Enjoying a smattering of snow (would not call it much else) here in Cincinnati, Ohio. Also enjoying being a mad Englishman wandering around in the cold dark early morning listening a recent birthday present, the BBC radio adaptation of Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman’s ‘Good Omens’ and once more marvelling at how it is actually possible to make the Apocalypse genuinely funny.

Hells Angel:        “You’re Hell’s Angels, then? What chapter are you from?’
DEATH:                 ‘REVELATION. CHAPTER SIX.”

Well, it is isn’t really… It’s more the observations of people and things and how they might relate to such a thing being a very wise and sharply observed deconstruction of human nature at its best and worst. As Crowley the demon points out, nothing that the forces of Hell can come up with is a patch on the bad things we can do to each other.

I’m really looking forward to the new BBC TV adaptation after listening to Gaiman speak in London recently and talk about having written the scripts himself partly as tribute to Terry Pratchett, who died before he could give his approval; when you listen to someone talk that way, you can be fairly certain that whatever else, the script will be as good as it can be.

As with the likes of the ‘Life of Brian’ (for me the best thing the Pythons ever did) I am struck that sometimes the best way to think about some of the most serious subjects is humour. Yes, you can be offended, but it is a good thing to question and to take a step backwards from some subjects and actually use this amazing ability we have to actual think. Then if we step back or step further away from whatever ‘it’ is – and to be clear I am talking about anything someone might find a bit difficult, of which things I find many in the world – at least that movement is a conscious one. Humour provides a real gift here, and something I personally think is unique to us humans (although I have met plenty of cats who attitude seemed to drip with dry sarcasm). It is the sugar to coat the pill that we need to take if we want to be honest with ourselves, the sofa that we can hide behind to watch the monsters in a way that we would find difficult without its supposed protection. I know whenever I am embarrassed or unsure of myself I am most likely to try and hide behind some humour and I know I am not the only one. It is one of the least convincing part of many thrillers or horror movies for me is the lack of humour at the darkest points as that’s where I expect to find it if there was some kind of reality lurking there along with whatever ‘nasty is waiting patiently so it can have your heart’ (to quote Bucks Fizz. Incidentally, once you look at the lyrics of ‘Land of Make Believe’ in detail you realise just how dark and sinister that song is, and not just because you might hate that kind of eighties vocal pop).

I like my humour to have an edge and preferably a sharp one. But this kind of humour can easily cut and wound too, so I continue to admire those that can wield such a weapon with skill and panache and originality. They are to be treasured.

In a somewhat unusual moment for me last night – unusual due to the lucidity – Sir David Attenborough, dressed in trademark blue shirt and slacks, conspiratorially informed me to ‘look for the code’. He then, unfortunately for me – who would have much rather spent additional time with one of my greatest inspirations he then vanished in a bit of an Obi Wan fashion into the ether.

Obviously this was a dream. I do not usually remember dreams, unlike the Lovely Wife, and I have talked about them before because it is something I find endlessly fascinating, at the fictions our brains come up with while we sleep. In this case I can remember that what followed was what seemed like a long and convoluted mystery in some kind of secret research establishment/gothic mansion where a family was conducting mysterious – and almost certainly nefarious – experiments on something with something. The only detail was that some people were developing horrific lesions that at first I thought were some kind of disease but eventually realised were some kind of radiation burns. There must be a monster in there somewhere. I always love a good monster. I do not recall seeing it though, and they are the best and scariest kinds of monster.

Oh and I found the code, hidden away on a tiny sticker in mass of photos on a wall, a bit like the kind of sticker that you get on the back of a router with the password on it.

Annoyingly, I do not know why I needed the code or what I was supposed to/did with it, but if Sir David said it was important, then it must have been.

So I am going to make the assumption that I succeeded in my mission. After all, this is my brain’s story, it ends the way I want. Admittedly, this story was being ‘written’ unconsciously for an audience of one who largely forgets it later, but at least my brain is indulging in some creativity. I have not been able to translate that much in a conscious state recently.

