Filling The Space Between

So Christmas is over for another year, and it’s that period of nothingness that subsists between December 25 and January 2. I spent the 26, 27 and 28th of December doing very little, just vegetating in front of the TV watching one banal programme after another; considering it’s the holidays there is very little on the box that interests me. So on the 29th I decided to attack the day, taking into account that on the 27th I stayed in my PJ’s from sunrise to sunset.The highlight of that day was the festive Facebook cull I had. I decided to go through my Facebook friends and delete anyone I hadn’t spoken to in 2010, and those acquaintances that you gather as the year progresses. So on the 29th as Soft Cell played ‘Her Imagination’ I washed up the dishes from the previous night, that lay in the sink. There’s nothing more miserable I think than waking up to dirty plates. As the dishes drain, the iPod shuffles and ‘Make The Call’ from the excellent White Noise album by Aussie rockers, The Living End begins to play. I make breakfast as the kitchen is filled with a beating bass line and frenetic drums.

Thank goodness for Skype, I call my friend over in Italy, and we chat about the water bill I’ve received, odd considering we have no water. Brenda says our house over there looks lonely now all the trees around it have lost their leaves. We exchange comments about the weather; UK, wet and foggy, Italy, Warm and sunny. With Othello’s green eyed monster looking over my shoulder I console myself with the fact that this time next year I’ll be there to sample it myself. I send an email to our Italian lawyers asking them to deal with the bill and to ask the commune, (Italian local council) to sort out our non working street light.

I begin to tackle the mountain of ironing that has accumulated since I’ve been away on tour. Three hours later, 43 shirts, 32 T shirts and 4 pairs of Jeans are put away. Kirsty MacColl sings, ‘Miss Otis Regrets’ as the iron is stowed away below the sink. I can’t believe it’s ten years since her life was snuffed out in a tragic, yet controversial boating accident in Mexico. I decide it’s time for some TV and a glass of homemade limoncello, the drink is satisfying, however the TV isn’t, on every channel there’s either a repeat or some saccharine seasonal tale. So once again in an attempt to fill in the void left by Christmas I top up the gap by languishing in the bath listening to music.

I look out at the street on the morning of the 30th, everything is still, cars have remained motionless for days and apart from the emergence of grey wheelie bins today, the road hibernates. So breakfast over we decide to go into town and mooch around. I was given a new wallet at Christmas, so before we leave I transfer everything out of my old but now tatty, but well loved Versace one. I throw away now redundant plastic cards that have lived in the recesses of the worn leather and discover I have a Waterstones gift card. I can’t remember who gave it to me or how long it’s been there, so now I have a task for the day, to discover just how much I have to spend on the dull grey card.

The trip up town is hardly uplifting, the so called sales are threadbare, and genuine offers are few and far between. I ponder an offer from O2 to upgrade my phone to an iPhone, I decline as I don’t think I’ll have much call for such a sophisticated mobile when I’m living a life of semi self sufficiency on an Italian hillside. I walk out of the main shopping centre and spot a boy-band lookalike, a skinnier facsimile of Marvin from JLS, a few steps later and I come face to face with a chubbier version of Shane from Boyzone. I enter Waterstones and present the bespectacled red haired youth behind the counter with my card, he checks it, tuts and shakes his head, then says, “Sorry geezer, this is run out.” My first reaction is the need to correct his grammar, and explain that the verb he should have used was has, and secondly I am not a geezer.  Turns out that the card only lasts for 24 months and mine expired a long time ago. Note to self: Tidy wallet at regular intervals in future. I leave the bookstore and almost collide with another boy-band doppelganger, this time an older version of Jay from The Wanted. All I need now is to find a taller Mark Owen, from Take That lookalike, and I can manufacture my own pop band: I think I’ll call them,  ‘ Wanted, That JLS Zone.’We drive home with the classic track ‘Going Underground,’ by The Jam playing, and as we turn the corner everything is has it has been for days, with the exception of the now removed wheelie bins, the road remains impotent.

One thing I did see today that made me smile, then wince, was a child's toy. This seemingly harmless prop was a pretend MacDonald's drive thru counter. In my opinion toys are supposed to inspire learning and fun, is this one that prepares a child for a life of working in a burger bar? There are so many messages given off and absorbed by children during play and the only ones I feel given off by a pretend Macdonald’s drive thru are negative, e.g. Fast food is good food, or it’s okay not to aspire to greater employment potential, as working for Macdonald’s is quality employment.

So new years eve has arrived and tomorrow we shall be in 2011. As the last colours of 2010 fade, I shall be spending it at a party hosted by my ex-wife. We shall no doubt drink a few glasses of wine and eat a few nibbles before letting off fireworks. I’m not a big fan of new years eve, to me the death of one year and the birth of another has never had much relevance on my life, however this year it’s different, 2010 has seen so many changes to my life and 2011 has so many challenges ahead. So I shall be throwing myself head first into tonight’s festivities and hopefully will have a clear enough head tomorrow to make a start on my first blog of the year, a review of the past twelve months. So all that remains is to wish everyone out there, a happy and healthy new year.    Baz x

Gridlock and the Giant Mechanical Snowball

Well what a week we’ve had this week, the cast had to continue putting up with the actress who plays Bella, having stroppy, hissy fits over the slightest thing. Now normally I wouldn’t say anything about a fellow actor, but this girl has a fit at the drop of a hat. If she can’t find anything in the props bag we’re subjected to huffs and puffs, and woe betide we say anything to her about it, that then means we endure the silent treatment while she bangs things around and texts people to let them know she’s not happy with us. Suffice to say, as I write this I am thankful in the knowledge that I’ll never have to see her again. This said, I did have a pang of sadness in my chest as I said goodbye to Chloë at Stoke train station.

Monday evening, I’m walking around the local Tesco, iPod playing the 1975 classic, ‘I’m On Fire’ by 5000 Volts, when a woman in a mobility scooter reverses into me, “Oops,” she says, “I was distracted by the bargains.” I chuckle, thinking what a brilliant apology, then walk into a small child almost knocking it over. “Oops,” I mutter, “Bugger off out of my way.” I leave Tesco and am driving behind a B&Q lorry as it exits the car park, the driver misjudges the bend and his wheels catch the railing and twists it, before some plastic wheel trims shoot from it and it’s free to continue on its way. I wonder if the driver said “Oops!”

Tuesday, we are stuck in horrendous traffic for hours, We’re in Ludlow and the A38 is closed and all the traffic is moving through the town. We drop into Waitrose and buy some lunch and sit watching the lines of cars going nowhere. Eventually the shows for the day are cancelled and we slowly navigate our way through the gridlock towards the M5 junction.  We are at last free of the congestion that we’ve endured for five hours, and we make our way northwards, finally enjoying a glass of wine at the accommodation at Dilhorne.

