The iPod is on shuffle as I write up this weeks blog, however it’s only shuffling songs from Aussie indie band ‘Operator Please’. I’ve downloaded the new album, ‘Gloves’ and some bonus tracks from the first album ‘Yes Yes Vindictive’. ‘Icicle’ a bonus track from the Japanese release of YYV is playing at the moment. Today has been an odd week, we’ve had rehearsals for our final tour and I’ve been clearing out the office. Monday came and we had no female actor, a few phone calls later we had the lovely Stephanie.

Tuesday I drive to work and see a man sat in a Ford Mondeo. (What’s odd about this you ask?) Well he was dressed as Superman. He was an overweight man and I’d guess in his mid forties, he certainly looked out of place on the A500. Tuesday afternoon rehearsals start and go well, albeit a tad disjointed, as today we are another actor down, as George has an audition in the city of golden pavements.

The week continues on with the office becoming gradually much larger as desks are removed, boxes of costume are packed up and soon Saturday looms and the rooms are devoid of anything from Black Cat Theatre Co, if it wasn’t for the pink walls, you’d never have guessed we’d been there. It’s going to be odd not having Rachel singing in the corner, or throwing balls of silver foil at me. But we’ll see, everything happens for a reason and there may be a new exciting something around the next corner.

I take a trip into town and see the local shopping centre has two look-a-like footballers, posing for photos with passers-by. One is supposed to be David Beckham. Okay he’s passable as Beck’s, but he looks a bit too old and has an out of date hair style, which suggests without the pointy quiff he looks less like the man he’s emulating. Next to him is a rather plump Frank Lampard, who in my opinion is less convincing than his fellow imitator. Something looks odd as I watch them preen and pose for camera phones. That’s it; I almost cry out, they’re both too short. Mr Beckham and Mr Lampard are both six feet tall, however the look-a-like David is around five foot eight, while the look-a-like Frank is around five foot five.

Ever felt like you’ve been short-changed?

Macbeth and the Personalised Number Plates

Half term is upon us and so it’s the Action Project once more. The Action Project is this time looking at ‘The Scottish Play’. The kids are all excited about spending the week with Rachel and myself, and the inevitable fun they’ll have, playing games, acting and singing. I have edited the script down to about 60 minutes and have translated it into modern English. I have however left all of Macbeth’s soliloquies in Shakespeare’s language and Lady Macbeth’s first and final scenes will use the original text. Monday morning, as I wait at a red light the iPod plays, ‘Logic’ by Operator Please from the new album, ‘Gloves’. I notice as I’m waiting for the lights to change that I’m sandwiched between two cars with personalised registration plates, the car in front is NAN 31, (I wonder if it was a gift for granny on a birthday) and the car behind is 5ETH. (I look in the rear view mirror and think to myself that the driver looks more like a John than a Seth). The lights change as the music does, this time ‘Cash in my Pocket’ by Wiley feat Daniel Merriweather begins to play and I drive to the rehearsal venue. The day goes well and the parts have all been given out, Lowri, a confident ten year old will be Lady Macbeth. The lead will go to Bradley, a handsome thirteen year old that all the girls have a crush on. We have an amazing group of children; they all get along really well and support each other throughout the rehearsals. Rhiannon is playing the Porter and is hilarious, she’s really got the part spot on, and she also plays King Duncan and Young Macduff. The first day over and I drive home with the iPod playing ‘White Boys Can’t Control It’ from the debut album by Culture Club, ‘Kissing To Be Clever’. It may have been released back in 1982 but it still sounds fresh twenty eight years later. I’m driving past the well know supermarket beginning with the letter ‘T’ when I spot another personalised plate, this time in front of me and the plate reads 1 NAG. Tuesday morning is spent running the third of the play we worked on the day before and after lunch we look at the next third. We have our first rehearsal of the song we’ll be doing at the end of the performance. This time I’ve chosen the theme tune from the film Ghostbusters. The first run through becomes a mix of the Ray parker Jnr version and the 118 118 commercial. I’m flabbergasted by some of the kids who are already word perfect; Rhiannon did two runs of the Porter, went home and came back word perfect. James has so much energy it’s exhausting watching him run about between his scenes with Daniel. I spot another plate on my way home, this one I could have myself that is if I was the sort of person who wanted one, which I’m not. BAZ 6842. Wednesday driving in I see yet another plate, this one is just four digits long, 6032. I guess it must have cost a fortune. ‘Domani’ by Artisti Uniti per l’Abruzzo plays. A song recorded by various Italian singers to raise money for the people of L’Aquila after the 6th April 2009 earthquake that took 308 lives. The quake, which was 5.8 on the Richter scale damaged the beautiful city of L’Aquila and many surrounding villages too, I felt personal loss too, as in Fosssa the house I was buying was destroyed. Today we get to the end of the play, all scenes are blocked and Bradley is eager now to get some direction for his soliloquies, he’s an excellent student, he asks relevant questions and understands why his character says what he says. I have asked him to portray Macbeth honestly, I want the audience to initially see him question his loyalty to Duncan before he makes his decision to kill the King, and Brad does this so well. Lowri had her first run through of Lady Macbeth’s sleep walking scene, which I’ve edited into a monologue so we can see her gradually go mad before our eyes. The day ends with some games; Nish Nash (not her real name) a five year old wants us to pretend to be animals, we get into pairs and have twenty minutes acting like all manner of creatures for the others to guess what we are. I’m with Georgia and together we become penguins, meerkat’s and a tarantula. I drive home with Kate Bush singing ‘The Wedding List’ and windows down I duet loudly along the A50. Thursday is a day of relentless re-runs of scenes and song practicing, the day is sunny and the room is soon oppressive, the doors have to opened and the sound of Daniel as Macduff shouting, “Sound your trumpets, the heralds of blood and death,” rushes out onto the back alleys of Fenton. In the afternoon, Lowri rehearses the sleepwalking scene and as she’s doing it the background activity in the room begins to slow down until every one is silent and watching Lowri wrestle with her thoughts and the imaginary blood on her hands. She finishes and the room erupts with spontaneous applause, and the ten year old blushes, the blood now visible in her face. The children all want to end the day playing the animal game again, and now the laughter and joyous pleasure of children exits the door out onto the warm afternoon air. Friday, and I’m driving to the trophy shop to collect the trophy for the outstanding student of the week, I spot another plate, this one is 5AM 33, I wonder if the Sam it refers to is male or female and is she/he thirty three? ‘Touched by the Hand of God’ by New Order is playing as I pull onto the cash and carry car park to purchase some items for the show and I park next to a car sporting the plate BL355, (Oh BLESS). The day passes by so quickly, Lunchtime comes and goes in a heartbeat and it’s dress rehearsal time. Changes are made as we rehearse for the first time in the performance space, and before you know it it’s that time – what time? You ask – SHOWTIME. Parents Arrive, kids ask; more times than I can comprehend, “Is my mum and dad here yet?” I spend my time walking backwards and forwards from child to parent and back again to say, “Yes, your family are here.” Brodie (Banquo) and James (Malcolm) are on meet and greet duty, telling parents to behave themselves and to enjoy the show. The play begins and Olivia, Sally and Katya take to the stage and as Katya utters those immortal lines, “When shall we three meet again?” Panic breaks out backstage as they all realise there’s no turning back now. I reassure them I’ll make sure they don’t go on late, but the atmosphere is full of hushed whispers of, “Baz, what scene’s next?” “When am I next on Barry?” and “What’s my first line, Baz?” There are a few stumbles over lines, but what can you expect they’ve put all this together in just five days. The boy’s look splendid in their kilts; the girls playing the witches look great; having decided that the witches in our version are sexy and glam. I remark that if I were their father I’d keep them locked up until they were twenty five. Lowri is a vision in her turquoise and black dress, she has really brought Lady Mac to life and at times makes a better job of it than some of the professional actors I’ve worked with. Rhiannon has the audience laughing at her irreverent Porter and Bradley motors through his scenes superbly. I stand at the back filling up with pride. Before you know it 60 minutes have passed and Siouxsie and the Banshee’s play ‘Spellbound’ and the walk down has begun to tumultuous applause. 21.15 and with a glass of red I reflect upon something a parent said to me as they left after the show. “What a great bunch of children you have Barry, they all have great respect and support for each other.” I smile and think to myself, at this moment in time - I’m the luckiest man in the world.