I’ve been – and I appreciate what follows is a slightly strange thing to say – I’ve been reading about writing (mostly from people I admire very much and are far, far cleverer than I could ever be, such as Neil Gaiman). It is now a few years since I completed my Humanities degree and I have missed the creative writing that was a major part of it, knocking out one or two short stories a week at one point. I just have not seemed to be able to get back into the swing of things, which is sad for me as while hardly anyone read any of those stories, I found the act of creating them pretty satisfying in itself; like a picture you paint for your own pleasure or perhaps for you and a loved one, it is fun to create for the sake of creation, especially when you have the luxury of not having to rely on it being successful for a living and do it for your amusement. In particular I find going back to those stories in something of a state of surprise; aside form wincing at the naivety, poor turns of phrase and grammatical errors – proof reading, as any reader of these blog posts will know – is not my strong point – it was as though I was reading something someone else had written, not me. I suppose, being literal about it that is true. Some of these stories are now five years old, and the person who wrote them is five years older, and not quite the same. It reminds me of a comment someone made about a story I had struggled with finishing and where there had been a considerable gap before I knew where it was going. That comment was that it felt like two, different, half stories that had been sewn together (I have a sudden image of one of those Victorian fakes where a monkey’s body was sewn onto a fish’s tail to form an unlikely and ugly mermaid, although that could be because I am feeling a bit Gothic today or suddenly remembered the rather creepy short story about such a thing in my dog eared copy of ‘The Jon Pertwee Book of Monsters’ where of course the ugly looking thing… Well that would be telling). The comment was correct of course, if I was serious about it I should have gone back and revised the first part to fit in with the second.

I do not know if Sir David will appear in any future fiction (‘Animal Magic’ star Johnny Morris has appeared before, alongside one of my favourite heroines – the one that won’t take no for an answer and will be more than they say she will as a result – and a talking penguin that was a reincarnation of Jean Paul Sartre) but I wonder if I need to find the code that will allow me to unlock the current block and start having some more fun creating impossible lives.

It has been a busy old couple of weeks with Cardiff and most recently Birmingham to explore on the back of a concert. I do not think I had ever been to Birmingham before other than to change trains at Birmingham New Street. I found it a pleasant experience. Not only was the cheap hotel we were staying in next to a canal – whose towpath proved a very pleasant way of walking, albeit briskly considering it was dark, too and from the gig, but also I had managed to completely forget about the cities connections with the Pre-Raphaelite movement and especially Edward Burne-Jones. In addition to the fine collection of work in city art gallery the stained glass Burne-Jones designed for the cathedral was, for me at least, breathtakingly beautiful. Do pop in to see it if you have the chance.

The other thing that I found to be a good use of time was a tour of the last remaining set of Back to Backs in the city. For those who do not know, and I confess that I didn’t, Back to Backs were one room wide houses built back to back so one faces out into the street while the other, separate  dwelling faces onto a courtyard. Put bluntly they were thrown up as the cheapest possible housing and would have been pretty overcrowded, dirty and at least in the nineteenth century little more than hovels. Things improved as time went on, one of the themes of the National Trust’s presentation of the site, with improvements in availability of clean water first outside and then inside the homes and technology advances from candle to gas to electric lighting. But disease was always a problem and the sanitation always pretty basic even into the 1970s.

Listening to the stories of the people who lived and worked here was a sobering experience. These were talented, skilled people in many cases – the families who lived in these remaining houses were clockmakers, glass blowers and locksmiths – the last resident was a master tailor who made britches for the Queen’s Horse guards. Sometimes they made enough money to get out and – and this seemed a bit like a running joke akin to the phenomenon in Neighbours that everyone leaving Ramsey Street ends up in Brisbane – they moved to the posh district of Edgbaston. But in other cases they lived and died in these tiny little houses and got on with life as best they could.

The shop on the corner of this little time capsule of how people used to live is a sweet shop selling pretty much everything I can remember as a kid, bless them in ¼ pound bags. I have not asked for a quarter of Cola Cubes or Sweet Peanuts for a very long time. It is also very busy so I was not the only one it seems feeling nostalgic. Visiting a place like the Birmingham Back to Backs does remind you of how much nicer life can be these days compared to what it might have been back then, but there is a danger of forgetting that people were touch and proud of what they did have, even if it was not a lot. The lady who was our guide had grown up in a similar kind of property and to my mind seemed to be proud of that fact and not at all looking back with a shudder. These were communities that made the best of what they had; in a time when the highest level of ‘community’ in the street that I live in is perhaps a nod and smile of recognition, I do not think everything has improved.