At midday on Wednesday, we’re almost at our next venue when we see a car completely covered in snow, at least  three inches thick, moving slowly towards us. At first we think the handbrake isn’t on and it must be drifting on its own. It crosses the centre of the road before straightening up and passes us, we are astonished to see an old lady behind the wheel of what is essentially a giant snowball. She’d cleared the side window of snow but not the windscreen. Glad to be past her we head off up the road to entertain our next audience. The show goes really well, and as I’m singing my first song, Jack a handsome boy with ‘Downs’ stands up, takes my hand and dances with me.

Christmas eve arrives and I catch up on last minute gift buying, and visiting friends Rozz and Spike. I drive home as The Pretenders play ‘The Nothing Maker’ and spend the evening warm and cosy with a glass or two of wine, thinking about all the madness that happens so we can celebrate one day of over-indulgence. Short and sweet this week folks. Merry Christmas to you all.

Crotch Grabbing and the Fighting Grannies

Monday 13.12.10 – Saturday 18.12.10 – How quickly the working week comes back around when you only have one day off. Last week I talked about in-car dining, and on Monday I saw another incident, this one was truly marvellous. Sat in an Audi was a man in a suit and he was eating noodles as he drove past. The image of him with noodles hanging from his mouth made him look like his car was been driven by one of the Ood from Doctor Who. I can only imagine he reached his destination with his shirt front stained by the trailing noodles.

In between shows we visit a pub for our lunch and I do a spot of people watching. Sat next to us is three pensioners, the waiter comes over and speaks to one of the ladies, after he leaves, their conversation goes like this: Lady 1 “What did he say?” Lady 2 “Who?” Lady 1 “The darkie.” Lady 2 “He said, are you enjoying your meal?” Man “Who said that?” Lady 2 “The darkie.” The older generation have a lot of catching up to do still, methinks.

I’m made to smile as a young girl opposite sits down and a noise is heard, her mother asks, “Have you farted?”, the girls replies in the negative, blaming the noise on her coat, this leads to several unsuccessful attempts to replicate the original sound. The day ends with The Smiths playing ‘Hand In Glove’ as I drive home through the lanes.

The following day during the break between shows we pop into the Bagot Arms in Sutton Coldfield, this time for just a pint. I pop into the gents and am followed by another man. He steps up to the urinal and opens his fly; nothing unusual by this you may think, until I hear him say, “Out you come my little beauty.” I try not to pee on my shoes as I stifle my laughter.

Funny things, actors, what with their traditions and superstitions, you’d think they’d have enough to contend with? Not in our cast, every time anyone says strange fruit, no matter where we are I have to sing the first verse of the song with the same name, I’ve been known now to sing it on and offstage. Equally Chloë has to do the same, every time anyone says, “What’s This”, she has to sing a verse from the song from the Tim Burton film, The Nightmare Before Christmas.

Wednesday is an odd day, as two incidents happen, both of which are similar yet unusual. During one of my songs in the matineé performance, a man reaches out and cups my genitals, shocked I step back and try not to stumble over the lyrics of the song. In the evening performance, I’m halfway through my duet with Chloë when a woman grabs my crotch, once again I’m shocked and try to hold it together, as Chloë sings with a huge smile across her face. Needless to say when we exit we can’t hold the laughter in.

On Thursday we all revisit our childhood, and recount tales of our favourite TV shows and songs. We are talking about the song by Peter, Paul and Mary. ‘Puff, the Magic Dragon’ when someone looks up the lyrics and what we remember as a happy song turns out to be a sad tale of a dragon who loses his best friend and spends the rest of his life hiding away in a cave. As I drive home in the evening with CSS playing ‘Music Is My Hot, Hot Sex’, I spot a small puppy in my headlights. I stop the car, as it’s strange that a puppy would be in the country lanes, so far from any houses. I get out and look for it but alas it’s gone, I climb back into the car hoping it wasn’t lost and had headed off to where it come from.

Once again during my duet with Chloë another incident occurs, this time it’s during the Friday evening show. Two elderly ladies begin arguing and the argument spills into a fight, with them both jousting with a walking frame, we continue on with the son; now experts at singing ‘I Know Him So Well’ whilst laughing

Saturday and we perform our first show only to venture out to the car park to find the van beneath a huge snowfall, we dig ourselves out and head off into the snow covered streets. Essentially what should have been a 40 minute journey back to Stoke took us 4 hours, as we crawled along at 3 miles an hour, eventually due to road closures reaching an almost deserted northbound M5. With more snow forecast for the weekend, we can but hope it doesn’t prevent us completing our last 4 days of shows.

Automobile Dining and Pantomime Moments

Monday 6 December 2010 -The heavy snowfalls that we had last week have now started to recede, and we begin our second week of the tour faced with freezing fog and ice. We leave for our first show of the day and head towards Kettering. There is sporadic patches of fog, and the usual congestion on the M6, but nothing that causes us worry. We are passing Coventry, at a snails pace, when we look out of the window and a see a man sat in a car next to us, and he is drinking tea out of a china cup, how random is that? We arrive at our destination, set up, perform, pack away and disappear back into the fog. We clamber back onto the M6, going north, when we come to a standstill. For three hours we inch our way up the motorway, the gridlock due to an accident earlier. We call our afternoon venue and explain we will be very late, they tell us not to bother coming and can we re-schedule. We pass the mangled lorry causing the congestion, pick up speed and agree to come to do the show at 11.00 am the following day. We are almost home, when we spot another incident of in-car dining, this time a woman is travelling at speed, whilst eating a yogurt, pot balanced on the steering wheel and spoon in the other hand.

Tuesday 7 December 2010 – I eat breakfast as ‘Chelsea Dagger’ by The Fratellis plays on the iPod. The road looks like a skating rink, the snow has now become an icy wasteland. I defrost the car and we head off for another day of pantomime. The first show of the day is going well, when out of nowhere a disembodied voices calls out, ‘Help,’ who and why they want help we have no idea, and we carry on oblivious. I have a blast during the second show, and flirt outrageously with the ladies in the audience, one asks me if I’m a stripper, so I twang my elasticated waistcoat and say “Would you like me to be?” her response is, “Yes please.” Followed by raucous laughter. The third show is underway when I suddenly realise we’re running on autopilot, the problem with acting can be that sometimes as a performer you zone out and the performance comes with no real effort. almost like an automaton.

Wednesday 8 December 2010 – Today is a horrible dull day, and to top it off, we have trouble finding our first venue, we eventually find it and are told by our contact that it’s not on maps yet as it’s a new build. So why didn’t they tell us that before we set off to perform there? Some people just don’t have a clue. The problem with touring theatre is that the venues always assume you re only visiting them: No one realises that it would be impractical to put together a show for just one theatre space; I’m always amazed when they utter the words, “Oh, so you’ve other places to visit with the show.” The highlight of today is another incident of automobile dining, this time a man in a blue van has a bag of chips on his dashboard, and is munching as he drives. One question comes to mind,- where on the M69 do they sell chips?