Flags

So it's that time again, and musicans and singers (maybe in a loose sense of the word) from the far flung corners of Europe, and beyond gather for the Eurovision Song Contest. This year the high campery and outrageous costumes are in Oslo. I caught the end of the first semi finals for the contest, and as I'd not seen all the acts can't comment on the songs, however the three girls whose dresses suddenly grew butterfly wings freaked me out. I did like the Icelandic entry, and chuckled wondering if she'd get home if the volcanisc ash cloud drifted over Norway.

One thing that struck me as a positive image was the audience and the acts, who were all proud to wave their country's flag. It was nice to see Estonian flags held aloft alongside Greek and Belgian in a sea of unity. But the same sadly cannot be said for the World Cup. We've already had reports of people complaining that the English flag is offensive. The police are actively asking people not to fly their country's flag for fear of upsetting immigrants to the country. I find the idea of flag flying being offensive as political tosh. This is surely a new phenomenon possibly dreamed up by some politically correct, cardigan wearing, tree hugger from Salisbury.

I'm sure if I walked down the streets of Paris and saw the French flag I'd not be offended by it, The same would go for flags from Pakistan, Romania, Canada and any other country. If I chose to move in another country I'd accept their flag as part of my new home, not an object designed to remind me of my previous home. I am moving to live in Italy, and when I do I shall not be popping over to my neighbours house to ask them at fiesta time to remove their green, white and red flag because it offends me, in fact I'll fly my own Italian flag and join in the spirit of things.

Odd week

It's been an odd week this week. Monday I woke up with the start of a sore throat, and the pain got gradually worse as the day progressed. I arrived at the office plug in trusty iPod and Placebo came on first with 'Plasticine'. The day progressed with nothing of great importance happening and as I was about to lock up and go home, Placebo shuffled forward again, this time with 'Protege Moi'.

The drive home was interesting, as weaving in and out of the traffic was a man in his twenties on a bicycle, drinking a can of Strongbow cider. I was worried when he swerved in front of me, nearly scraping the bonnet of my trusty, albeit already scratched and dented van. It's annoying though, he wont have any insurance and could cause just as much carnage as a car driver could.

Tuesday was awful, the illness was blazing like a vengeful wife. My head felt like it was being squeezed, my throat was swollen and burned, and the aches that wracked my body felt like tiny jaws taking a bite out of the skin that didn't feel as it it fitted me. I didn't half feel odd. I tried to go to work and lasted about an hour before going home and straight back to bed.

I feel better after a few hours, and make my way out to help Liz with her Weight Watchers class. On the way home Timbaland plays 'Ease Off The Liquour' from the Shock Value ii album, as I pull up at the local supermarket. I'm getting out of my car when a blue Fiat shoots past and pulls up in the disabled space outside the door. two Pakistani women get out chatting loudly, and walk into the store. They're obviously not in need of the space. Why do people do this, I often wish I had a pocketful of stickers that read - You have a disabled persons space, do you also want their disability? Wednesday very little happens, we rattle around the office and the fit bloke from another unit comes over to buy a desk from us. Thursday we wake up and it's sunny and warm. In fact it's so warm I drive to work without a jacket and with the car windows open. The iPod must know it's a nice day as I set off because it randomly selects sunny tunes, the first being The Bee Gee's, 'Stayin' Alive' which is then followed by Anita Ward's disco classic, 'Ring My Bell' and as I pull into the car park , the late, great Kirsty MacColl sings 'Us Amazonians'. It's Rachel's birthday tomorrow, so we had a little party at the local KFC to celebrate, we had to wear hats and sit in the party booth. Rachel had the princesses tiara, Grace had the Queen's head-dress, Lyndon was the jester and I opted for the cowboy hat, so as you can guess there was no theme. we're like a dyslexic Village People..... C. Y. A. M. I drive to the weekly drama classes with our gifted and talented kids from 'The Action Project', it's still warm and as Soft Cell play 'The Girl With The Patent Leather Face' I devise activities that they can do without running around and getting all hot and bothered. At the end of the session I'm chatting to one of our lads about the forthcoming weekly workshop. I tell him the weeks work is all about murder and mayhem. We're doing a murder mystery all in verse and Macbeth. He then comes up with agenius idea of underscoring the play with the themes from horror movies. Out of the mouths of babes eh?

Friday brings another sunny morning, I put my tomato plants out in the garden for a bask in the warmth; they'll be ready for potting on and putting in the greenhouse this weekend. The drive into the office is a nightmare, what's normally a 10-15 minute jouirney takes me 50 minutes today. Looks like the good weather's brought everyone out. Still trusty iPod is still blasting sunny tunes, I leave home as Paolo Nuttini sings, 'Pencil Full Of Lead' and pull into the car park as Tina Turner blasts out 'It's Only Love', the 1985 duet with Bryan Adams. I'm not in the mood for being messed around today, some teachers seem to think they can book things then just disappear into the ether. One was so desperate for a workshop today, she kept calling and said asking questions, I bent over backwards to help her and when I try to get her to confirm she doesn't return my calls. So first job of the day is a call to the school to complain about her rudeness. I put myself out for her and she didn't have the courtesy to say I've changed my mind or anything. Second moan is a teacher that has booked a show previously only to ring a day before the actors are due to visit and change the date. She's done this twice so now I'm on to her, she's got to pay up front before we'll give her a third date. I'll post this weeks blog now, as Kelly Rowland sings 'Past 12' from her debut solo album 'Simply Deep'. Kelly was always my favourite from Destiny's Child.

Mistaken Identity, Kindness and the Scrap Theives

11-05-10 – I never really thought about how intrinsically English I can be at times, but I guess it’s inherent in all of us to some degree. The reason I mention it is because of an incident that occurred today. I was out walking across a car park when a man came over to me and said “Hey up, John.” Now this is my point about being English, we don’t like to tell people when they are making a mistake, or put another way, if someone gets our name wrong, we just smile and don’t like making them feel stupid by correcting them. So this bloke says, “Hey up, John.” I respond by saying, “Sorry?” he says, “How’ve you been?” I answer honestly that I’ve been okay. He then asks me about the house sale. Now he obviously knows me; not too well as my name’s not John. So I smile thinking it must be my fault, I have forgotten who he is. Brief intercourse is over and he says, “See ya John,” and leaves. I swear I have no recollection of ever seeing the man before in my life. And I don’t think I look remotely like a John.

