Hawaii Five 0 By Holly Searle

When I was in year six of primary school (that's the fourth year in old money), I was in a play called You Can't Stop Progress.

From what I can remember, this was a play that dealt with the impending and unavoidable changes that were being brought about by the industrial revolution.

There on the horizon, changes were coming, the progression of which, could not be avoided by those that would feel the eventual benefits of their implementation.

Well here I am, standing on a hill, squinting at the horizon. I can see it heading my way.

In the near distance as it heads towards me just like the giant wave crashing title sequence of Hawaii Five 0.

It is nearly here.

I can't halt its arrival now.

I shall soon be fifty.

And, just like the themes that were covered in that play all those years ago, I cannot prevent it, I can only accept it, and welcome it with open arms. And just between you and me, I have a sneaking suspicion, that it is going to open up a new an exciting chapter in my life.

How bloody wonderful is that?

Pretty damn marvellous I'd say.

There is that idiom that stipulates that it isn't all about the quantity, but rather the quality.

Well, if life has taught me anything, I would say that it has been that very thing.

Quality, quality, quality.

We landmark our lives with numbers (13, 18, 21, 30, 40, 50, and so on), but really what we should all do, is to colour in time with our experiences.

I can recall reaching forty and having a conversation with an acquaintance who told me that they had cried when they turned forty. I thought about that, and decided that it was a bit of a negative, as some people aren't even lucky enough to reach forty.

Dry your tears, I thought, and start living. Get the brightest colours you can find and start colouring it all in as quickly as you can. As, believe me, it all starts to tick away so much faster than the wings of a hummingbird on speed, when you feel as though time is conspiring against you. It isn't, but you are, so stop right now and take a mental deep breath and fill it all up with a more positive outlook, and with people who are important to you.

Turning fifty isn't a big deal to me. I am happy it is here as it has made me more aware of all of my options, and how I wish to spend the remaining currency of my life span.

That isn't meant to sound all doom and gloom, it is just my own pragmatic relationship with my own mortality.

When I think about my life, I feel blessed to have been able to have achieved as much as I have, but it isn't over yet, and I have plans and a list of places, experiences and adventures that I want to fulfil.

And I intend to do just that.

Being fifty is insightful in that respect. And just like the on-going and forever altering prescription of my eye wear, the my clarity of my life, and my future vision of it, is subject to changed. And I accept that.

Just like Johnny Nash sang, being fifty will enable me to see clearly now the rain has gone, for over the last few years I have been able to get rid of all of the life crap that I once placed so much emphasis on.

I have had a good clear out, and I have let go of a lot of things that had bothered me for years. At last, I have grown-up and it feels like total happiness.

The quantity of your life isn't measured by unnecessary mass produced stuff and nonsense that you don't really need, but by the quality of your character and the way in which you relate to others you encounter along your life path.

And it's very liberating to be like that and to afford yourself so much freedom of choice.

It really is.

I can't stop the progression of time, and why would I want too, when it's going to be a bright, bright sunshiny day.

So when you're ready, you can Book'em Danno.

It's all good.

Ever Increasing Circles By Holly Searle

I can remember the day Child One was born as if it were yesterday. Well, to be absolutely correct, it was a night actually. And there she was, this perfect baby. The most beautiful little thing I had ever set my eyes upon.

But it wasn't yesterday, it was twenty-five years ago.

I was exhausted after a long and arduous labour. The midwife gave me some toast and a cup of tea and then a sleeping tablet to help me sleep.

She took my little baby away, and said that just for tonight, they would look after her while I slept.

So I ate the toast, drank the tea, and then took the tablet.

Sleep beckoned.

But then the midwife returned with my daughter and informed me that she wouldn't settle and so here she was and handed her back to me.

So there we were, one new baby that just wanted to be with her mum, and her mum, who was delighted to see her again so soon, but who was rapidly nodding off.

So we snuggled-up together, this perfect child and I, and pretty soon we were both asleep.

The next thing I remember was the midwife waking me up and telling me that I should put my baby in her cot.

I did.

And then the next twenty-five years past, just like that in the blink of an eye.

Then one day my daughter called me.

She said that she wanted to tell me something.