Thursday 9 December 2010 – Our first show today is a private performance for a mental health charity, our audience all have varying degrees of mental health issues, ranging from depression to schizophrenia. We set up as Billy, one of our audience members showers us with a barrage of jokes, every one rude, racist or sexist. The show goes really well with the audience being very vocal. We’re driving off to our second show when we spot another person eating yogurt whilst driving, this time a man in a white van. There must be easier things to eat when on the move than yogurt. In the evening we all have a few drinks at the cottage where some other cast members are staying. Adam cooks for us all, (drunk) and we make too much noise as a collection of actors are apt to do. Later on, tired but happy I drive home with ‘Spacehead’ by The Primitives shuffling onto the iPod.

Friday 10 December 2010 – My birthday has arrived, it’s very low key as I’m working, for as long as I can remember I have always been in panto on this day, either touring or based in a theatre, so today is no different. The shows go smoothly, I get a birthday kiss of an old girl in the audience, named Beryl. We have a few drinks again at the cottage in the evening and the cast members give me a card with lovely messages inside, Chloë has drawn a picture of the X Factor hopefuls, boy-band One Direction as I have given them all nicknames, and whenever they’re on TV i shout them at the television screen; It’s almost like having a case of entertainment Tourette's. I leave earlier today and head off home with my card, and gifts of wine and panettone. As I drive home through the deserted country lanes as Debbie Harry sings ‘The Jam Was Moving’ from her 1981 solo album, ‘Koo Koo’

The weekend arrives, with 3 shows on Saturday and a day off on Sunday just chilling out.

Performing 18 shows a week, (162 performances of songs) can take it out of you. I was about to say working in pantomime can make December a surreal month, however the iPod shuffles and ‘Dancing Lasha Tumbai’ by Verka Serduchka begins to play. Perhaps panto-time is normal and it’s my life that’s surreal…..Who knows?

Unproductive Farting and the Distraction Burglars

Well what a week we’ve had, snow came and caused chaos, roads were gridlocked, people were stranded and our first show was cancelled, apparently the snow was preventing people from getting to the venue. To celebrate the cancellation I opted for a bowl of soup. Out of the cupboard came the tin of broccoli and stilton soup that has languished there for around six months. As the B-52’s shuffle in the kitchen to play ‘Private Idaho,’ the soup bubbles on the stove. Now I know there’s nothing very exciting about a bowl of soup, it warms the bones and satisfies the hunger. However this bowl of soup was destined to have an adverse effect on myself later in the day.

Chloë and myself watch the old folks outside in the snow. One of the old chaps spends most of his time in a disability scooter, moaning about how frail he is. However today the gritters have arrived and a miracle has occurred, he has grabbed his spade and is running through the snow to steal some grit for his drive, he also finds the strength to help push a car up the hill. The three men stand chatting in the snow, and Chloë comments on them looking like the Three Stooges, and as she says this one of them swings around and hits the other across the back of his legs with his spade. Then the now recovered frail one, leaves the group only to slide down the hill before landing unceremoniously on his backside on his newly gritted drive. (That’ll teach you to steal council grit.)

By early evening the soup has started to have an effect upon my body, and I begin to pass wind, my stomach is gurgling and what then proceeds is an evening of unproductive farting, I say unproductive as nothing but noise is produced from my nether regions.

The shows begin, and after our first one I have an elderly lady, come up to me and ask me which part of Ireland I am from? I assure her I’m not Irish, but she wont have it, she is adamant that I have the lilting accent of an Irishman, I smile and walk away thinking to myself, ‘what a mad old bird you are.’ Later Chloë and myself take a trip into town, to wander around in the now churned up snow in the town centre. We’re passing a pub when we see and advertisement for a German band and can’t stop laughing as the band is called, Zigal and the Fannies, oh how we wish we’d been able to watch them perform.

We spot another advertisement that induces hilarity, it reads; 'Mary wasn’t fooled by the distraction burglars.’ We instantly go into performance mode, and stage scenes of people being distracted and their possessions stolen. Mary is knitting when she hears a noise…….Ping…..Looks down and her blouse has been stolen by the distraction burglars. (You get the idea?)

Friday’s first show is eventful, I’m doing my second song when a piece of the beasts furry head becomes lodged in my throat and I begin choking, I have to make an exit and as the rest of the cast improvise I’m in the bathroom being sick, and unable to breathe. Offending fur is removed and I return back on stage trying hard not to breath on the others.One of the essential elements of pantomime is the audience participation, and during this show we are reduced to tears by a heckle from a gentleman in the audience. My line is, ‘What do Cockney’s drop?’ to which the gentleman in the audience shouts out clearly, ‘Their bollocks.’ The audience and cast alike cannot contain themselves, and laughter abounds.

We drive back to our home base and stop for petrol, ‘I Thought It Was You,’ from the Sunlight album by Herbie Hancock is playing as I fill up the van. A man at another pump catches my eyes, I watch as he removes the child seat from the passenger seat and stows it in the boot of his Peugeot. Nothing odd about this, but then he removes his tie and then his wedding ring, before driving off. No doubt off to a secret assignation, elsewhere.

Those Efficient French Police, A Complicated Salad and the Singing Beast

With heavy hearts on Wednesday 1 November, we lock up our little Italian house for the winter and set off on the long drive: (Approximately 1330 miles), back to Calais and then the ferry over to the UK. The drive is okay, the weather had threatened to be bad, but it’s sunny all the way up the boot of Italy, Switzerland is dull and grey with a little snow at the side of the road at the Gotthard Tunnel. France is pretty much like a spring day in England, the sun is bright but there’s a chill in the air. After 13 hours of driving we take a break at a service station, and grab a few hours sleep. The following morning we continue on our way, half an hour into the journey and the red brake lights of the traffic in front glare angrily out of the mist. I slow and come to a stop, two lanes of stationary traffic with perplexed drivers wait to see what is happening. Seconds later and the wail of sirens is heard and a blue French police car squeezes between the two lines of traffic, six minutes later we are sailing past two vehicles moved onto the roadside, their crumpled bodywork giving us a clue to why we were delayed. The traffic flows quickly once again, and I wonder if the British counterparts of these French gendarmes would have had the traffic moving again so quickly? If this was the M6, probably not.

We pass through Luxembourg into Belgium, where we stop for some lunch. I opt for a salad bowl, all looks normal at the start. Sliced hard boiled egg and onions begin the dish, but as I uncover the lettuce and tomatoes I discover cheese, then ham, then potato. Okay so that’s not too bad, but it got worse, after another layer of leaves there was cous-cous, beans, more onion, some olives and then blue cheese. I beginning to wonder who thought this combination of ingredients would be pleasant when I hit a dollop of cold mashed potato. I decide to give up when the cold mash gave way to chopped salami. The salad is abandoned and I eat the bread roll that came with it, making a mental note to avoid all Belgian service station salad bowls in the future.

We arrive at Calais, board the ferry and feeling peckish we decide to try the curry, bad idea to be honest, it was not the best I’ve ever tasted. We disembark after a short delay and once again the driving begins, this time we’re heading north. For me the most boring, soul destroying part of the journey is the stretch from Dover to The M1. The roads are wet and the spray from lorries makes it hard to see further than a few feet ahead. Three and a half hours later we’re climbing out of the Berlingo and opening the front door and falling into bed.