As is pretty obvious from my social media activity recently a large part of my birthday celebrations this year involved subjecting the Lovely Wife to the Doctor Who Experience currently located in Cardiff Bay; I say currently as it is due to close this year as the lease on the land it is built on is up after five years, although I am sure that the BBC will have something else put together soon – Doctor Who is a considerable cash cow for them and this is probably part behind the move to create some noise, together with imminent change of showrunner and star.

So this is partly why I went; I had meant to go before but had not gotten around to it, and the closure forced my hand. The fact it turned out that my birthday was the most convenient day to go was largely coincidental. As readers of this blog will be aware I am a massive fan – my first memory is not of something happening to me but rather the dead Wirrn queen collapsing onto the hapless Harry Sullivan in the cliff hanger to episode 1 of the Ark in Space (January 25^th 1975 to be precise). But I have found the massive amount of merchandise and ‘stuff’ generated since the show returned in 2005 a bit overwhelming. In the old days merchandise was largely limited to the odd dodgy jigsaw, the novelizations and the Annual. Now you can get pretty much anything with a Dalek or the Tardis on it. I have kind of given up on buying stuff and that kind of indifference sort of spread to the Experience.

But Sunday was a special couple of hours. I was surprised at how excited I could actually get even as an adult and thoroughly enjoyed both the interactive and exhibition parts and excitement shared by many of my fellow attendees, the teenagers in particular resplendent in Tardis hoodies and dresses (Cardiff is the only place I have been to that feels as though a Doctor Who convention has somehow taken over large parts of the city, based on the amount of Who based attire being worn).

Back to the experience, for those that do not know the first half is a kind of mini adventure that you participate in – nothing particularly taxing – it is largely aimed at the younger end of the fan base – but some nice touches for longer in the tooth fans if you knew where to look. I think what particularly delighted me though was the reaction of the kids that were in the same group as the Lovely Wife and I to the action. Unlike most of the adults, they are much happier to suspend disbelief and get fully involved and the squeals and gasps at appropriate moments I think helped even the most cynical of the adults to get a little more involved. At various points the young ones need to get involved and are given roles which they take entirely seriously. I was particularly amused by one girl, let’s call her Lucy (because that is her name). Lucy is about ten I would guess, possibly eleven. Lucy was entranced by the whole affair and when the Curator (don’t ask) asked for a volunteer for a particular task you could see just how much she wanted to step forward. Her mum encouraged her and so did I… Well, it was better that than shoving her out of the way and grabbing the [Redacted as a spoiler] myself. Lucy never stopped grinning even when we were trying to escape the [Redacted] and the [Redacted].  Lucy is exactly the kind of fellow fan I wish I had known when I was ten. Maybe they did exist in 1981 but not anywhere me. I bet she is boring/creating envy in her friends back at school as I write this. I hope so. She does not know it, but her delight and joy in something I love so much made the whole experience better for me. Thank you, Lucy for the birthday present.

Oh dear. I seem to have gotten myself involved in an act of theft – at least as an accessory. You see this morning I caused a diversion that allowed a theft to take place. I had not intended to; but rather bumbled into a situation where a cunning and daring thief was able to use me as a diversion to commit his crime. Perhaps worse, the victim was a visiting tourist, while the criminal was one of the local St Albans bad boys.

Obviously this was not a real crime, but otherwise the facts of the case are as described, Your Honour.

It may surprise some people who live in St Albans that despite the amount of algal bloom and various acts of bread feeding the lake in Verulamium Park has a fair amount of life in it, including some impressively large freshwater mussels (but they are detritus feeders so maybe we should not be surprised). If you walk down in the park fairly early at this time of year there is often a lot of shell debris from some of the more unfortunate of these molluscs. They have been devoured by some of the larger winter visiting gulls, particularly Herring Gulls and Lesser Black Backed Gulls, who seem to have the knack of fishing them out of the water and are strong enough to break into the shells. For them, this is a good meal.

Well, one gull was happily tucking into its prize yesterday morning as I ran by. However, it had an audience, of one of the parks resident crows. The crow was standing as close to the gull as it could get while remaining out of pecking range and was completely focused on the other bird feasting in front of it.

The seagull on the other hand was suddenly more concerned with the bulky human trundling towards it. Of course I would have happily ran round the bird – I like gulls – bit it did not know that and made the mistake of fluttering a couple of feet away, at a safe distance from my clattering trainers.