I drive off to Weight Watchers, to my see my girls; Lady Gaga is on the iPod, ‘Telephone’ with Beyoncé plays. It’s a remix from the recently released remix album. I do like Lady Gaga, she’s become an international phenomenon because of clever marketing. She knows that if she dresses in a bizarre fashion the press will be interested. Is she the new Madonna? Maybe, maybe not, but in my opinion is more entertaining.

So we have a new PM, David Cameron is now the UK’s prime minister, with the proposed cuts to school budgets, that doesn’t bode well for my business. Oh well I think at least he’s better looking than Gordon Brown, and that Nick Clegg, well he can come to my house anytime to canvass my opinion.

12-05-10 – I am woken up today by the sound of a squeegee being dragged across the bedroom window, it’s the window cleaner. Bugger me, he’s early I think as I drag myself from under the duvet. I think I’m safe as he’s doing the bedroom window so I step onto the landing, stark naked only to see him at the window. “Morning,” he mouths behind the glass, I smile back and nip back into the bedroom.

I drive to work as Fabri Fibra, the Italian rapper shuffles onto the iPod with ‘Non C’è Tempo’. I haven’t a clue what he’s saying, I catch the phrase Dolce and Gabbana, but I like to hear the rolling sound he makes as he spits out words at break-neck speed. In the office I look out of the window across at the patch of wasteland at the back. Three men, obviously up to no good walk across the patch of scruffy land and proceed to collect metal from the empty buildings. “Ooh,” I say to Rachel, “Look at these three here stealing scrap metal.” We watch them for a while wondering if they should be there, there’s a chubby one in a high vis vest and two gangly ones in joggers and hoodies. We decided they’re thieves and do our civil duty and call the police. I have a wander around the block and it turns out, said thieves are rag and bone men, helping themselves. I watch as two officers arrive and I leave them to it. I then spend the day putting together a new website for a new business idea I’ve had.

Good news day today, the house we love in Italy is a step closer to being ours, as the seller and myself have agreed a price. Watch this space.

13-05-10 – A day of meetings today, first one with a business advisory service, as I have to make a decision about the theatre company. The second one is with a barrister, about a legacy left in a will. I drive to the first meeting with iPod plugged in, Tilly and the Wall play, ‘Dust Me Off’. I’m not really listening as there are a hundred questions racing around my head. What will I do if I close the theatre?

My writing assignment still remains unwritten, I have done all the research and preparation, just need to get my finger out and write the bugger. That said I need to get some more work done on my novel, where does time go?

I have started to pack some things ready for the house move, CD’s are packed; in alphabetical order of course, but there’s so much more to moving house than just packing. We have so much stuff that we have to get rid of as there’s no room at the new house, as we’ve got a full set of brand new furniture coming from the insurance. What will we do with our stuff?

As I write this Siouxsie and the Banshee’s play ‘Preacher Man’ and I just realise that today’s entries I’ve written all end with pointless questions. So I guess it’s best to leave it there for today, to prevent any more appearing.

14-05-10 – Today I made an important decision. I have decided to close down my Theatre in Education business. Due to cutbacks in school budgets, it’s harder to get enough shows to make a tour viable. Schools want the service but say they just can’t afford to bring theatre into the school anymore. Most similar companies closed when the government cancelled year 9 sat’s, but we’ve soldiered on. Now it’s time to end it. To be honest I’m sick of dealing with actors, with the exception of some really nice ones we’ve worked with the majority are a pain in the ass. The last team we had were lovely people, but the schools didn’t think they were very professional, and we’ve had some poor reports about their behaviour. We shall still continue with our children’s’ acting lessons and weekly workshops.

I have been putting together a new business venture, which I’ll mention when all is finalised, but for now in the office Rachel is photographing everything to sell as much as we can on e-bay. The iPod is playing ‘Castaways’ by Toyah, from her third studio album, The Changeling.

15-05-10 – A lovely sunny Saturday, I nip up to the allotment in the morning to pick some rhubarb for my friend Jayne. Then after a trip to the shops, I chill out making soup (courgette and mint) and cannelloni for dinner later. Songs are shuffling along as I cook; ‘Rydeen’ from the Yellow Magic Orchestra follows ‘Weathered Wall’ by David Sylvian. I sit down to write some more towards my latest assignment, but am stuck; I just can’t seem to find the way to say the sentence I’ve reached deadlock with. I decide that I’ll have a bath and read a chapter of the book I’m currently reading, I’m halfway upstairs when the (boy) dog goes mental at the letterbox, as a hand pops a leaflet for the local curry house through the slit. Luckily the hand was removed before a set of sharp Jack Russell gnashers could make contact. The other dog (girl) makes a grab for the leaflet and it tears as she takes her half into the kitchen to rip into shreds, he just looks up me and wags his tail, as if to say. “Look daddy, I got you this.”

The evening is spent drinking (not much actually), chatting and laughing with old friends from school. The jokes aren’t very PC, and the topics can be irreverent at times, but we all enjoy these monthly get-togethers. To be honest, if Jayne didn’t keep on top of it we’d all end up losing touch. The evening ends and we all kiss, hug, and shake hands. Jayne leaves with her bunch of rhubarb, from my allotment. I leave with a promise to deliver some to my sister tomorrow.

16-05-10 – People can be so generous. Today I went to my allotment to plant my potatoes. As they were being dropped into the earth, Harry walks over and says, “Do you want some spinach?” and gives me 10 plants. Then John pops over and gives me 2 paraffin heaters for the greenhouse, 6 young swede and 5 cauliflowers. So I will have more vegetables come harvest time.

The iPod isn’t shuffling today, because yesterday I downloaded ‘The Defamation of Strickland-Banks’ by Plan B. It’s an amazing album, I just cannot stop listening to it, with it’s soul groove, hip-hop fusion. If you’re reading this now, go out and get yourself a copy.

I haven’t checked this edition, so apologies for any punctuation and spelling errors.

Overheard Conversations, Weeds and a Smack in the Face

02-05-10 – Having been away in Italy for the past two weeks I am dreading the state my allotment is in. I decided to get one a few months ago, and was lucky enough to get one with a private group, so it has security. For just £30 a year I inherited a patch left to its own devices. The man who had it before me just left it one day eight months before I took over full of vegetables and never returned. So it was left to me to sort it out. My two reasons for wanting an allotment are firstly to have the space to grow enough fruit and vegetables for home, thus saving the pennies. Secondly, because when I eventually move to Italy, I will want to grow most of the fruit and vegetables we shall be eating out there, as do most Italians. So I saw this as a training exercise. Now I don’t have one of those self sufficiency dreams, I’m not deluded into thinking I can move to Italy and enjoy the ‘Good Life’; besides I don’t know which ‘Good’ I’d be, Tom or Barbara – thinking about it I’m probably more a Margo. I know the challenges of growing will be different as will the produce, but I just wanted to get into the habit of cultivating.