Monday 22 November 2010. Rehearsals for Beauty and the Beast begin today, I meet the cast and we spend the day singing the songs from the show. I’m playing the beast and have ten songs to sing in the show, five of which are solo’s I have Two big numbers to do, one is ‘Love Changes Everything’ and the other is the Elaine Paige, Barbara Dickson duet, ‘I Know Him So Well’. I have to sing it, changing the him references in the lyrics to her. The first day goes well, our director Lara gives us the blocking for the songs and by the end of the day we all leave with a headful of dance moves and lyrics jostling for space. I come home and call the lovely Natalie Cástka, to tell her I'm singing 'our' song, as when we did panto together last year, we sang it together in the van. I was Barbara Dickson, by the way.

Day two of rehearsals go well, we’re putting the blocking into the script and going over the songs and dance routines. The rehearsal space is small and intimate, but we don’t mind as we’ve gelled well as a cast. I’m playing opposite my friend Steph, who I worked with earlier in the year. (She’s on the blog posting: Sunday 20 June 2010). The girl playing the house-keeper, Dora is Chlöe and she fits in really well with us as she likes filthy jokes and can’t stop talking too. I prepare dinner as the iPod shuffles in it’s dock, Tim Curry sings ‘I Can make You A Man’ from the motion picture, The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Make me a man I think, that’s a nice gesture as all I’m making is pasta sauce. We open a bottle of Fragolino and chat as the tomato and chilli sauce bubbles away, soon we’ve opened the freezer and shots of homemade limoncello are being quaffed.

Wednesday 24 November 2010 and we have the afternoon off to work on songs. Steph and Chlöe come over to my place, we have lunch, which is a salad with olives and anchovies. We crack open a bottle of wine, followed by another, then we have limoncello shots before videotaping ourselves as we rehearse songs in my living room. The dogs love the animated actors leaping around and think it’s a good game, before Jacob rips the front of my script apart. We open another bottle of wine and tell jokes, rehearsals forgotten. I have to say this acting lark can be fun sometimes.

Rehearsals continue all week, songs, dances, lines etc. Costumes are tried on, everyone laughs at me in the Beast’s head, then we all laugh at Steph in her bonnet. The weekend comes and we have snow, and it’s bloody cold. Saturday we go to Rozz and Spike’s for a delicious curry. We drink wine and chat and have a pleasant afternoon before leaving their lovely warm kitchen to venture out into the frigid early evening air. Driving home and the iPod shuffle brings us The Saturdays with ‘Higher’ feat Flo-Rida, a sunny tune on a winters evening. I spend the evening with my friend Adam watching Strictly and The X Factor: How gay are we? We drink lots of pecorino, a delicious Italian white wine that Spike kindly gave me five litres of earlier.

Sunday 28 November 2010. It’s cold outside, so after a brief trip into town to do some unsuccessful Christmas shopping, I come home and listen to music and do some work on my laptop. Before uploading this weeks blog and settling down with Adam for another evening of Strictly and The X Factor. The results shows. I wonder if Wagner will get through again, I hope not as my mate Coley will have the screaming ab-dabs, and his Facebook status will once again inform us of his disgust, as it has almost every day since the Brazilian entered the TV talent show. (I use the term ‘talent’ loosely).

And the answer to the earlier question is: Very gay.

The Object of my Desire

Sunday 14 November 2010 and the sun is doing a grand job of warming the Italian countryside. After breakfast we drive over to Atessa. The town is quite high up in comparison to where we live, and the change in temperature is quickly felt. Locals walk around wrapped up in top coats and scarves, I am one of those crazy stranieri that walk around in November wearing short sleeves> This attracts looks of amazement from the townsfolk; surely I must be aware that it’s molto freddo? The town affords wonderful views over the countryside, and my camera is working overtime to capture them. Why don’t the pictures ever really capture what the naked eye can see. We wander around the side streets for a while, waiting for a vintage car rally to begin, however only one car has turned up. We walk through the Museo……. A religious museum, where models of the Christmas story and the life of Jesus have been made. I’m not particularly religious, but the work that has gone into these huge models has to be appreciated. My favourite is a model called Christmas in Italy, Cobbled streets and tiled roofs have snow upon them and in the backyard of one house a little fat chef is putting a paddle of pizza into the miniature oven.

We are on the road to Piano d’Archi, when I spot her, she’s slightly older than I am and her body has a few of the imperfections that come with age, yet still she makes my heart lurch in my chest. The sign she holds causes me to brake sharper than I should have, the tyres screeching on this quiet Sunday afternoon. VENDESI. For sale, and underneath is her telephone number. Selling herself in this way may be a tad forward for a lady of her years, but in this situation who cares for propriety?

On the way home we stop off for a wander around the local cemetery, something I always like to do. We find a section of the grounds is given over to children's tombs, I saunter through reading the headstones. Photographs of children smile out from the gravestones, that is the one’s taken after cameras became readily available. Back when photography was the domain of the professional only, the photographs are much more chilling. No smiling children gaze out, but a faded black and white image of the child in its’ coffin.

I click on the hazards and jump from my seat and walk back along the road towards her. Cars skirt around the now stationery Berlingo, and i wait for three travelling in the opposite direction, before I can cross the road to stand beside her. At her side I smile down at her admiring her fine curves. The height difference between the two of would be apparent to anyone passing by, should there have been any transient footfalls.

Before spotting her we had stopped off at a new supermarket that has opened to check it out. Prices here are outrageous, many times higher than near where we live, it’s obviously because the shop is quite isolated, and will attract mainly passing trade, or those who have forgotten something and know it’s the only store open on a Sunday for miles around.  I am blasé in my admiration of her curves, and she remains motionless as I saunter around her, savouring her from every angle. I take out my camera and capture her beauty, before walking away, climbing back into my car and leaving her alone standing beside the road, waiting for others to stop and allow their eyes to roam over her form. If you’ve not worked out yet what the object of my desire is, it’s a powder blue classic Fiat 500.