The crow of course, giving out a caw of delight and triumph (OK, I made that bit up) hoped directly into my path, anthropomorphically slipped me a wink and picking up what was left of the mussel and was off.

I felt a little guilty and sorry for the gull, but you had to admire the wiliness of the crow in stealing a substantial breakfast. They are tremendous opportunists and extremely bright birds, and I think they are quite beautiful. No, really. When you see a crow in the next few days – especially at this time of year when they are in breeding plumage – give it a second look. Assuming it is a healthy one you’ll get the full effect of that glossy, multi toned dark plumage. The same with most of the other crow species at this time of year; the magpies are feeding each other as part of their courtship (very sweet to watch), the jackdaws are paired and fighting over nesting holes (or, more likely in towns, a convenient chimney pot which does just as well). And if, as we are, you are lucky enough to have Jays come into your garden – well, I am always amazed that a bird with such bright pink, blue and white plumage does not get the attention it deserves among all the dull brown stuff. Yes they can be annoying – I have an ongoing battle with a pair of crows over their attempts to ransack the bird feeder, long after I was able to defeat the squirrels, because, to be frank, I’ll take the clever bird over the stupid mammal any day. Love our crows, don’t stone them.

Mind you… Rooks are pretty ugly. But then there is always one that was at the back of the line…

Maybe it is just me, but every so often I have moments of potential revelation when someone about myself or the world around me suddenly seems to become clear in a way that perhaps it had not done previously. This includes insights into what makes me tick, which I think about because it helps me to better handle when things do not go according to plan and/or how I react to things that bit more positively, in other words if you understand what can make yourself a bit difficult to be with then perhaps you can avoid situations that bring out the worst in you or at least deal with them without being quite so much of an arse.

I have already rambled I think about my inability to deal with grace over last minute changes of plan (any plan, but especially one that I had hatched), but an incident before Christmas has struck me as indicative of another thing I find very difficult.

It was simple enough; the Lovely Wife and I were having a day out in London and we were just getting on the Underground. However, my ticket stuck in the machine for reasons that were not obviously apparent. As I stood there like a lemon wondering what to do and trying not to be crushed in the tsunami of humanity that is London St Pancras on a Saturday in December (come to think of it, at any time) the clearly malfunctioning barrier switched its display scheme from cards/Oyster to ‘Oyster only’ (for non-Londoners reading this, Oyster is the preloaded card system that the London Underground uses).

Thanks to the Lovely Wife, I was attended on by staff member who rescued my ticket. Then he ruined it by pointing out that the barrier said ‘Oyster only’.

Not when I put my ticket in, I raged internally. And I failed to thank him as much as I should of.

Thinking back, I know why. Whether he meant it or not, the ‘Oyster only’ comment was taken by me as ‘you’re an idiot and it is your fault’. Now, I am not so bothered by the second part, there are lots of thing through my life where miss steps, big and small are completely or largely due to my own damn self. That’s not a problem for me. On the other hand, feeling I have been made or have made myself look stupid is an entirely different thing, even in front of people I do not know, will never meet again and probably could not give a monkey’s anyway. Also, it is not being seen as silly or playing the fool, or being a laughing stock – that’s me most of the time anyway. No, it is being seen as being stupid is what I cannot stand. I can read, thank you very much. I have plenty of nice qualifications I actually worked for (albeit only as hard as I had to, I’ll admit that anything I’m not completely engaged with becomes and exercise is ‘what is the minimum I can get away with?’) and actually I think I can be pretty practical and pragmatic (just do not ask me to translate that into actually using my hands to deliver a solution; something seems to go wrong between the idea and the physical resolution usually).

I have the same problem as the Emperor and his people have in the Emperor’s New Clothes – they don’t want to appear stupid by pointing out the bleeding obvious that their leader has been done over by con men and is completely starkers.

I had not really thought of this before but once the lightbulb went on it was clear that, for whatever reason, this is something that really gets to me – being seen as stupid when I am not and I have not done – in my opinion of course – anything to deserve that image. If I want to parade naked around the streets of Hull painted in blue for three hours with a freezing wind off the North Sea trying to make me go even bluer I’ll admit that in a lot of people’s books that’s a bit dumb.

But I am capable of following simple instructions.