So I arrive at my allotment, Harry who I share the space with has watered my sweet peas in my absence, and they’ll be ready to put out in a week or so. The brambles I cleared have started to come back, and the nicely dug over beds that were lovely patches of brown just two weeks ago, are peppered with tiny green shoots, not produce, but weeds. I set about hoeing between the onions and clearing them from my bed where today I shall be planting my cabbages. As I share the space I don’t usually take my iPod, as it would be rude to ignore Harry, besides he’s a wise old sage when it comes to tips on growing. Harry’s not here so I put on the music and start to wage war on the mares tail. Big Brovaz, comes on with ‘Breaking The Cycle’ I hum along as I continue with the never ending battle to get rid of this persistent weed, Marilyn Manson shuffles into the headphones with ‘Fundamentally Loathsome’, how apt for this back breaking job. 03.05.10 – Bank Holiday Monday. I wake at seven, have a couple of cups of tea and head off to the allotment. It’s not a bad day, there’s a threat of light showers, but that doesn’t concern me, today I want to tackle the brambles that have gone mad in my absence. So with thick gloves on I chop away at the prickly tentacles. No one else is around and the birdsong is lovely to hear. Once the brambles have been satisfactorily cut back I turn my attention to the spot I’m hoping to have my pumpkins. I’m digging it over and putting some slow release plant food into the patch when I hear Mr Have-We-Got and Mrs I-Don’t-Know, arrive. They have the allotment over the hedge from me, and do nothing but argue from the moment they arrive until the time they go home. I gave them their unusual surnames because they’re phrases they habitually use. For example, he’ll say, “Have we got any bin liners?” her response will be, “I don’t know.” This is usually the prelude to an argument. They’ve been on their land for little over five minutes when he asks, “Have we got any string?” she replies, “I don’t know.” To this he says, “Well didn’t you think to bring some?” Her response is, “Why didn’t you bring it?” and that’s if they’re off. I switch my iPod on and block them out. With Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, ’Get Ready For Love’

On my allotment there is the base of an old Victorian brick built greenhouse, sadly a year ago the wooden frame collapsed, so I’ve a large patch of land peppered with broken glass, as the previous renter didn’t bother to remove it. I spend the afternoon sat in the sunshine, sieving soil and picking out glass. It’s a laborious job but I want to put my potatoes in the greenhouse beds, so necessity dictates I get it done. A cheeky little robin joins me, he perches close by watching me with its black little eyes, every time I move away he swoops down and picks up the bugs my digging releases, filling his belly before flying off to watch me from his perch again.

After several hours I head off home, my car is parked next to a playing field where amateur football teams play games. Today three girls, two boys and a red bycycle have invaded the pitch. The boys are kicking a football to each other whilst the three girls try to balance on the bicycle; one on the seat another on the handlebars and the third standing on a pedal, of course they are unsuccessful. I watch when one of the boys kicks the ball to his friend, he misses it and it hits the girl on the handlebars. The boy runs forward to grab his ball as the angry girl jumps off the bike, she picks up a yellow plastic gold club and then proceeds to beat the boy about the body with it. He tries in vain to run away, but she’s so angry she keeps pace with him, whacking him all the way to the gate. Once through the gate he stops and faces her, she hits him with the golf club and he throws his ball at her, then punches her squarely in the face, flooring her. I laugh, thinking she deserved that, and drive away. IPod plugged into the car and Horse singing, ‘Hindsight, It’s a Wonderful Thing.’

04.05.10 – Don’t people say daft things? I was in the local Tesco today, having popped in for a couple of bottles of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo and as I passed the deli counter I overheard a woman ask the assistant for, “Five slices of your nice ham, the one with the orange crumbs on the edges.” Of course how often do you enter a shop and request the assistant serve you with a portion of their horrible produce. It’s like when someone says; “I’d like something really nice for dinner tonight.” Are they inferring that the previous evening they had something horrible? Maybe they rarely have anything nice for dinner, and getting back to Tesco, possibly the customer was really making a statement about their other hams not being so nice?

05.05.10 – I spend the day preparing the first lesson for the children’s acting classes that we have set up. There’s a selection of warm up exercises and then some characterisation work. We have some really talented kids in our 'Action Project’ group and to see them handle Shakespeare is marvellous. Rachel fills in an application for some lottery funding, which hopefully would enable us to offer the project, which runs in school holidays to more kids for free. I drive home via Tesco, more Montepulciano: Where does the wine go to, never seems to last? Overheard conversation 2: I’m stood at the checkout and behind me is a Pakistani gentleman, he’s having a conversation with another man about the forthcoming general election, it goes like this: M1, “Are you voting tomorrow?” M2, “Oh yes of course, you?” M1, “Oh yes but it doesn’t matter who gets in, immigration issues won’t be addressed.” M2, “I know, they’re let far too many bloody foreigners in don’t they.” I laugh inwardly, it’s obvious by their age and accents that neither of them where born in this country. I pay and head off home to make cannelloni for dinner, which I have to say was very nice.

06.05.10 – Election Day comes and with comes drizzle. I trudge off to the polling station at the school around the corner, Martha Wainwright sings ‘Factory’ from her first album, the iPod knocking against my right hip with each stride. I’m in a good mood today I fitted back into my favourite jeans, a pair I bought in Sorrento with impossibly long legs: Italian men are not very tall but all their jeans come with legs made fit for a giraffe, why’s that? I’m having a trendy Italian purple shirt day, topped with the jumper I got in Lanciano two weeks ago, even my pants also from Lanciano are purple – a plum trinity. Overheard conversation 3: I arrive at the school gate and a car pulls up and in front of me, abruptly a car door opens and onto the pavement tumble four senior citizens. I stop to allow the last woman to get out and follow them down the steps into the school playground. The conversation goes like this. SC1, “Look at all the chewing gum on the floor.” SC2, “Disgusting, isn’t it?” SC3, “Yes, it’s the young ones today, no respect.” SC2, “You can say that again, people today have no respect for anything or anyone.” I skirt around the shuffling quartet and walk towards the desk, I’m about to hand over my polling card when Senior Citizen 2 walks over, pushes in front of me and hands her card to the woman at the desk. Respect – it’s a two way street I think, ‘With Respect Comes Responsibility’ a poster on the wall says and for a minute I’m tempted to point it out to the woman, but am unable as the remaining three oldies shove past me to get their ballot papers, without so much of excuse me or sorry.

I have been in contact with the Italian lawyer that we are planning on using to purchase the house in Italy that we like. I have put in an offer and now it’s just a waiting game. Nothing moves quickly in Italy, (except the traffic).

07.05.10 – So we have a hung parliament, no clear winner. The sudden predicted surge in votes/popularity for the Lib Dem’s didn’t materialise. Echo and the Bunnymen seem to be the order of the day; the band has shuffled on the iPod at regular intervals today. They are just finishing with ‘My White Devil‘ from their third album (1983) ‘Porcupine’ as I unplug them lock up the office and head off home. Overheard Conversation 4: I’m walking through the car park when I hear a the following exchange between two young men – YM1, “How did you find out?” YM2, “By talking to odd people in the pub.” I think to myself, just who are these ‘odd’ people, what makes them anomalous, and where is this pub that’s frequented by these peculiar people?