Olive Picking, Vertical Driving and Remembrance

Sunday 07.11.10. Today is cool, there’s a slight breeze and the mist lingers thinly over the valley. We are collecting wood for the fire, kindling and so forth, when Dutch says, “Go look in the shed.” his eyes are wide so I ask why, “Just look, we have a visitor,” is his response. I open the door to the shed; when I say shed I mean half demolished brick building, and see our visitor. It’s a rat snake, about 4 metres long with a bulge in her midsection indicating she’s eaten recently. (I don’t know why I call it ‘she’, maybe just because it’s so beautiful). It’s past the time for her to be hibernating, and although the weather is clement it’s by no means hot enough on a daily basis for a reptile. I grab my camera and take a photo as she stares at me, her small eyes shining, then I leave her in peace.  My trusty iPod in it’s dock plays ‘Holiday In Cambodia’ by Dead Kennedys as the crunch of tyres upon the road indicates that Rachel and Paul have arrived. We grab our sacks of wood and head off the help them with the olive harvest. With military precision the ground is covered with orange netting and we begin raking the olives from the trees. In the UK ,we are used to seeing the advert for a well known pasta sauce, where a spritely old lady leaps ten feet in the air on a hot summers day to catch a falling olive. It’s a pretty picture but is far removed from the truth. Olives are harvested at the end of the year, not mid summer, so in reality it could easily be raining and cold rather than hot and sunny. The traditional way to harvest them is by hand and using an olive comb, It’s similar to a child’s toy rake in a gardening play set. You basically comb the branches and the leaves fold down and the olives fall to the ground, captured in the nets. It’s a therapeutic task and ideal for my OCD, as when Paul prunes out a branch I can sit and extract each olive by hand until the branch is olive free. Five and a half sacks of olives later, with aching necks from continuously looking up, we are fed by Brenda. A sumptuous feast is laid on for us, roasted chicken with all the trimmings, Yorkshire puddings like miniature explosions covered with gravy are devoured greedily, a generous payment for our toil.

Still fed from lunch, we have no need for dinner this evening, and with a glass of wine we settle down in the evening to watch a DVD: Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon, which for me turns out to be one of the most boring films I have ever had the misfortune to sit through.

Monday 08.11.10. The day starts off with a short lived shower of rain, the breeze this morning is fresh as I eat my breakfast, a boiled egg with a yolk the colour of Van Gough’s sunflowers. Paloma Faith sings ‘Play On’ as the rain arrives again. We drive to Megalo, a shopping mall at Chieti Scalo, only to discover it doesn’t open until 2.00pm on Monday. So we trundle into Pescara and browse around the DIY stores, we spot a few things we will purchase in the future as our property is restored. I buy some fence posts and netting to establish the boundary line, before we pop over the road for lunch. At 2.20 we visit Megalo, and for those who know me personally, you’ll be pleased to know it has a H&M…. cheap fashion, yay! We come home using the Satnav, which decides to take us through lanes at times wide enough for just one vehicle. I slowly navigate a hairpin bend and at once start to climb a steep, almost vertical thoroughfare. I have been to Dunedin on New Zealand’s south island, the town boasts the steepest street in the world, is that so, maybe the claimant had never driven through the Italian countryside. As we reach the top of the road, the car groaning in first gear, the wheels start to slip. With my heart in my mouth I’m hoping we make it over the crest as the option of going back down is terrifying. The wheels manage to grip the shiny surface and we are at last horizontal, that is until we make our way down the other side.

After dinner: spaghetti with a hot spicy sauce, and made with Terry’s secret addition, we watch several episodes of Cold Case before falling into bed and sleeping like the dead. Honestly this Italian lifestyle is quite tiring.

Tuesday 09.11.10. The sun is back, and as Ozzy Osborne rocks in the background with ‘S.A.T.O.’ we have our breakfast, before I evict two scorpions that must have come in with the logs last night. One is a magnificent specimen, quite large and haughty to say the least. Rather than kill them I’d rather put them back outside, the smaller one cooperates and crawls onto the dustpan with the minimum of effort before being taken outside. The bigger one refuses to play ball, each direction I want it to travel in, it chooses the opposite. Eventually I win and in seconds it’s back outside scrambling for somewhere dark to hide. I take the iPod over to the house and we put up our little piece of fence, and the Proprieta privata sign. I continue to clear the path between the two houses, I clear next doors jangle of weeds too, knowing the Italians will consider me crazy to do someone else’s work for them. At 14.00 I decide I’ve had enough and go back to the apartment and chill out. Brenda calls down asking if we want curry? (is Emmerdale set in the Yorkshire Dales?) “Yes, please,” is our resounding response. I do a little work on the laptop as Ke$ha sings ‘Stephen’, for a moment I ponder of my reason for having her album on my iPod, as she just gets on my nerves, the shuffles comes and k.d. Lang takes over with ‘Constant Craving’, the classic track becoming swallowed up by a devious gust of wind that blows up my short sleeves inflating my shirt.

After the delicious curry, I wander down into town to take some photos and shoot some video of what we have here at Guarenna. We are remote regarding the position of our house, we are one of only 7 houses and a small rabbit farm. However just a few minutes down the road we have a plethora of shops and suppliers. I find the deserted railway station, it’s forlorn and neglected, windows in the ticket office have fallen victim to vandals. There is talk of it being reopened and linked to the main line that goes to Val di Sangro. The evening sees the shops open up for trade, and the lights flicker on inside the Pizzeria on the bend in the road that leads to Altino.

Back at the apartment we try out the halogen cooker we purchased a few weeks ago, it looks impressive sat on the worktop, glowing orange like a mini spaceship. Thirty five minutes later we have braised fennel (courtesy of Tina), roast potatoes, carrots and beef. It works a treat and will save us a small fortune on electricity bills we envisage.

Wednesday 10.11.10. Today I realised that I’d been living since we arrived an hour ahead of time, to be clear what I mean is my phone has auto update, so it must have updated when the clocks went back, but since we arrived in Italy it has updated again, this time forward. So I have been rising at around 06.00 rather than 07.00, no wonder I’ve felt knackered at the end of the day. We travelled today to the English war cemetery at Val di Sangro, a small group of us gathered for a remembrance ceremony. We have our poppies on and Lynn has brought a poppy wreath to lay. We had a short service held by a clergyman who works for N.A.T.O. in Napoli, I read a poem called, ‘Don’t Call Me Hero’ halfway through. We all agreed the service was lovely, and the warm sunshine helped. After the service we all went onto a nice little restaurant in Lanciano and had a fine meal with friends old and new.

We came back home and took a trip down to the shops to buy some wine and whilst there we stopped at the pizza bar, Valter served us a tasty pizza bianco, with a sausage and cabbage topping and a strong shot of coffee. Dutch had a look around the new shops that have opened, before we popped into the supermarket. At the till a gangly youth with scraped back hair and silver rings on both of his thumbs, pushed past to chat to girl in front of us. He was so obviously in awe of his reflection, as he kept glancing at the window, now transformed into a mirror by the darkness outside, “Pity, you couldn’t get a suit that fitted properly,” I think to myself as he checks himself out once again, “And those trousers could do with a good pressing”. Perhaps crumpled is the look that all narcissists are going for this season. Back at the apartment, and we open a bottle of prosecco, Rocky is outside barking into the dark, something is obviously winding him up tonight, and Liza Minnelli sings ‘Don’t Drop Bombs’ from her album ‘Results’ for which she collaborated with the Pet Shop Boys. After what we’ve been doing today, I feel the song title quite apt.