I knew what it was before she had even told me. She has this tone to her voice you see, that she probably doesn't even know she uses. That tone told me even before she had, that she had just found out that she was pregnant.

I was delighted and amazed at the wonder of it all.

And then time slowed down while we all waited. Waited for the scans, waited to find out what it was (a boy), and then finally for his arrival.

And during all of that waiting, a funny thing happened to me.

I felt old.

In a few weeks, I will turn fifty. What? How did that happen? Time passed, that is how that happened.

So when my daughter told me I was also going to be a Nana, I started to wondered if I was going to start to resembling the lady that looks after Tweety Pie in those Merrie Melodies cartoons.

Every day I checked in the mirror.

No, no sign of her.

Then an even stranger thing started to happen. When I met new people and I talked about my becoming a grandma, they all said "Really? You don't look old enough to be a grandma?"

I then started to really worry that they thought my daughter was some teenage unmarried wanton Jezebel. So I had to then explain to them that she was twenty-five, and married. Their furrowed responding brows then signified that they then looked at me, really studied me, and I could see the cogs of theirs brains turning as they started to wonder if I was in fact the teenage unmarried wanton Jezebel. I simply couldn't win.

In the end, I just decided to let people think what they wanted to think, as the alternative seconded guessing and offering explanation game, was getting a little too much for me to maintain.

But, what it did tell me, I am delighted to say, was that I didn't look one bit like Tweety Pie's owner Granny.

Phew!

And now, here is the lovely part.

My baby, my first-born, my beautiful darling girl, finally went into labour. It felt like the start of a very long marathon.

I felt that it wasn't my place to arrive at the hospital and wait, so I left them to it.

But all the time I was in a fit of despair. Was she alright? Would she manage? Should I be there? DID SHE NEED ME?

No.

And Yes of course she would manage!

She is built of stern stuff that daughter of mine. And after thirty-six hours of labour (twice as long as I was in with her), her son, Grandchild One, eventually arrived.

At that point, I called a cab and hot-footed it to the hospital as fast as I could. On arrival her overtired husband, looking like a young dashing doctor in a set of blue scrubs informed me that until she was moved I couldn't see her or my grandson.

I just wanted to see them with every pore of my being.

After a while, which seemed like an age, they were moved and I was allowed in to see them.

I was literally squealing inside as I made my way in the lift up to the ward to see them.

I called to my daughter as I walked into her ward, and she called back from behind a curtain. I nipped in, and there they both were, my baby with her baby.

They both looked like they had been involved in a long battle.

I asked her if I could hold him, and she passed him to me and looked at this little lamb, this little tiny being, and from that moment, I was smitten.

And do you know what? I am in love. I am in love with him and I can't wait to be his Nana and be a part of his life.

Life is beautiful and my circles just increased and all of my Christmas' and birthdays have arrived at once.

That's all folks!

And it is just wondrous.

Try Something New Today? By Holly Searle

Having just placed an online shopping order for the first time in many years this evening, has reminded me of a hilarious incident that once occurred many moons ago, when I used to use this service on a regular basis.

During the latter part of his life, our then elderly cat Jones, was no longer able to make it to the cat tray in time, and would therefore leave small piles of his personal waste around the house.

It was just one of those things. He usually left these little gifts whilst I was at work, which would be waiting for me on my return. Or during the night, while we were all sleeping. The smell of which, would be the first thing I noticed on waking.

Poor old puss.

When these unfortunate little accidents took place, I would clean them up as quickly as possible with some tissue, and then place the whole smelly pile in a plastic carrier bag, which I would then place outside the front door with the intention of disposing of in one of the communal bins the next time I ventured out.

On one such occasion, I arrived home from work, opened the front door, and was met with that all too familiar fragrant smell. I immediately sourced a carrier bag from the cupboard. It was an orange one from the supermarket that regularly delivered my weekly shop. Having grabbed the bag, I quickly clean-up his mess, and placed the bag outside the front door as I usually did.

Life carried on.

And the lone cat poo in the orange carrier bag, sat by the doormat, outside the door, and waited.

Now, it just so happened that I was due a delivery from the supermarket that had provided this carrier bag that very same evening.