I feel like spaghetti tonight: I could eat the stuff every day; I love it. I put on an apron and start making a tomato sauce. I have to wear an apron now as I have too may shirts with spotted fronts where bubbling sauce has leapt from the pan as I stir it. I’m wearing my favourite Italian jeans and keep tripping over the hems so I decide to do a Germaine Greer and prepare pasta sans clothing. It’s said, she once cooked in the nude, a pasta dish for friends. So I do my tribute to the nation's favourite feminist, in my own inimitable way. 08.05.10 – Well the weekend isn’t very promising, it’s overcast and I’m doing some research for an article that is my latest writing assignment. Sinead O’Connor sings ‘I Am Stretched On Your Grave’ as I wade through names, dates etc. At 11.00 the day brightens slightly and I decide to take the short drive to my allotment, to see if in my absence the weeds have flourished once more. As I step outside it starts to rain, typical. I go back inside and switch on the iPod and go back to my research. ‘Another Lover’ from the original reality TV ‘popstars’, Hear’Say comes on and I make myself a cup of coffee and go back to my research. The sun eventually comes out and I go to the allotment, tackle the never-ending war with the weeds and pick the first of my horticultural bounty. A few stems of tender young rhubarb. With a pan of stewed rhubarb on the stove and a small quantity languishing in the freezer, I set to making some rhubarb and mint jelly, and two jars of the said jelly sit cooling on the window sill as I upload this weeks instalment.

How Do You Capture A Moment?

26.04.10 – It’s a sunny afternoon in Piane d’Archi. The door is open and music spills out onto Via Castello. The iPod is not on random shuffle and is only selecting songs by the Italian singer, Tiziano Ferro. Mio Fratello is playing, the gentle track well suited to the mood on the street. The neighbours have carried chairs outside and are sitting in a circle talking. Every now and then a car travels down the steep strada, and bottoms are hurriedly lifted from seats and chairs pulled back to allow it passage, only to reform the circle once again. Our neighbour, a robust woman with a reddish tint added into her now greying hair, waves at us as we sit beside the front door. “Ciao, come stai?” I call as she walks past; we’ve passed many pleasantries over the past fourteen days, so it’s acceptable to use the informal exchange. “Va bene, grazie. Ciao, ciao.” She calls back over her shoulder as she drags a chair behind her on her way to join the neighbours. With an average age of around fifty-five, they are all traditionally dressed, ladies in black, some with their heads covered by scarves. The men all wear trousers, shirts and jumpers, despite the warmth, two wear jackets. (April is far to early for Italians to consider summer attire).

An elderly chap, well into his eighties I guess, and supported by two walking sticks very slowly walks uphill to join the group. He glances across towards me, I nod my head in greeting, “Sera, sera,” he responds. I toast him with my glass, a gin and tonic – how English. A young novice priest arrives, cassock billowing behind him as he half walks, half skips up the steps. He walks towards our front door, pops his head inside and calls for someone. Our neighbour tells him he has the wrong address; he apologises and skips off next door. One of the men says something that causes the women to cackle like witches. I can assume it’s some remark about the young holy man.

Tutti, the little tabby has appeared and is rolling around at our feet, exposing her belly to the warm sunshine. The song changes to the more upbeat Rosso Relativo, the young priest re-appears and skips off down the steps turning right he heads downhill. Once again the man says something and the women laugh loudly. The aroma of cooking wafts out onto the street, I go into the kitchen where I have a pot of ragu simmering away for dinner: It’s always better to cook twice for a richer flavour. Tiziano now sings Ti Voglio Bene, as I turn the pot off and pour myself another G&T and go back outside.

It’s so peaceful this high up, a gentle breeze occasionally disturbs the warmth and the Majella, icing sugar topped is clear, no hint of mist today. Absent-minded I begin to count the tiles on the roof of the house opposite, I get to fifty-six before I give up, on such a tranquil afternoon, counting is just too much like hard work. Between the two houses opposite is a narrow opening, looking through you can see the valley below, the swathes of poppies that are bloom give the impression that the earth is bleeding. Stitches of borage, eye shadow blue sew their way through the grass. The heady aroma of lilac rides on the warm air and in the distance a battalion of bamboo, tall and slender rattles in the breeze. In the little alley is a blue plastic crate, the sunlight picking out the white lettering. A butterfly dances in the cool air between the two properties before landing on the crate, giving the blue box some majesty. Ants, oblivious to our leisurely afternoon go about their business, little black beads rushing about. The song changes again, now it’s Il Sole e Per Tutti.

The feral friend, mews expecting food, I hold out my hand and she sniffs at my fingers, then with the trust you can only get from an animal she allows me to stroke her. She purrs, a deep guttural vibration. Then just to make sure we know she’s wild and in control, she walks away, tail held erect. The cat is the epitome of Abruzzo, in places it’s untamed and uninviting, then without warning it’s calm and serene, just a hint of birdsong on a lilac ether. Life on via Castello is generally slow, the steep incline of the road dictating the pace. There has to be something about spending every day walking up such an abrupt gradient that has health benefits. The exercise alone must account for the longevity of its residents. Our octogenarian, leaves the group and carefully balanced on his sticks heads downhill, “Sera,” he calls to me as he passes. To my right is the garden, I look through the gaps in the gates ironwork and can see two butterflies dancing. An ignored patch of land beside the garden has that unordered look that only nature can craft. Lazy grass, lanky green blades protest as the breeze forces it to move. Three new people join us, drawn I think by the music, three ladies that look like they could be sisters. I don’t think they are but they are so alike, but I think that’s a result of a tight community and tradition. One of the woman smiles at me, a wide, broad open-mouthed grin, I smile back and she waves, then wiggles her hips to Tiziano who is now singing Stop, Dimentica. I imagine the others must think her actions improper, but she obviously doesn’t care, and as one of her friend tuts, she laughs. I say hello, she responds, saying something in dialect that I cannot understand. It would be futile to try to have a conversation with my pidgin Italian. We don’t need words, not this afternoon.

This is not a typical afternoon on via Castello, but a moment we have been privileged to be a part of. So how do you capture a moment like this? You can’t, you just have to be able to recognise it when it happens.

Una camicia viola e il dramma borsa trasporto: Un viaggio epico

27.04.10 – Some of you will already be aware of my recent travel related predicament. I refer to the volcanic activity in Iceland, the eruption that brought the world to a standstill. I was happily enjoying a week’s break in Abruzzo, Italy. It was Thursday evening, 15 April, and I had just entered Ghiottonies’ pizzeria, in Piane d’Archi when I had a text from my friend, Brenda telling me she’d be late for dinner due to the volcano erupting. My first thought was, oh my goodness is it Vesuvius, or maybe Etna? Well suffice to say, you all know what happened next, travel plans all over the world were thrown into disarray by the volume of ash belching from Eyjafjallajökull. Like everyone else away from home and without instant access to the internet, I relied on second-hand information. One minute people back home were telling me, that the airlines would be back to normal by the day I should fly home, the other folk; in Italy told me it could be weeks before I could fly home.