Thursday 11.11.10. We woke up today to the most magnificent blue skies, a handful of cotton candy clouds drifted overhead, and the sun warmed us. Breakfast was a disaster, first I dropped the frying pan and spilled the last of our olive oil on the floor, next a fly landed on the last two slices of bread we had and did it’s dirty fly dance all over it. To top off the breakfast calamity, I noticed our last two eggs were already broken in their little plastic holder. A mental note to drop into the supermarket later to buy more breakfast type provisions is made as The Verve play ‘Bitter Sweet Symphony. I go machete mad over at the house and hack away at the bamboo that’s over 8 feet tall, once cleared we have more of a view of the valley, a couple of trees are chopped down and it’s time to retire for the day, as the sun is high now and it’s too hot to work outside. We have lunch, focaccia with pecorino Romano followed by a steaming bowl of risotto Milanese. After lunch I lie outside in the sun to soak up a few rays, however after just 5 minutes I’m back inside and in the shade, enjoying a beer as Tears For Fears play, ‘Watch Me Bleed’.

In the afternoon we head off towards Civitella and the home owned by our new friends Lyn and John, the journey takes us up snaking single tracks, the views are spectacular, Lago di Bomba is still and silent below us as we slowly labour upwards; more steep roads to navigate, with another portion that’s almost vertical. We reach a fork in the road and start to now descend until we come to a halt outside Lyn and John’s house. The house is beautiful, quite large and with a delicious uniqueness, that the original Italian furniture they inherited with the property brings. We have a drink on the terrace, overlooking the mountains, here you really do feel like you’re sitting on top of the world. Gunshots are heard in the distance, however the hunters remain hidden among the dense greenery below us. The sun begins to drop from view and we make our way home, with a parting gift; a bottle of Lyn and John’s own olive oil from their trees. Once through the door a hunk of focaccia is torn away from the loaf and we use it to soak up some of the oil. The kitchen is filled with sounds of approval, it has a deep green, fresh taste followed by a peppery nudge at the tongue. The flavour is as bold as the mountains overlooking the olive grove, with hints of fresh cut grass and the Abruzzo rain, clear and pure. With oil this good you don’t waste it on fried eggs, but we can’t resist it and at dinner time we use a little give us phenomenal roast potatoes.

Friday 12.11.10. After breakfast we drive to meet Tina at Castel Frentano, after a brief confusion as to which fountain we should be at, we clamber into Tina’s car and head off to see her properties. The first is in the historic centre of Lanciano, it’s a mini maze of rooms and floors with what looks like a cupboard door on one floor, but once opened it becomes a secret bathroom. We next travel to San Vito and see the apartment, it’s part of an old palazzo, and has a magnificent view out over the sea. The juxtaposition between the old building and the ultra modern interior is very clever, the high gloss blue kitchen sits well with the whitewashed walls. We see an idea Tina has had for a space saving bathroom at our place, and it’s a perfect solution for our second bedroom. On the way back we drop into the abbey at Fossacessia and I take some pictures as we saunter around the cloisters enjoying the temperate day and the peace. Back at Tina’s house we have a glass of wine, then try her olive oil, it’s surprising how different each oil tastes, Tina’s is more peppery with a slight bitterness at the edge that’s quite pleasant. We eat pasta sat on the patio, which has a breath-taking view over towards the Majella mountains, which at the moment have a generous covering of snow on top.

We stop off at the supermarket to buy some odds and ends, once back home I check my e-mails, my inbox is groaning under endless Facebook update messages and spam, I delete 79 messages and quickly read the three or four that are of interest. I check over the contract sent to me for the acting job I shall be starting when we return to the UK, but ignore the script as I don’t intend to spend my time here learning lines and songs, I can do that when I return; 3 days is plenty of line learning time before rehearsals start. ‘Prologue’ by Kate Bush plays as we pop chicken into the oven for dinner and open a bottle of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo.

Just before bed I step outside and look down into the valley, the lights below sparkle like gemstones, Aladdin would have believed this view to be his cave.

Saturday 13.11.10.  I wake up around 04.00, it’s warm and I haven’t slept well, I toss and turn until 07.00, when I get up to make a cuppa. Already the day has woken, the sun is up and the skies are as clear as ice. Birds are singing as I open the door, letting Rocky in to say, hello. We catch up on the BBC news, looks like the weather in the UK is grim, according to the report it’s high winds and rain over most of the country.  ‘Demigod’ by The Humans plays as we finish breakfast, before we set off for Lanciano. We take a stroll around the outdoor market, that is a sprawling mass of stalls selling everything from jackets to jewellery. The stalls have taken over the streets and alleys and neighbours squeeze past each other with a cheery, buon giorno. We buy some ceramic numbers for our house before bumping into Tina, who’s at a clothing stall, searching through the vintage items. After the market we pop over to Tondis to purchase some shopping and a wine rack, as we leave we notice the temperature on the farmacia, it’s 19^o so we have to drive with the windows open, It’s hard to believe we’re almost mid way through November. After Lunch I sit outside working on my laptop for an hour or so, finishing as the iPod shuffles and ‘Boy On The Dancefloor’ by Lisa Scott-Lee bounces out into the sunshine.

Portents and the Public Pregnancy

Saturday 30 October 2010. As we leave the house for our trip over to Italy, the iPod on shuffle as usual begins to play ‘Teeth’ by Lady Gaga, one of the songs used in last nights show. I ponder is this an omen and if so what is this portent forecasting? The drive to Dover is uneventful, until we drop into a service station for something to eat. We eat some hurriedly prepared fast food, or should that read horridly? I go to purchase a newspaper when a woman runs into the newsagents waving a white plastic stick. At first I think it’s a plastic knife, but as she gets close I can see it’s a home pregnancy test, she’s obviously just been into the public toilets and peed on the stick. She hands it a man, who I presume is her boyfriend/husband. “Look, it’s the same as the last one,” She says. There’s no expression on his face, so I’m left wondering if it’s good news or not. I leave the couple staring at each other, and walk over to the British Legion stand by the entrance, and after chatting to an old soldier there I purchase four poppies to take to friends in Italy.

We arrive at the Premier Inn at Dover and are checked in by Holly, a very efficient and friendly girl on reception, she tells us, “You’re in room 221. It’s a lovely room, with a view of the harbour .” Now here’s another omen: You can guarantee if someone tells you something is ‘lovely’ there’s going to be a snag. The room is very nice, the change from Travel Inn to Premier Inn seems to have brought about a change in decor and comfort, for a motel the standard has been lifted. We watch the end of Strictly, the celeb’s are dressed in Halloween garb and Gavin ‘spoonface’ Henson, dances shirtless, no doubt in an effort to grab the female vote. We have a glass of dreadful wine, purchased from the BP garage and watch the X-Factor. The show also has a Halloween theme and the contestants are dressed to compliment this. (Hardly original). I have no real comment about the performances, the show is just TV fodder that passes the time. As we’re leaving at 4.00 we turn in early, at least we have that extra hour when the clocks go back. The window to our ‘lovely’ room overlooks the entrance to the pub next door, so up until midnight we’re subjected to the entrances and exits of it’s customers and also it’s smokers, who congregate outside to puff away. The rest of the night, after the pub closure is punctuated by smokers who leave their rooms to stand outside; beneath our window to partake of their nicotine fix. I eventually lose my temper with a woman, who is sat on the the concrete telling two of her friends, loudly, about her boyfriends failings in the bedroom. I open the window and shout, “Shut the F*** up.” It works, cigarettes are hastily extinguished and the three scurry back inside the motel.