When the delivery man arrived at my front door laden with orange bags full of shopping, he handed them to me and I took them into the kitchen, as I usually did, and started to unpack them.

However, something wasn't quite right, and I realised that he had given me the wrong order.

This isn't my order I thought, as I gazed at items that I had no recall of ever having ordered.

So, I started putting all the items back in the bags, and when he returned from his van with the remaining part of the order, I explained my discovery.

He about turned with what he had, and went off to his van to locate my order.

While he was doing that, I had started to place all of the other repacked orange bags on the doormat, ready for him to collect on his third shopping bag relay trip.

Eventually he arrived with the correct order, and we were all smiles, as the mystery had been solved.

It was all Cool and The Gang punctuated with nervous good job we discovered that laughter as he took the bags that were waiting and I signed the receipt. I bid him a cheery farewell, closed the front door, shock my head, smiled to myself and sighed.

It was only when I was unpacking my items that it suddenly dawned on me that he had taken all of the orange bags that had been sitting on the doormat outside the front door, including the one containing Jones' latest mishap.

Oh dear.

Oh deary, deary me.

This had no doubt been huddle together with all of the other orange carrier bags and was on its way to being delivered to the correct recipient of the shopping that I had mistakenly been given.

I do believe in fate, and that a chain of events invariable happens for a reason. But, for the life of me, I cannot, and will probably never be able to reason why, later that evening, someone in the West London area, received as part of their shopping, an orange carrier bag, that contained a free gift from my cat.

As a wise person once said, shit, it just happens.

Vertigo By Holly Searle

I have no idea why I am scared of heights, but I am. The very thought of being in a high-rise building seems an unnatural state of being to me. I get a knot in my stomach just thinking about it.

It freezes my blood, my legs turn to jelly and if you could see inside my head, it would no doubt resemble Edward Munch's painting The Scream.

It is that bad.

I kid you not, last year when I was in New York, we were staying, my daughter and I, in a hotel on the twenty-fourth floor. I couldn't even comprehend the effect that this would have one me, and on the last night, as I lay in bed, I felt as though I was falling. The room literally felt as if it was moving.

During the course of the same trip, we ventured out one day to the Empire State Building. Standing in the plush lobby, I turned to my daughter and informed her that I didn't think that I would be able to leave terraferma, and take the lift to the eighty something floor to visit the famous viewing platform. I actually cried as I felt I was letting her down. But the fear of something unnatural, is a fear that cannot be reasoned with.

She was pretty good about it and said not to worry, but that she wanted to go, so off she did, on her own.

So I waited in the lobby.

I then experienced a dreadful pang of guilt as I had sent my first-born child off on her own without her life long protector, to stand on a viewing platform located far too high above street level for my liking.

Major panic and stress engulfed me for the entire time that she was away from me, until she returned.

When she did, I asked what it was like. A bit high, came her response.

I have come to conclude that there must be two types of people; those that have no response to heights, and those, just like me, that do.

The funny thing is, I have no issue with travelling on a plane. The only issue I have with flying, is the time that it takes, the noise, and other people.

If I had my way, and money was no option, I would quite happily charter my own personal jet, with no other passengers on board, who insist on chattering on their mobiles moments prior to take off, or having to put up with their unruly screaming children.

So, plane height flights don't worry me. Odd, but true.

Apart from New York, I can think of several other occasions when I froze or felt sick, due to the height of my location.

Once in Paris, many, many years ago, I stood looking up at the Montparnasse Tower. I was on a short trip to the city with my mother. She wanted us to visit the bar in the tower which was situated somewhere near the top.

I looked up at the tower, mentally placed my hands on my hips, took a sharp intake of breath, exhaled, and confessed to her that I doubted I would be able to make the trip with her.

My mother's response, was to match my anxiety, by telling me that I could either stay where I was, or go with her.

It was a Mexican stand-off. She had me, so I gave it and agreed to go.

I can remember standing in the lift, with my back up against the wall, and my legs shaking. I think she thought I was being a mare, but I wasn't, I was simply trying to ready myself to face my fear.

As comic book beads of sweat formed on my forehead, the lift doors opened on to the floor of the bar. On jelly legs I walked out. Shall we sit by the window, my mother enquired. You're just talking the piss now I thought. From what I can recall, we sat near to the window. Oh well, I surmised, at least I hadn't been abandoned on the streets of Paris.

