity attracts the addition of years and becomes moulded onto your appearance. When you meet me, I’m very rarely frowning; I guess most teenagers have such facial expressions permanently etched. I’ve not given up on doing things for the first time and I hope that I never will. I don’t have the opinion that everything about me is fully formed. I wouldn’t like to be eighteen again, but I’m still dancing in the street from time to time, so at least I feel eighteen.