Sunday 31 October 2010. The ferry trip and the drive is okay, nothing of any great interest happens, apart from the small French village we pass through that has a sign advertising an event in the town hall. Apparently on Saturday evening at 19.30 there will be a chance to sample a need exciting food, coming into the village: doner kebab and cous cous. Oh what a joy they have in store. We reach Colmar, and once again, for some reason our SatNav cannot navigate to the tunnel, it always takes us over the mountain…is it a mountain? For the first time we are happy to be taken out of our way by the electronic navigation device. The view is spectacular, autumn has arrived and the trees boast every autumnal hue possible. We enter Switzerland and trundle along until we feel the need to stop for a break, we pull into a service area and are greeted by a sex shop. I can’t see the motorway services back in the UK adopting this type of retail outlet. The window display is tasteful, they have butt plugs called Anal Invader and vibrators of every shape and colour. Young men enter the store giggling, and in the corner I see a burly looking man in a check shirt browsing through a magazine.

We drive through the Gotthard tunnel leaving behind weak sunshine and light, only to emerge the other side into darkness and rain, there’s a thick carpet of snow at the roadside. Driving conditions are appalling but we continue on, determined not to stop until we reach Italy. Over the border and the rain continues, we skirt around Milano and down the autostrada; stopping at a service station for pizza and a pee, before finally pulling onto a parking area outside Parma. We set about sorting ourselves out for a night sleeping in the car, every permutation of position is attempted before we settle down. The heavy rain sounds like someone is throwing handfuls of gravel onto the car roof, suddenly there’s a flash of light and a thunderclap so loud the car shakes, so loud was the bang that a local police car came to investigate.

Monday 01 November 2010. I wake from a ’fitful sleep’ that would rival that of Macbeth at 06.10 and we continue on with our journey. We take a detour at Pescara to purchase some essentials and finally arrive at our destination, to be greeted by our friends with the most delicious beef stew in culinary history. We spend the evening sat in front of a crackling log fire with a glass of wine and an episode of ‘Supernatural’: Yes we have brought the DVD’s with us. Eventually sleep wins and we clamber into bed and the day is packed away into the memory box.

Tuesday 02 November 2010. After a refreshing nights sleep I prepare breakfast with the iPod shuffling beside the microwave, ‘Lose Yourself’ by Eminem plays as the pancetta sizzles in the pan, waiting for the eggs to join it before becoming an smoky bacon omelette. I turn out the first omelette as the iPod shuffles and once again Lady Gaga starts to sing ‘Teeth’, I wonder if this is an omen or coincidence, will I lose my teeth? Am I to be savaged in the Italian wilderness by a pack of ravenous wolves? I decide the song is linked with a happy time, therefore the portent must be good, besides I have no time to spend pondering, my omelette is now ready. Despite the date the day is warm and the valley is filled with birdsong, and after breakfast we drive to the local shops, on the way we see a cheeky little robin hopping along the lane. I’m glad we decided to buy a house here, we’re far enough away from civilisation to enjoy the peace of rural life, but close enough to town to enjoy the hustle and bustle of Italian life. We collect some wood for the fire from our land; how nice it is to say that, ’our land,’ the two words alone give the impression of the rural life. We start to mark out our boundaries, and it’s not as straight forward as we first thought it would be. The land isn’t in line with the house, but slopes off at a diagonal. Within minutes we are aware that the two small olive trees; Malcolm and Macdufff near our house are not on our land: a matter of centimetres puts them over the boundary line. Is this the omen, that we have less than we first thought?

We decide to look inside the loft space above the kitchen, the door opens and instantly I’m showered with dried rat droppings. With barely time to feel repulsed, a set of metal stairs squeal as they fall towards my head. I move and they come to rest upon the floor. We gingerly ascend only to find a third room, it’s dry and the floor is tiled, and despite being in the roof space there’s a window and space for a double bed. Good on you Lady Gaga, the portent’s a good one.

Today I’m as lazy as the day is, I go about things with the urgency of a sloth; but why would you want to rush about when the world around you is taking everything at a half a heartbeat? Dinner is followed by a stint in front of the TV with a few glasses of wine.

Wednesday 03 November 2010. Breakfast is eaten as Horse sings ‘Never Not Going To’: Now I am often perplexed about Horse, she has to be one of the finest singer/songwriters to have come out of Scotland, and major success has never emerged. WHY? The sun is high and my shoulders feel the caress of its’ rays: can it really be November? Despite the date, autumn has yet to arrive in Abruzzo, the trees here are still laden with healthy green leaves, the changing colours are yet to happen. Our friend Tina who lives in Castel Frentano calls with a lovely house warming gift, we show her around our house and excitedly tell her of our plans for the place. I finally paint my front door, green, as that was the colour that Zio Gasperino, (Uncle Gasperino) had painted it. We have decided to live for a year with the original windows if we can, to see if we can cope in the winter, as we’d love to keep the original ones if we can. Tina looks at our house through different eyes, and comes up with solutions to problems we’ve been bogged down with concerning layout. It suddenly hits me that we are actually doing this, leaving England for a new life in Italy. Little things like driving to places without the SatNav, or having fluid conversations with shop assistants make me realise I’m becoming a part of the way of life here.

I pop down into the village and buy a Sim card for my phone, it’s one that you buy credit for in advance, however unlike in the UK buying one isn’t just a matter of popping into the shop and handing over your readies. Here you have to show them your identity card or driving licence, also you must have proof of your codice fiscale, (Italian tax code) and an Italian address. All this may seem to be a pain in the ass, but think about the telephone crime it prevents if your number can be traced. I make a spicy tomato sauce for spaghetti as Black Eyed Peas sing ‘Shut Up’, we open the now chilled bottle of prosecco that Tina gave us, and watch ‘Zoolander’. It’s a film I’ve meant to watch many times but not had the time to devote to it. I find it highly amusing.

Thursday 04 November 2010. The sky is a menacing grey this morning, but through the clouds shafts of sunlight are rushing down towards the valley. After breakfast as ‘Bad Blood’ by Siobhan Fahey finishes playing, we drive to Ortona. We take the coast road and drive at a pace that allows us to drink in the views. We spend the morning walking around the market before stocking up with supplies at Iper, a large supermarket complex on the outskirts of the town. The afternoon is first spent trying to battle our way through the twisted mass of undergrowth that is our land, and second making another batch of Limoncello, ready for Christmas. Dinner is a delicious roast chicken, that is so far removed from the bland supermarket chicken back in the UK, with roast potatoes and veg. Then we realise there’s something missing, good old British gravy: Pencil is retrieved and ‘gravy’ is added to our list of items we must bring out with us from England. (Top of said list is, Yorkshire tea and HP sauce).