But this was by no means my worst ever experience with a tall building.

I shall have to fast forward several years to tell you about that.

My good friend Chris (who ironically now lives in New York, but not in a high-rise building), was living in a flat just off Baker Street in central London.

I can't recall as to why we were paying him a visit, there must have been an occasion, but it escapes me now. His flat was located quite high up I remember, and as my little daughter and I arrived at his front door, he greeted us, and introduced us to another mother and her child. Chris made the introductions, and we all exchange a friendly hello.

Now, Chris' flat had a balcony. It had an enclosed waist-high barrier, but, there was also a handrail, that ran along the length of the balcony.

My daughter and I stole a glance, and that was enough. I told my daughter to come in, where I could keep an eye on her.

The other visitor's child, a boy, however, was strangely drawn to the balcony. And while the adults were chatting away inside, I noticed that he was still out there.

My daughter curiously drawn to him, as children invariably are to one another, went to see what he was doing. When I looked to see what she was looking at, I nearly threw-up.

He had positioned himself with his feet against the enclosed wall, with his hands on the rail, and was rolling himself in an upward motion, not unlike a circus performer, who is about to perform an acrobatic feat.

My mind made the very quick calculation, that if he repeated this motion, he was risking propelling himself over the rail, and heading for the pavement far far below.

I remember making a noise not that dissimilar to the one that Emma Thompson makes when Hugh Grant explains the misunderstanding of their situation in the final moments of Sense and Sensibility, which in turn, drew Chris' attention to what I was witnessing. He very quickly called to the child, and made him come in, and the drama was averted.

I can still feel the fear in the pit of my stomach as I recall this incident. For many weeks after that day, I had waking nightmares about that child going over the edge of that balcony and crashing out of this mortal coil forever.

That fear was no doubt instilled in every parent, in retrospect of the horrific accident involving Eric Clapton's son.

It was pretty damn scary, and I doubt that the boy has any recollection of this event at all, but I know Chris does, and so do I.

Tall buildings, you can keep them for people who like a view.

Me, I'll always kiss the ground, and thank feck that I have my two feet firmly planted on its surface any day of the week.

The Devil's In The Detail By Holly Searle

In 1975 I was the same age as my son is now.

During that year, a film was released which would probably affect me, more than any other I had ever seen before, or since.

And that film was Jaws.

It is hard to imagine that this was nearly forty years ago. I find that a shocking thought.

But what I find even more shocking is the quality of some of the films that have been produced and released in those intervening years.

Now, hold on a minute, don't all start waving pieces of paper, like the politicians do during a heated debate at the PM's question time. Just listen to what I have to say.

During those years there have been some incredible films written produced, and directed, that have pushed the boundaries of cinema. Some that introduced revolutionary and ground breaking subject matters, and some that have changed or challenged our opinion and heighten our views regarding major social issues. In turn, they have created a positive social vibe.

But a majority of them have been guilty of that old adage that more is less, and have insulted audiences with their unremitting deliverance of their cinematic fast food.

Now, if I ever encounter this type of film, it always reminds me of Frank Lloyd Wright's chewing gum for the mind television quote. This seems like a very apt quote for describing these mass-produced, and less than thought-provoking costly minutes of utter tosh.

Recently, I took my son to the pictures to see Man of Steel. There we both sat in the dark, while the movie played. At the end of the film, my son turned to me and said "Well that was rubbish."

I agreed, and started to ask myself why it was such a dreadful film.

I thought about what we had just seen, and why it was so unacceptable, and the conclusion I came to was this.

A great film has a heart. The writer's work represents that heart. They have conceived an idea, and have spent a substantial amount of time, mixing the characters and the plot together, to produce a narrative, that will ultimately have the potential to deliver a great movie.

However, not all writer's are lucky enough to ever see their stories on the big screen, because major studios don't always pick them up.

On the contrary, there seems to be an obsession with remarking films that were perfectly good on their first outing. I was informed the other day that they are remaking Carrie. Well, if you recall the last scene of that film, Carrie White, is still with us, and I doubt she'll like this one little bit.