Now I don’t want to make light of other people’s struggles to get home. Everyone had his or her own reasons for not wanting to be detained. Children had to get back for school: May is an important month in the school calendar. Others just couldn’t afford to lose out on wages. I know people who have literally taken trains, no planes and automobiles to traverse Europe in a bid to reach blighty. One friend spent over one thousand pounds in train fares, hotel bills, ferry and taxi fares, in his need to get home. Me. Well I turn up as normal at Pescara airport for my Monday 19 April flight. “Sorry, no planes,” the pretty Italian girl behind the protective glass tells me. (I think, I bet you’re glad of your see through cage now love). The short queue I’m in marvel at an Italian musician who cannot understand why he can’t fly to London for a gig. He pleads, swears, cries and eventually prays, but no luck, even God can’t rearrange short haul flights, perhaps he’d have been better off asking for something more achievable: Peace in Afghanistan? The upshot is we’re offered 27 April from Rome or 2 May from Pescara. We take Rome and wander off into the Chieti countryside for another eight days. We spend the sunny days house hunting and sightseeing, but that’s another blog completely. Oh by the way for those of you with no grasp of the Italian language, this edition is entitled: A purple shirt and the carrier bag drama: An epic journey. An account of our journey back home from Italy, and of course a look at which songs the trusty iPod shuffles. So on the day of our departure, we rise at 07.30; tidy up the lovely house we’ve been staying in. Simple Minds are playing, their cover version of the Siouxsie and the Banshee’s classic, Christine. At 08.30, after breakfast, and feeding Tutti, a small feral tabby cat that has adopted us we leave in the rented Panda for Aeroporto Internazionale d’Abruzzo, or as we call it Pescara airport. We slowly slide down the vertical, skinny street that is via castello. (Castle Street), pass through Archi, and snake our way down the hillside. Apart from witnessing a blue transit van squeal into an ear splitting skid, avoiding the car in front that has stopped for no apparent reason, the journey to the airport is peaceful. It takes me several minutes to find the autobus ticket machine, I purchase two tickets, turn around only to see number thirty-eight; our bus disappearing out of the car park. The S-word is offered to the wind, and I look at the timetable. The next bus is 10.40; our seat on the coach to Rome is booked for 11.00, I start to worry, will we make it in time? Luck is on our side, another thirty-eight appears at 10.30, we board and the driver’s impatience, our ally, takes us into town ten minutes earlier. 11.00, on the second, the coach rumbles into life. It has to be said that, on the surface, Italy may appear unfocused, but its public transport services are terrific; the UK transport minister should pop over for a sample, maybe it will rid us back home of the lazy, money grubbing services we have. (But I digress). I settle into my seat on the upper deck, book is on the seat beside me and iPod earbuds are inserted. We pull away from Pescara Termini as Welcome to the Pleasure Dome, by Frankie Goes to Hollywood begins, the epic thirteen minute track, escorting me away from Abruzzo with some scouse brogue. The sun has burnt away the mist and the small villages up in the hills bask in the warmth as we coast by. The silver machine we are in travels from the back of the leg, caressing the calf of lady Italia. We make a brief stop to collect a handful of other travellers, and as Linkin Park burst into Lying From You, three more bodies join the fifteen upstairs already. As we pull away from the small quadrangle of bus stops, the man on the seat behind ends a call on his mobile. Tiziano Ferro replaces Linkin Park with, Assurdo Pensare, from his third album. All Mia Età, and we see our first blue sign with the white letters, R. O. M. A. The green of Italy’s heart spreads out before this band of stranieri as they, unaware of each other share an experience. Outside my headphones the trip is silent. I pause the music and listen. No one speaks, occasionally the rustle of a broadsheet being turned crackles. The gentle drone of the engine calms, it’s humming every now and then disturbed by the thump of the wheels as they contact the joins between bridge sections. I never tire of looking at little red roofed houses, as they scramble up one side of a hill only to tumble down the other. Each one we pass has its own personality: its own appeal as it defiantly ignores seismic activity and clings to its green, tree covered host. I lazily watch a tractor navigate a bend, a small black dog running alongside. It’s now 12.33, an hour and half into our trip and the landscape has become rugged and wild. High up on a ridge perches a jangle of buildings, even in the remotest of regions, life has a foothold, precarious though that may be. At times the autostrada becomes a huge flat concrete bridge, a thick grey artery high up, its’ shape covering the valley below with a shadow river. We begin to climb a little and the silver beast labours. Turning on the iPod once again, Alesha Dixon sings Turn It Up, a track from Fired Up, her little known debut solo album. The rhythm bounces around in my head, as infectious as a norovirus on a hospital ward. Two seats in front of me on my right sits a podgy Italian, dressed in grey jogging bottoms and a purple T-shirt. Now it needs to be pointed out that, plum, violet, lilac and any colour in the purple spectrum, has been in vogue with the young Italian male since the summer of 2009. Our twenty something sat away from me has a television screen above him, and all his movements are mirrored in the blank screen. I watch him as he takes a packet of tissues from his man-bag. Deftly he shakes one from folded to open with a quick flick of his chunky wrist. With his left hand he pulls the waist of his joggers away from his body and with the right hand, and tissue he gives both of his you know what’s a quick wipe. The tissue re-emerges from the fleecy cavern and he gives it a quick sniff, before balling it and dropping it onto the vacant seat beside him. Just then the skies turn leaden. As if on cue, Bauhaus clatter through the iPod with their live rendition of Double Dare, from the bonus 80’s vinyl disk, Press the Eject and Give Me the Tape, which came with their third album; The Sky’s Gone Out. How apt that the mood turns sombre, and rain replaces the sunshine for we’ve just passed the green sign with the bold red diagonal slash across it, indicating we’ve now left Abruzzo and entered Lazio. I ponder, not really hearing the music, how long it will be before I am back again. Purple Shirt once again catches my attention; he puts on his pink and blue trainers again. I have watched him take them off and put them back on again three times. I notice that they are plastic, and wonder if they are not conducive to casual wearing on a stuffy coach. I smile, guessing that beneath the laces, there could be an athlete’s foot convention going on. I itch just thinking about it. A few more kilometres on and the sun graces us with its presence once more, the mood lifts as Britney sings Sometimes. - You know you’ve made it when you only need one name. Kylie. Sting. Popeye? Once again the landscape has changed, and flat plains roll out to the right with wooded hills to the left. La Roux, In For the Kill changes places with Ms Spears, and purple shirt takes off his trainers once more. He rises from his seat; his jogging bottoms have sagged and now resemble the full nappy of a toddler as he waddles down the aisle. He chats to a man briefly then returns to his seat, plugs buds into his ears, fiddles with his phone cum music player then puts his trainers on once more.

I Mean To Shine, from Streisand’s, Barbra Joan Streisand album plays as we begin to merge with the chaos that is the roads around the capital city. Vines are replaced by graffiti. Hillsides by looming apartment blocks and pylons replace the majestic olive. We scoot past what is a sad collection of ramshackle, thrown up buildings, walls of old pallets and roofs of tin, held together with nylon rope and plastic sheeting. It looks like a shantytown, but is in fact ingenuity, rustic sheds built next to individual squares of cultivated land, similar to the allotments of England.