Friday 05 November 2010. We are greeted by a warm and sunny morning, in the distance the chug of machinery can be heard, down at the bottom of the lane olives are being harvested. Occasionally the buzz of a chainsaw can be heard and the shouts of men, giving instruction in dialect. It’s the olive picking season, trees are hanging heavy with a mix of green, purple and black fruits, fat, juicy promises of lucious oil. We walk over to our house and start to clear the land at the right hand side of the house. As we clear the weeds and dig through the unkempt earth we discover it’s not a slope but red brick steps. we toil beneath the hot sun, I can’t believe that it’s Bonfire Night today in England, and here I am in Italy this late in the year working outside shirtless. (not a treat for the neighbours I hasten to say.) The steps are finally revealed as ‘Kish Kash, by Basement Jaxx, featuring Siouxsie Sioux plays. Next we set about demolishing two low walls made up of odd bricks and concrete. I dig out some tree roots as Dutch cuts the vegetation behind the house down. We stop for a few minutes to marvel at our progress before setting about chipping away the horrid concrete covering the bricks around the front door. Four hours and forty five minutes later we decide it’s time for a break.

We have lunch and open a bottle of Maschio Traminer Aromatico; as the bubbles dance around inside the glass, I tear at hunks of bread stuffed with green olives and gobble it down greedily. Lunch over and I chill out reading a little before languishing beneath the shower, washing away the hard work of the day, finally at 15.00, I sit outside, open a can of Peroni, and listen to the men still hard at work harvesting their olives.

After dinner we watch a DVD, sadly without realising it’s set in Montreal, and the dialogue swaps from English to French in a whisper, and there are no subtitles. We persevere and as the credits roll, I realise I don’t have a clue what the film was about. I rectify this with a few episodes of the banal American sit-com, ‘Everybody Loves Raymond’, (do they?) The boxed sets of series 7 and 8 were drastically reduced in HMV, so I got them on a whim, thinking at least it’ll be some English speaking TV to watch in Italy. There’s part of me thinking I should have saved my money.

Saturday 06 November 2010. I wake several times from 04.00 onwards, each time I settle back into slumber, I dream about Lorraine Kelly doing a piece to camera about pantomimes. Now I like Ms Kelly, but feel her effervescent presenting style too much for the early hours. At 07.30, still tormented by Lorraine I rise. Ribbons of mist drift over the valley, the towns of Archi and Altino on the ridge opposite are hidden from view. A weak sun tugs at the mist but to no avail, the diaphanous ribbons are winning. Breakfast over and the mist has taken over the entire valley, even the houses at the base of the mountains have been swallowed up. The sound of the machinery and men harvesting now has no substance, disembodied noises emitting from within a cloud. In the distance to my right the dog that sounds like it has a perpetual sore throat barks.

Tina and Richard call over to look at the work we want doing on the house, before leaving to put a quote together for us. Tina leaves us with an enormous, fat bulb of fennel, she grew on her orto. We dig some more, uncovering a cobbled slope underneath the years of weeds and dull earth. To my left there is a commotion in the undergrowth, the squealing of what sounds like wild boar cuts into the stillness of the day. I take Rocky for a walk down the lane towards Merosci, the hamlet down from ours at Guarenna. I chat to some men who are loading sacks of olives onto a pick up, a handsome man shakes my hand and says “Hello”. and an elderly signora eyes me suspiciously, only smiling when I bid her good afternoon. As I walk back home, I see two magpies land a few feet in front of me, their heads bob up and down before they fly away. What is it they say: two for joy, another portent, and an accurate prophesy, at this moment in time my joy is immeasurable.

L’amore é basta and the Nazi Cat

I’ve not had much time this week to contribute to my blog, as it has been Action Project week. The project is a week of drama for children aged from 5 to 14. We work on a performance piece all week, and deliver it to an audience on the Friday evening. This is my last one as director, as I shall be making the move to Italy.

This time we are using the music of Lady Gaga and the play shall be set around a dance studio. We will be looking at the themes in the fable, Beauty and the Beast. I have decided that the part of the beast shall be played by a girl. In the story the Beast is a monster, I don’t want that I just want the character to be different in some way. In the story Belle falls in love with the Beast despite his being horrid to her and everyone around him. So I have gone out on a limb and decided the character shall be disabled. It’ll be a way of looking at prejudice and how love overcomes all.

Day one, I drive to collect our choreographer Becky; yes, of Operation JJ fame. Tiziano Ferro shuffles with ‘Peverso (Melodica Remix)’ as I make my way through the near deserted streets. You can tell it’s half-term the traffic is sparse to say the least. I am blocked from turning into one street by a white van parked across the junction. Two other drivers are confused by this piece of strange parking. A tubby man in a high visibility vest emerges from a newsagent, a copy of The Sun under his arm and a half eaten KitKat in his hand. “I just nipped in to get a paper, mate,” is his response to the driver of a Citroen that questions the barmy parking.

The students arrive, and are soon up for the idea of the show. We are also making a film, and one of our talented young ladies, Lowri has been working on a theme for it. Lowri, wants us to be filming a series of Big Brother, but all the housemates are fairy tale characters. After a discussion about which characters we shall have in the film, I set about looking at the performance piece with the others as Lowri spends some time scriptwriting.

Lowri shall be playing the part of Isabel, a girl in a wheelchair, and Brodie will be playing the part of the boy who falls in love with her. Day one ends with a game of drop ball, and the first third of the play blocked and under our proverbial belts. I drive home with the iPod playing Placebo’s cover of the Boney M classic, ‘Daddy Cool’

Day two and Becky, shows the students the routine to the first dance. ‘Monster’, the boys groan but we show no mercy, they will dance. And they turn out to be fabulous. We block some more of the play and in the afternoon begin filming.

The week continues in split days of filming and rehearsal. Becky comes up with a wonderful dance routine to Gaga’s ‘Speechless’, for Brodie and Lowri, that has me in tears no matter how many times I see it.

Friday arrives, and the performance goes without a hitch. The students are superb and the message; Love is Enough is well received. I find it difficult to deliver my parting speech, and like a big gayer I cry. It will be hard leaving these wonderful children. I have spent so much time being with them over the last three years, they have become like family, and I really do love them all.

I drive home with ‘Deeper than Love’ by Antony and the Johnsons, which shuffled forward, as if sensing my mood. A few glasses of wine are sipped, as I watch the first of the Stephen K Amos shows on BBC2, the show is disappointing and humourless, or maybe it’s just difficult to laugh at the moment.

Saturday morning arrives, and at 08.40 I get a video call from Georgia on Skype. She says she loved the show last night. I tell her I haven’t packed yet. As we’re leaving for Italy today, she tells me to get on with it then.

And what about the Nazi cat? Rachel has a cat called Delilah, and whilst she was taking it’s photograph, the cat struck an unfortunate pose. Delilah looks like she’s a feline member of Hitler youth.

The iPod is on shuffle as usual, and as ‘Master of the House,’ from Les Miserables begins to play I set about packing for my next 18 days in Casoli, Italy.

Ciao tutti.