To some of these remakes it would appear, there is an almost unhealthy amount of special effects added, to pep it up a bit, but that just blind us all with science.


And if you want to know what I think, I reckon that this technology is the Ebenezer Scrooge of modern cinema. Which is odd, as it has given us so much, whilst managing to perform the mother and father of all autopsy on these already perfectly good films, and in doing so, has managed to remove the heart of ingenuity from them.

Just stop and have a think for a moment. Think of all of those movies you have enjoyed over the last four decades. I bet all the ones that you loved, still have all their internal organs.

I bet they do.

And I bet that there are countless others that you can only recall because you wished you had spent that 90 or so minutes, doing something a lot more interesting.

Sound familiar?

So, where was I?

Ahhh, yes, Jaws.

On an evening in 1975 I went to the cinema to see Jaws. I can remember it as if it were yesterday. I sat on the left, about four rows from the front. The film began, as it does, with the under water shot that opens it, accompanied by the first few bars of the now unmistakable John Williams theme.

I was knicker-gripped from that point on.

I had never seen a film like it.

I sat transfixed, and terrified in that darken cinema, feasting on this sumptuous cinematic three course meal from its beginning until its end. All the best quality ingredients were of equal proportion. The plot, the protagonists, and the monster, a mechanical shark, affectionately known as Bruce, by the cast and crew.

"You'll never go in the water again!" Claimed one of the pre-publicity campaigns.

And guess what? I never did. I even found it hard to take a dip in a swimming pool after seeing Jaws.

I watched it again recently with my son, and he loved it as much as I still do.

People often ask me what my favourite films is. I can't answer that question. But Jaws is absolutely one hundred percent, without a doubt, one of them.

And why? Well because it managed to produce a narrative, with a its cause and effect on track from the start until its finish. The characters are wonderfully well recognised and stunningly fleshed out by the actors who portrayed them. It is thrilling, charming and timeless, and most of all, now more than ever, I have great affection for it because of Bruce.

He was about as special effected as it got in 1975.

And he was perfect, because he represents the ingenuity of the team behind that movie.

After I had seen Man of Steel, I thought about why I had hated it so much. After very little thought, I came to conclude that it was due to the saturation of the special effects and for what purpose they had been used within the context of the narrative.

It was all very wham bam thank you Mam, and used to display the needless destruction of humanity, buildings, oh and highly expensive satellites that were tracking Superman's whereabouts.

How very dare it.

It was dull and boring, and went on for far too long. In a word, there was no ingenuity and no heart to that movie. It simply had no soul.

Often films unwittingly reflect the society which has produced them.

I thought about that too.

Jaws was made in a post Nixon age, when the enemy was domestic and literary lurking in the water.

Man of Steel is loud and brash. An American cock-sure and cock blocking warning and masturbatory visual display to all aliens that threaten it's security, that they will not win, if decide to mount an attack.

Yawn.

That's all well and good and all, but with regards to watching a good movie, it is just utter nonsense.

But alas, I predict that we will see many more of these films in our cinemas very soon.

More is less, more is less, more is less.

And me and mine?

Well, we prefer the whimsy and ever lasting charm of a robotic shark called Bruce, and always will.

Dim the light, cue that John Williams music, and enjoy.

Drink! By Holly Searle

I am not a good drinker. So, I don't drink.

Okay, I may have lied a bit, as I don't mind the odd glass or two of something. Usually, to toast an event with my family on a special occasion, or, on a night out with friends. But as a rule, I hardly touch the stuff.

Really.

I am not a good drunk. And I am not good at being drunk.

Not because I am prone to aggressive behaviour or outburst. I am not that sort of a drunk. I am the sort that just gets all silly and will tell you how great I think you are, and how much I love you.

I am an emotional sort of drunk.

In that state, when I am a bit worst for wear, I find it makes me feel a little bit vulnerable. And, to be honest with you, I just don't like feeling like that.

No, I quite like to be in charge of all of my faculties, especially when I have to rely on the power of my own steam to see me home safely in one unstaggering piece.

Now, if you don't drink that often, when you do, it only takes a small amount of whatever it is you might fancy on any of these given occasions, to make you more than a little merry.