(If I bother to read them)

After Christmas and New Year we find it a good thing to have something to look forward to in the gloom of January so we have for a number of years treated ourselves to a long weekend away in late January. The advantage of this is that the range of places you can afford to stay in – we always do self-catering – can also be higher as it tends to be one of the cheapest times of the year, for obvious reasons.

In particular we look at Landmark Trust properties, an organisation I have a lot of time for as they pretty much do what I used to dream I would do when I was a kid, which is to acquire or take out a lease on historic buildings as holiday accommodation which otherwise might fall into disrepair and be lost. Some of their buildings are of historic importance, many are just quirky or fun – like the Pigsty above Robin Hood’s Bay, which was indeed home to a couple of pigs originally but was built to look like a Grecian temple. Or The Music Room, which is the miraculous survival of a garden pavilion mysteriously stranded in the middle of Lancaster, bereft now of any sign of the big house or garden it was built for. There are also larger properties, castles in Scotland and Devon for example and Pugin’s The Grange in Kent. One of the more recent projects was Clavell Tower in Dorset, famous from P D James’ ‘The Black Tower’ a folly that Landmark first had to move brick by brick a few meters in shore before turning it into a holiday cottage. They open up a window onto the people who built or lived in them, and this year was no exception.

This year we were in one of their earliest acquisitions, in Derbyshire. North Street, Cromford was built in the 1760s by Sir Richard Arkwright to house workers from his water driver mills. Arkwright was a hard businessman who to some extent revolutionised the spinning business with his huge water powered mills by use of automation on a previously not seen scale, allowing for use of fewer, unskilled workers. This usually meant women and children, and it was dangerous and tiring work. That said, it meant their husbands – often skilled weavers- could then work on their own while their families worked in the mill, so the possibilities for income became much greater. And there was no shortage of people willing to work, when the likely alternative was the work house. People came from all over the country to work in Arkwright’s business empire.

One of the reasons was the accommodation. We were staying in number 10 North Street which is the house Landmark retained as a holiday let (they own several other houses in the street that they saved from demolition in the 1960s and have permanent tenants). While it has been sympathetically extended to meet modern requirements (easy enough here, but how they have made some of their other properties habitable – especially those which were never meant to be lived in, even for a short time, can be quite ingenious) it is clear to see what might have tempted a family to take the deal even considering the hard work and very real risks of injury or death. It is a three story terrace, one ample room to each floor of good solid stone construction, where the range on the ground floor would have heated the bedroom above together with a light and airy upper story where perhaps they would have installed a loom. Compared to what was available elsewhere this was a nice place to live. Looking out of the back window you can see down to the mill buildings, and out the front houses continue up the hill and then stop as the Derbyshire countryside takes over. Apart from the traffic going past the end of the road on A6, not a lot has changed about the place.

Thankfully, a lot has changed about what is acceptable in working conditions. Or has it? Certainly here in the UK that is true, but elsewhere people are still exploited, and often without the trade-offs that working for someone like Arkwright clearly entailed. This weekend was a lovely one, and it was a privilege to stay in such a place and think about the people it was built for, but that’s also the point; I’m very lucky, and need to remember that sometimes.

I am not sure you are supposed to be made to cry by a puppet, but I was the victim of such an emotional attack last week and had no answer to it. So the tissues came out and have continued to come out every time I think of the poor little thing huddled up on the stage, lifeless beyond the bits of wood and string that it is actually made of. Even going to see the latest Disney, the marvelous ‘Moana’ has not totally cheered me up.

The Lovely Wife and I were lucky enough to catch one of the final performances of ‘The Little Match girl (and happier tales)’ at the Sam Wanamaker playhouse, the quite wonderfully atmospheric and candle lit indoor performance space at Shakespeare’s Globe theatre on the South Bank. I had not originally thought of going but the reviews were extremely good and at £10 for a standing ticket you can usually afford to take a risk that actually it might be overrated. It wasn’t.

The short reign of Emma Rice as artistic director at the Globe has been a controversial one (including of course her dismissal). Personally I have found it a little hit and miss; interesting certainly, but nothing to match some previous productions for entertainment and energy (personal highlights were the 2010 productions of Henry IV part 1 and 2 and the 2012 Henry V, all starring the hugely underrated Jamie Parker as Hal/Henry V). However, I’m very grateful for ‘The Little Match girl’ as the experience was a unique one and one likely to stay with me for a long time.