We chug along Via Tiburtina, cars nose to tail like mechanical elephants, the Metro comes into view and, yes you’ve guessed it; Purple Shirt takes off his trainers. We arrive at the terminal only to discover that you cannot get a bus to Ciampino airport from here, so we drag ourselves across the road to the Metro, we pay a Euro and travel four stops in a crowded carriage. My nose is just inches away from the scruffy beard of a student. The doors open and we all spill out onto the platform, a seething mass of bodies all heading off in the same direction, like shuffling beast. The oppressiveness of the underground fades as we emerge above ground, and the beast dissolves. Opposite me stands the main Termini. I walk across the road, side stepping the men trying to stuff a leaflet into every passer bys hand: advertising for a shoe shop. I head off for a small ticket office, when a taxi driver asks me if I want a taxi? I’m about to say no, when he asks where I’m going to, I tell him aeorporto Ciampino, and again, before I can say anything else he tells me I can go in his cab for sixty euro. Besides him another driver shouts to me saying he can do it for fifty five, another offers fifty. I say, “Bugger off, sixty euro, I can get the bus for six euro around the corner on via Marsala.” They understood the 'six euro' and the 'bus from via Marasla' bit but the 'bugger off' left them perplexed. The bus to the airport staggers through narrow streets, its horn sounding angrily at anyone who dares to prevent its movement. A pedestrian steps out without looking and we all lurch forward as the driver hits the brake. Our driver opens his side window and remonstrates the jaywalking tourist. We’re then thrown backwards as the bus pulls away rapidly. Our driver starts to chat inanely to a woman passenger on the front left hand seat; she’s not in least bit interested. I switch the iPod on and Asia open with The Last To Know, the drivers voice now blocked by multi-tracked vocals and overlong guitar riffs. Morrissey croons, November Spawned a Monster as Rome slips by and the rain comes again. It’s now 16:00, seven and a half hours since we left the house at Piane d’Archi. I get a text from my ex-wife; she asks if my flight is still on. As I’m not sure I don’t reply saying yes, fate is not there for tempting today. As Mozzer does his thing I begin to wonder if our driver has had his hand permanently welded to the horn. Other drivers misdemeanours are subjected to long blaring blasts, a car with its wheels a mere millimetre over the white lines is subjected to a hard staccato of honks. Cars here change lanes with such vigour, and more often than not, no indicators flash a warning. We reach the airport after fifty-six minutes of horn sounding, sudden braking and erratic acceleration. The threat of an imminent headache dulls my brain, and I say to myself “Thank heavens for Kylie,” as Your Disco Needs You escorts me off the bus and into the departures building of the airport, for a five and half hour wait. Considering that we are in a place that relies on accurate timekeeping to function at its best, I notice that there are no clocks to be seen anywhere. I don’t wear a watch, relying on my mobile phone for a timepiece. And as I sit down in the aluminium coloured seat, the battery dies, leaving nothing to do but, people watch. A family of four arrive with two suitcases; a piece of hand luggage each and two well stuffed carrier bags. The girl on check-in explains that they are allowed one piece of hand luggage only per person. An argument begins to swell, just a trickle of dissatisfaction at first until it becomes a torrent of gesticulation and expletives. People stop whatever they are doing to watch the red faced man with the windmill arms. He walks away from the desk in search of someone else to berate, leaving his wife to stand guard over the carrier bags. Every thirty seconds, she glances over at the girl on check-in and scowls. A few minutes later her husband returns waving a sheet of paper, I see that it’s his boarding pass: With Ryanair you can check in online and print off your own boarding pass in advance of flying. He shows his wife the section on the paper that states you are only allowed one piece of hand luggage, and then promptly blames her for not telling him. I wander over to check-in and enquire if there are any spaces on the earlier flight, and if so could we be bumped up onto that one? No such luck, I’m told all flights are fully booked. The carrier bag drama continues, the wife now blames her son. He booked the flights on the internet and printed off the information, so he should have told them about the restrictions on cabin baggage.

Enviously we sit and watch other people arrive, check in and depart. A young Chinese youth joins the queue in front of me going to Stansted. I hate everyone in this queue as they’ll be back in the UK long before I’ve boarded my plane. The Chinese youth is wearing low-rise jeans; crotch down to his knees and a ‘I ♥ Roma’ T-shirt. Every time he stoops down to rummage in his suitcase, we’re subjected to a flash of his Pierre Cardin underpants. His friend has two carrier bags with her – we sit back and wait for her to reach the desk, eager for carrier bag drama phase two. The girl on the desk says something to her and the bags are hastily crammed into a small case on wheels. How disappointing no drama. Meanwhile drama number one continues. The family have taken the bulging carrier bags to the shrink wrap station and had them wrapped up, they now resemble two green coloured cubes, and easily fit into the frame for testing if your bags the right size to take on board. With an aura of defeat, the two sons each carry a cube through the departure gates. The check-in girl smiles over at them, but her eyes flash, ‘losers’. A couple sit down on the seats next to me, there’s an odd atmosphere hanging over them. I assume they’re English as they have an argument, in a hushed, introverted way. Until he silently walks away – the slowest storming off I’ve ever seen. There’s a further instalment in the carrier bag drama. The man and one of his sons re-appear with a uniformed officer. The shrink-wrapped cube has been unwrapped and returned as it contains items prohibited from being taken into the aeroplane cabin – Liquids. In this case several cans of lager. More windmill impressions take place and the officer explains if the man wants to take the lager with him, he will have to pay to have it loaded into the hold. Defeated, the man pays once more to have the bag wrapped in the green coloured plastic, then strolls to the check-in and pays the girl the fare for having the bag taken on board. It has to be said, she does have a smug look on her face, as she advised him to do this right at the start. Another family of four check in, the mother and daughter walk off towards passport control leaving the father and his son. The boy is about four years old, his father hands him a small rucksack and tells him to put it on. The boy looks at it for a while, confusion spreading over his little face. He then steps into the shoulder straps, his father look on, no offer of assistance. The boy steps out and then steps beck into the straps backward, and holding the sack into the small of his back shuffles off behind his father. Suddenly, it’s all go. A Japanese couple arrive and try to check in only to be told they’re a day too early. Carrier bag drama three unfolds at desk number twenty-five. A woman on the Glasgow flight is arguing, ‘she cannae see why she cannae take it on board’. Arms wave in defiance once more and the girl on the desk gives her a well rehearsed wan smile and shrugs her shoulders, as the traveller shoe horns the bag into her already bulging shoulder bag. Over at desk twenty-three the girl is trying her best to check in a rowdy group of Danish school children, they hoot and cheer as one of them does card tricks for his fellow students. Over at the pay-as-you-e mail station a man swears and hits the screen, proclaiming that the machine has stolen his money. Time ebbs away, the departures hall is relatively empty, just a handful of us remain, the girl with the Guatemalan passport reads a copy of Pride and Prejudice. The Italian with the jeans that have far too many patches sewn to them, idles against the wall drinking Coke out of the bottle. A man weighs his case and then opens it and weighs his shoes, determining which pair are the heaviest, the lighter ones travel inside. My case weighs six grams over the allowed weight, and I’ve decided if challenged I’ll blame it on the hunk of Parmesan cheese I have stashed inside. At last our flight flashes on the screen and check-in opens. We are through passport control with haste, eager to see another room after so long in the waiting area. I purchase us a large beer each and grab a bottle of gin from duty free just as they start to close up for the day. At the gate we all fall into whatever space is available, the lucky ones have seats, myself the floor. Opposite me is an ample breasted woman; she is struggling to squeeze her legs into flight socks. She leans over and with each heave of the sock her breasts threaten to escape the baggy necked t-shirt she is wearing. I smile remembering a friend who also has large breasts referring to hers as looking like a bag of puppies when she runs. Shuffle, and Wild Cherry dish up a funky beat with, I Feel Sanctified. I bob along to the beat, enjoying my personal performance. People glance across at me sat on the grey tiles, having a mini freak out all of my own. Times come to board the plane, and we all file through the gate. A customs official chooses to stop me and has a fiddle about in my bag, satisfied I’m not carrying anything I shouldn’t he smiles and says have a good flight. Earlier I was told all flights were full – so how come ours has less than fifty percent of the seats occupied? The plane begins to taxi and a baby a few seats away starts to screech. Today just gets better. Earphones go in at the earliest opportunity and The Primitive help to drown out the screaming baby with, Lead Me Astray; I’m now tired and could happily squeeze the life out of it. What was it Lord Capulet said about Juliet when she was wailing? ‘A wretched puling fool, a whining mammet’ – so apt. Oh Mr Shakespeare, you had a way with words.