I am not only an emotional drunk it would seem, but I am also an economical one as well.

I once had a group of friends who couldn't quite understand why I didn't drink too excess as they did.

They would drink, as if they had heard that as of the following day, prohibition was being reinstated.

I had no problem with their drinking. But, boy, did they have an issue with me not following in their unsteady footsteps.

They felt very uncomfortable being in the company of someone who wasn't necking the sauce like they were.

On one such occasion, they were in full swing, and filling their boots with whatever they could lay their hands on. I stood there and watched them all larking about, and acting like fools, when one of them approached me and said "You know what your problem is Holly? You need to loosen up a bit and drink more."

I was more than a little offended by this. But then I soon realised, that when you chose not to drink too excess socially, your sobriety can make others feel uncomfortable.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

I had been to several dos with this particular bunch of people. One I attended, I arrived to find a majority of them slurring their words, while a minority were passed out cold where they sat, with their heads resting on the tables in front of them.

It wasn't a pretty sight and I felt embarrassed by their behaviour.

I didn't mention it, as I felt that it wasn't my place too draw their attention to my discomfort.

I felt it was rude to mention it.

I may have needed to loosen up a bit more, but I had started to find their drunken lifestyle choices dull and more than a little boring.

So, I decided not to see those people any more.

Like my desire not to drink too excess, I felt I made this choice, based upon the fact that it suited my personality better than it suited theirs.

And, do you know what? That suited me just fine.

And then there was the last time that I was drunk....

It was my birthday and I had made arrangements to meet up with a group friends (no not those ones).

I arrived all bright and shiny as a new pin. I had even left my specs at home that night and had popped my contact lenses in for good measure.

When I arrived my friends were insistent that as it was my birthday, they should buy me as many drinks as possible. And they did, and they were doubles.

I was unaware of their generosity for about half an hour, or so, until the room started to spin a bit. So I decided to slow down and sit down.

I found a quiet spot, and sat very still.

But the room's insistence at mimicking a wurlitzer ride at a funfair, refused to abate. And its efforts to spin me right round, baby right round, like a record baby, until I was well and truly dizzy, was beyond repair.

At this point, my daughter (who was an adult, I might add) approached the lonely slumped figure that was her once responsible parent, and suggested it might be a good idea if we got a cab home.

I was in full agreement, and so we left.

Much to her amusement, I was trying to do that thing that you do when you are drunk. I was trying to conduct myself in the manner of a person who wasn't drunk at all, by giving the taxi driver clear and concise directions to our home, and failing with a capital F.

Of course she saw through this straight away, and found it hilarious.

And then there were those involuntary little squeaks that kept vocally emanating from me, every time we drove over a speed bump.

She found those funny too.

Once indoors, I just wanted to lay down in a darkened room and go to sleep, just as I did on every other night of the week. I also needed my nightly glass of water next to my bed, and must have repeated this request more than once to my daughter. For she soon delivered a glass to my bedside table, instructing me that she had done so in the manner of a parent who was growing impatient with the behaviour of their naughty child.

I mumbled my shameful thanks, and bid her goodnight and turned off the light, and laid my sorry head down on the pillow,

For a while, the room span.

It was reckless.

I prayed for sleep and looked forward to the following morning when normality would return.

After a fashion, it arrived and I slept.

The following morning after I woke and had opened my eyes, two thoughts occurred to me in very quick succession; one, my sight had been restored (a miracle!), and two, I realised that in my drunken state, I had left my contact lenses in.

I went to the bathroom in a mild panic, and peeled them off of my eyes.

My eyes felt like they had been rubbed with sandpaper, and my cursed myopia returned.

I sighed, and went back to bed.

And so I learnt from this experience, and from many others just like it, that I had missed the actual point of the evening, simply because I was too drunk to enjoy it.

And so, if you are ever out drinking with me, please, carry on at your own pace.

I am happy enough, taking it slowly and just enjoying the evening.

You needn't worry about me.

I am just fine.

Honest.

Cheers.

Swoonage By Holly Searle

Have you ever fainted?

If you have, you'll know just how horrible it is.