The show is based on several of Hans Christian Anderson stories, including Thumbelina and the Emperor’s New Clothes (the slightly happier stories). Many of you will know that the story of the Little Match Girl doesn’t end well so I was partly prepared for the pull on the heart strings but as the performance progressed you could real feel her slipping away (also thanks to some great puppetry) and there was nothing you, as the observer, could do about it. The story is simple; the little girl is trapped on the streets, and the only thing that brings her warmth and solace is by lighting one of the dwindling number of matches. In this case, that summons Ole Shuteye, a storyteller, who proceeds to delight the little girl with stories, with his band of performers, and he delights the audience too with clowning, songs, more puppets and a goodly amount of breaking the Fourth Wall. This is the bulk of the performance and is often very funny, although in keeping with the nature of the original stories you do not have to look far below the surface to see the social commentary and at the end of each you are dragged back, as is your heroine, to reality – or something passing as reality. There are some odd things here, that feeling of dreams layered on dreams, but they all make perfect sense through a few, devastating late twists.

Eventually however, the laughs become harder to come by, and there is only one match left. There is a terribly sad moment as that final match is allowed to burn right down to the fingers of the character holding it, his face covered so you cannot see the expression. And then it just falls to the stage from his limp hand. Beautiful, and there was no way to avoid being upset.

I was wondering why I could get so upset over a puppet.

I think the key is that in this kind of performance you forget that your protagonist is not a real actor because while they may chat or shake hands with the audience making clear this is a performance they also treat the puppet as though she is a real little girl. As such it completes the illusion and allows you to be genuinely moved when she lifted onto people’s shoulders, or sitting shivering, without shoe or coat on the stage. It always amazes me that you can have the puppeteer in plain sight and yet completely ignore him or her; even in the curtain call, it is not entirely clear who you are applauding as the Little Match Girl ‘walks’ back onto the stage. And that is as it should be. This kind of show is one that exists in several levels of reality – at least three – and to adopt the imagination of a child is the best way to enjoy it. Certainly, the ten year old (at a guess) girl in the front row was virtually wetting herself with laughter most of the time and quietly rapt at the right moments, and so was I.

Afterwards they took a collection for Centrepoint. It was entirely appropriate. We’ve seen a lot of stuff very recently that was incredibly entertaining but not in the least challenging. This was both, and since you cannot save the Little Match Girl (for one aching moment I thought they might have changed the outcome, as the storyteller passionately tells the little girl that ‘I’m not telling your story’ as though that could perhaps save her. But of course that would have been a betrayal and far too Hollywood) maybe we can help save some other person trapped on our streets.

I have never really thought of ballet dancers as scary, but I may have to revise my opinion after last Saturday.

The lovely wife and I enjoyed a performance of the ballet Giselle at the Coliseum in London (English National Opera) and rather good it was too. I will lay my cards on the table – I do not come naturally to ballet. It has been a bit of a struggle but I was happy to take it up because (1) the Lovely Wife loves any form of dance and (2) it allows me the smugness of getting really cheap tickets for something everyone assumes is expensive (specifically £12 seats, which, when compared to a popcorn and goodness knows what else contaminated seat at the local multiplex seems good value to me). We have the advantage of flexibility, short legs (I really feel for taller people folder up in balcony seats) and I have a thing for booking well in advance and in the faith that the universe will not get in the way.

But I’m growing to like ballet – or at least the shorter ones. I was terrified to find that the version of Sleeping Beauty we saw some years ago, which I felt had fallen by the end in a never ending series of solo dances at the wedding actually in its full form ran to over four hours. I mean really? We have only ever walked out of a theatre before the end once and that was an awfully misjudged production of a musical version of ‘Gone With The Wind’ – it was past 11 and at the second interval announcement the Lovely Wife informed me how much of the story was still to go (somehow I have – still – managed to miss the movie or book). At that point we left, with pretty much the rest of the audience. It was not a hit. The lead in that performance was former pop idol runner-runner-up Darius; I’m pleased to say that the next time we caught him on stage was in the much better musical version of ‘From Here To Eternity’ which was quite interesting – and did not run over the two and a half hours (including interval) that really should be the limit for an evening production to avoid people like me (who has long since stopped trusting on a last train home and now finds the early morning after an evening out a struggle, which I didn’t in my twenties).