We have been pre-warned by the captain, that it’s going to be a bumpy ride. Fifty minutes in, and as Dusty Springfield sings, This Girl’s In Love With You, we hit the first bout of turbulence. The plane rides the air and it feels like we’re bouncing down a shepherd track in the hills of L’Aquila. The vibrating plane makes the teeth chatter, and soon it feels like we’re sitting inside something you could purchase from any branch of Ann Summers. The captain once again comes over the PA and apologises and tells us we have another twenty minutes of this to come, ironically the song on my iPod changes to, Something’s Not Right Here, by OneRepublic. Hopefully this isn’t a portent; at least I’m glad I didn’t order a hot drink now. As the song fades out so does the turbulence and for the remainder of the flight we travel peacefully. The drive home is a blur of M11, M25, M1 M6 and A34, finally pulling up in my drive at 4.05 UK time. The key in the door wakes the dogs and as we enter two over excited Jack Russell’s bark, realising we’re back home. Dad has left a note saying there’s milk in the fridge. I pour myself a gin only to discover we’ve no tonic, David says Tesco is open twenty-four hours, my response is after twenty hours and five minutes of travel today there’s no way I’m travelling another inch. I’ll tell you now, Gin and cream soda does not work.

Where have I been?

I've had a few messages from readers asking why I'd stopped adding to my blog? Sadly I've been really busy and not able to contribute but will look forward to adding more entries as soon as I get time. I'm away from a PC for quite a lot of the time, but will update soon with news of my recent Italian holiday and snippets of tour shenanigans

Johnny Depp and the Escaped Parrot

When I look out of my office window on a sunny Monday morning in Stoke on Trent, the last thing I expect to see looking back at me is an African grey parrot. The odd pigeon passes by as does the occasional pied wagtail, but today we have a parrot; he’s obviously escaped from someone’s home: (that’s assuming the parrot is a he.) I call the RSPCA and am given a telephone number for a man who has reported his bird missing, 24 hours previously. Within minutes the man; dressed in rather loud shorts and tee shirt is here with his wife and son, and we learn that a) the parrot is a boy, just 4 years old, and b) his name is Joop. The problem we have is that Joop is sat in a tree and although is happy enough to whistle and call ‘Peter’, he has no intentions of coming down, which is slightly worrying as a handful of magpies are fluttering around menacingly, not happy with this exotic intruder. After a barrage of frantic name calling by it’s owner (female) including a verse or two of ‘If You’re Happy And You Know It Nod Your Head’, Joop decides to fly up a little higher in the tree: Who can blame him, the singing worries me too. Someone arrives with a ladder and the parrot decides he’s having too much fun and flies away over the top of our offices towards the wasteland recently vacated by the travellers. The search now centres on this area and I go back to the office. Approximately 4 hours pass and I look out of the window and what do I see again? Yes you guessed it, an African grey parrot, now as they’re not so common in Staffordshire, I assume it’s Joop. I call the owner, who as quickly as the parrot flew away is here once again. This time the exhausted bird is sat on a narrow roof extension beneath the office windows, after several attempts to get him to climb onto a vacuum cleaner attachment, the owner is about to give up hope, when Rachel comes to the rescue. Despite warnings from the owner that she may get bitten, she promptly climbs out of the window, shins across the roof and picks up Joop before passing him to his owner. Hands are clapped and congratulations bounce off the walls as the man strolls down the corridor with the parrot on his shoulder, looking like a portly pirate dressed in Hawaiian shorts.

The following day passes by without any animal rescue operations, I joke about seeing herds of zebra and wildebeest on the land behind the offices. Today I walk from the office up into town for an eye test, the afternoon is hot and sunny as I traipse uphill for one mile, Nancy Sinatra starts to sing, ‘These Boots Are Made For Walking’ as I begin to think, these boots are bloody killing me. The eye test goes okay and the result is they change my prescription back to how it was two years ago, telling me they really shouldn’t have altered it back in 2007, oh joy more expense.

On Wednesday I’m driving to work listening to TLC sing ‘Over Me’ when a Mini pulls in front of me, the number plate reads ‘Girl X’. At a junction in stationery traffic I seize the photo opportunity, the young girl driving the car smiles at me in her rear view mirror as my camera flashes, then the traffic lights change and she waves and speeds off into the distance. The day passes without very much really happening, I work out a schedule of activities for the summer school in July, and we get posters designed and printed for the final performance. Gary, from the printers next door brings us an enormous poster featuring Johnny Depp, and asks if we’d like it. The poster is put above the office door and takes up the complete wall, we now work with Captain Jack Sparrow looking menacingly down upon us. The parrot owners pop in with chocolates and a thank you card from Joop. Wednesday evening is spent in the garden, thinning out radishes and removing a large lupin that’s past its best. Thursday is a pain in the ass in the office as BT have accidentally disconnected our broadband, and despite a plethora of calls can’t seem to understand why they’ve done it and when questioned about it being reinstated they don’t seem to have a clue. Today marks the arrival of the tenth edition of the channel four show Big Brother, I decide to watch, just to see who they have chosen to take part this year. I’m not really a fan of the show, and don’t follow it. The contestants, or rather the fame hungry exhibitionists are quite dull I find, there must be more interesting people in the UK, this said I suppose more interesting people wouldn’t be interested in taking part. The week ends with me being alone in the office, I continue working on the summer school agenda, Barbra Streisand finishes singing ‘My Honey’s Loving Arms, from her first album, to be replaced by Siouxsie and the Banshees singing their cover of the Beatles song ‘Helter Skelter’. We still have no broadband and many more calls to BT still haven’t resolved the issue, I am talking to BT when I hear a whining sound, I ignore it and continue to talk to their technical department when I look up and notice a great column of smoke billowing angrily past the window. I joke with the technician that the building is on fire; I look up and assume it’s the derelict building opposite that’s burning. I mutter something about kids starting fires for fun and then get back to trying to get our internet connections up and running again. After a while the BT technician rings off promising to call back as soon as she can figure out the next move. Once my attention is diverted from the telephone, I realise the whining sound is our building’s fire alarm. I lock up and casually stroll to join the crowd of office workers outside the gates. I turns out that the fire is between the two buildings and has been quite fierce and the fire fighters are having a problem dousing it. Turns out everyone else had been at the evacuation point for over an hour before I joined them. The fire finally extinguished we return to our respective offices, I collect the iPod and set off for home with Depeche Mode playing ‘Jezebel’ from their new and superb album, ‘Sounds Of The Universe’.