Lancashire lad captures the essence

Like a lot of other people, I enjoyed the Olympic opening ceremony. Danny Boyle communicated a real sense of what it means to be a Brit without any element of misplaced nationalism or overweening pride. An Australian commentator described it as 'boastful self-depreciation' (great use of an oxymoron),  which is pretty spot on.  Rather than trying to compete with China's impressive display of autocratic  imperial grandeur we stuck to what we're best at: a spot of Shakespeare, a big nod to the significance of the industrial revolution and some good tunes. It was great to celebrate children's literature, whilst reminding the Tory grandees that the NHS and the work of our nurses  is something to cherish as well as to be proud of.

Overall It was a grand* cerebration of who we are and what matters to us from social networking to the suffragettes. There was something really symbolic about the forging of the Olympic ring. It reminded the world of Britain's industrial heritage but went beyond it. It made me think of all the people who labour long and hard, all over the world. It reminded me of the people working at the Olympics, not only the army of volunteers, but those working bloody hard to earn a crust  in places like McDonalds, those  working in  fast food outlets in almost every major town, city and airport the world over. It reminded me of those who sweat a living making sports clothes and trainers for athletes and 'hoodies' alike; the army of factory workers who produce the clothes on almost everyone's backs. It was hats off to  labour, literature and popular culture and who the heck could complain about that?

I read in Saturday's paper that Boyle himself invited Frank Turner to sing  'I still Believe' prior to the ceremony. Great publicity for an underrated singer songwriter, bringing him to a massive audience and allowing Boyle to convey the sense of hope we may not always wear on our cynical sleeves but which lies well protected in our collective heart.  Someone posted it on You Tube.(It was taken off later.)

*Usage note: 'grand' in the sense of Lancashire dialect for bloody good rather than to denote magnificence.

Fifty Shades of.... Jeremy

It's the holidays.  A break from the routine of work and more work. Time to go shopping, cook more, go away for a bit, sleep longer - afternoon naps a speciality - and read.  Currently, I'm reading Jeremy Hardy's book about trying to trace his roots. To the disappointment of his mother, he's not  famous enough for 'Who Do You Think You Are', so he wrote a book instead. The book is very funny.

I have just finished reading a book about the Pre-Raphaelites, which makes it two non-fiction books in a row. That's good because, apart from work related reading, it's nearly always fiction I find myself reading for pleasure but now I'm stuck with reading 'Fifty Shades of Grey' - an insane book group choice - I may have been put off fiction for some time to come.   How tedious to read of perfect, pounding, earth shatteringly orgasmic sex with characters as near to cardboard as those little cut out and dress up figures I used to play with when I was a little girl.  I have now  reached the stage where the book kicks in to the BDSM stuff, which I'm finding doesn't lie very comfortably with me. I really don't like the idea of control or submission to that degree. Each to his own, of course, but I'd rather sit in the sun and be entertained by Jeremy Hardy describing his experiences at the National Archive than have to bother reading about Anastasia and Christian Grey. 

Tomorrow I'm thinking of going to Wigan to do some shopping. I think I'll take Jeremy with me. At least I don't need a Kindle to read him in public. 


My Family and Other Strangers

Shopping and TV

 I went a bit mad this afternoon buying accessories and costume jewellery at Salford Quays. I've been so busy lately, focused on work or slumped on the settee watching drama of varying quality that, apart from a trip to the hairdressers, I've hardly bothered treating myself till last week, when I bought a Betty Jackson top in Kendals. That day I  also indulged in some expensive eye make-up, which looked great on the palette but made me look ill when I wore it. Retail therapy gone wrong.

On a totally different note,  I have really  enjoyed  the BBC 2 documentary 'Our Secret Streets', which takes a look at streets in London that were surveyed by Charles Booth in 1866. I like the way it show how economics and class still shape our lives. Although the first  programme may have misrepresented a former Deptford councillor by setting him up as a bogey man for wholesale house clearance policies, it's been really fascinating.  It focuses on real life characters in a way that adds a dramatic element to what would otherwise be a rather sober socio-historical appraisal of the issues. It's good to see history, education and entertainment so well blended. Much better than mediocre drama.

The Secret History of Our Streets


(This image is  from wikipedia)

Jubilate

 I'm very ambivalent about the Royals. I don't toast them, unless it's embarrassing to do otherwise and I rarely find myself in a situation where, as Irene Ruddock in Alan Bennett's 'A Lady of Letters' more or less puts it, 'I am called upon to do so.'

In 1989 I performed in  a scene from a community show, which was watched by the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh, in our local town centre as part of a celebration of 150 years of local government. I painted on a moustache in the hope I might  not be recognised. I helped organise a street party for a community project in 1977 and once waved a Union Jack, whilst listening to Land of Hope and Glory at an open air concert with my dad's Lions' group in Kent at some point in the noughties. The latter  took place far enough away from home to avoid me being  spotted by numerous Republican associates.

I didn't attend any street parties but watched the flotilla of boats float down the Thames on the telly; likewise the concert - which will hopefully not be remembered for Gary Barlow and Cheryl's lamentable duet.  The boats looked great and would have been a sight to see no doubt but I really can't get my head around all that cheering.

The Queen, however, seemed as modest and reserved and unassuming as usual and in this noisy, brash culture in  which everyone- myself included -  is keen to more or less publicly share their 'journey', her inscrutability is a rare thing indeed.

I was rather hoping Paul McCartney would sing this little ditty at the concert  but I guess he may have thought it disrespectful.

Her Majesty


I love the beacon lighting. We should do it more often.

Nothing to write about

All getting a bit fallow up here lately.

Predators

Cats have invaded our garden bringing danger into our untidy little piece of paradise. Our neighbours on one side have had a couple of fairly passive cats for years. These cats wear bells and so the birds are forewarned. Now the other neighbours, always an edgier proposition, have suddenly whipped two fully grown brass necked creatures out of a hat. One barred, the other a Burmese, they stalk the blackbird and the dunnocks through the undergrowth and sit underneath the bird house where a pair of robins have nested. They climb the elderflower tree and sit on the shed roof underneath the feeders. The tits and the finches fly out of their reach but they hide further down the tree and wait to pounce.  How will the little chicks fare with such predators? It sends a sharp chill through my heart.

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