I think I should get back to Giselle and scary ballet dancers mentioned earlier. I could be talking about the male principals of course; those guys are ridiculously fit and muscled and as Billy Elliot taught us anyone who thinks men who do ballet are not as scary as those that say, play rugby, is fooling themselves. These guys could eat most professional footballers for breakfast and watching someone quite that powerful move with such grace and precision is pretty impressive. No, in Giselle (and I knew nothing about the plot before seeing it) there is a form of vengeful female spirits that latch onto men that are unfortunate to stray into their realm and basically dance them to death. During one sequence a number of potential victims are surrounded by the spirits and with the lights down the swirling maelstrom (Oh I love that word, this entire blog is an excuse to get that one word in I suspect) of ballerinas circling their victims was that most unusual thing of being beautiful and terrifying at the same time. It was a short section of the ballet but sold me totally. To echo something that was shouted several times in the performance, ‘Bravo!’

I have several dancing friends and young charges and all I can say is terrify and delight me, as my personal view of what defines art – that I personally like – is that in needs to generate some emotion in me.  That can be dance, music, writing, drama or painting, I don’t care. I just rejoice sometimes in what we humans are capable of and how people should be allowed to express it, as it has impacts that artist cannot possibly conceive.

First off – thanks to the number of you who come back at me (in the nicest possible way) after last week’s Blog. I was quite touched by the feedback and so I have in the week decided to keep going when I can and feel I have something to say with the understanding I can take a week off now and then. Let us see how that goes.

This week I have been reminded yet again of several aspects of my character that I find annoying. In particular, there is the part of me that is very resistant to change, more specifically change that is enforced and not part of a conscious decision on my (or indeed the Lovely Wife’s) part. The new company car for instance. Now, I’ll be honest, it is a nice benefit to not have to worry about servicing etc. and get to drive a much newer car than I could afford, but the recent enforced change has not made me very happy – although there have been some amusements, as I will come too. For the last four years we have had a Toyota Prius that, while it was difficult to get used to initially – getting the thing started and moving is not intuitive, it was my first automatic, footbrake instead of handbrake etc. etc. in the end I grew to really like it. It was nippy, easy to drive and economical and just about the right size. After 4 years the lease came to an end and I had assumed I would just move onto the latest version.

I was somewhat disappointed to find that on the list of what was offered there were no hybrids and basically everything had to be pretty much a diesel (never had one of those) and German (or at least German owned). And if I wanted it in time it had to be one of the larger models. This was not at all what had been planned out in my head so needless to say that put me straight into Grump Town.  Ah, pity my Lovely Wife when I am in that grey and dark place.

Thankfully I do not like Grump Town much myself, so heading back to Look On the Bright Side Village I ordered what looked the best of the options that were available and a large slab of grey appeared yesterday (somewhat unexpectedly early, but that is a whole different story). So now I am trying to learn how the thing works.

Cars have definitely gotten too complicated for mere mortals like myself. I am sure that all the clever little features on this car are all terribly useful and that within a few months I will wonder how I ever got by without something that apparently is supposed to warn me of the proximity of pedestrians (I thought that was called ‘using your eyes’) and the overcomplicated in-car entertainment system will seem as clear as day. But at the moment I am looking at the instruction manual with bafflement – it is larger and more complicated than most of the science texts I studied at university. Admittedly, a lot of that bulk is taken up by very serious boxed comments with little warning triangles that simply repeat messages that, summarized, say ‘if you drive like a muppet, you’ll have an accident and it will not be our fault (don’t say we didn’t tell you!)’. Fair enough. But all that extraneous text just buries the instructions on how to use the thing properly.

However, as I say there have been some amusements.

In particular, some of these dire warnings, completely seriously, inform me that while useful, the highlighted feature ‘cannot change the laws of physics’.

I am somewhat disappointed with the state of automotive engineering in that case.

Beyond my disappointment that a standard fleet car does not possess the ability to warp the fabric of Reality, unfortunately I am of an age that the line ‘canna change the laws of physics’ immediately raises the spectre of someone attempting to do a terrible Scottish accent (i.e. therefore a reasonable impression of the late – and wonderful – James Doohan, bless him) in The Firm’s 1987 number one ‘Star Trekkin’. I can only hope this means that when I turn on the Sat Nav at some point it might try and sound like Lt. Uhura warning me of Klingons (or, indeed, pedestrians) off the starboard bow…