One minute you're fine, and then the next, you start seeing purple flashes in front of your eyes, then your ears start to ring, and then the next thing you know, you are waking up surrounded by people staring at you.

It is one of the most frighteningly and vulnerable things you can experience.

When I was a child, I used to faint on a regular basis. I have no idea why this occurred, but it was just awful, as it prevented me from taking part in activities and events that I was looking forward to immensely.

On one occasion, I was being taken to see Father Christmas at Selfridges in Oxford Street as a pre Christmas treat.

I remember quite clearly having to queue up as prior to seeing himself, we were entertained by Uncle Holly. Well I saw him alright, and then the next thing I remember is being carried by my Dad to the Selfridge's sick room were I stayed until I was considered fit enough to go home.

I never got to see Father Christmas, but I still have my Uncle Holly badge, so at least that is something.

The next clear memory of this ever happening transpired during a family holiday to Cornwall or Devon.

I was queuing up (again) with my family, waiting to be seated in a restaurant, when I began to see those purple flashes.

My Mum turned to my Dad and said "Terry, take her outside, she is going to faint."

To which I responded, in a melodramatic manner "It's too late." before crashing to the floor of the restaurant, in a unceremonious heap.

This undoubtedly became an hilarious incident that my elder brother would mimic relentlessly throughout our formative years.

From then on, I guess being the subject of ridicule, pretty much kicked me into touch, as I began to recognise the early signs, and would take ever opportunity to prevent it from happening in public again.

Personal pride, it would seem for a short period at least, had cured me from these episodes.

However, then came The Bun Factory incident.

As a young adult, I found myself working for a company that decided that some of its employees should visit the bun factory that made and supplied its buns.

How exciting !

So off we all went.

As you can probably imagine, this was an incredibly dull and boring trip, and I can tell you in no uncertain terms, that if this opportunity should ever come your way, pull a sickie and stay at home and do something else instead. Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory was the fantasy kids, the bun factory, on the other hand, was the reality.

There were no Oompa Loompas, but rather a dullard corporation bod explaining how buns were made.

At one point we were all standing there nodding our heads like dogs on the parcel shelf of a car, trying to look interested, when an old familiar feeling started to consume me.

I thought "Oh please, not here." I mentioned to the guy standing next to me that I wasn't feeling too good and asked him if he wouldn't mind if I lent on him for support.

I shifted my feet, and started to panic, and then passed out on the concrete of the factory floor hitting my head in the process.

Great.

The next thing I knew, someone was trying to revive me with some foul smelling substance, that I was later told was industrial ammonia.

Genius.

Safe to say, I was let off the visit to the next factory that was part of our agenda for the remainder of the afternoon.

My head was pretty sore and I am sure I lost a few valuable brain cells that day.

Jump ahead to a photographer's studio on a hot summer's day a few years later.

I am an extra on a shoot that features a small crowd of people. It is some advert for the winter, so we are all wearing thick jumpers.

The photographer has us all in a tableau that he appears to think will work. He decides to take a polaroid to see if we look right on celluloid, before he starts shooting us with real film.

He takes the shot at the same moment that I fell to the floor.

Click. Thud.

My comic timing on that occasion, was perfect.

I was not in the advert, and I didn't get paid.

And if my foray into the world of extra work couldn't get any worse, I later took part in yet another photographic shoot on a roof top in Covent Garden with yet another small crowd of people.

This time it was a job for The Daily Star for a competition they were wanting to promote called Stargazing.

We were all instructed to Stargaze and look up.

I did this along with everyone else for quite a long period of time while the photographer was faffing about.

I held that position for as long as I could and then hit the deck as fast as a comet.

Crash.

Again, I lucked out and wasn't paid and ended up feeling like an idiot.

After that I went to see a doctor whose only advice to me was to carry a Mars bar (I kid you not) in my handbag, and to eat it at the first signs of a fainting episode.

I didn't do this, as the thought of choking on confectionery whilst in the process of loosing consciousness , seemed a little horrific to me.

I am happy to report, that since the Stargazing incident, I haven't passed out again.

I pretty much worked out that most of these fainting episodes are either down to excessive heat, low blood sugar, and the latter, to trapping a nerve in my neck.

Apparently if you look up for an extensive period of time, you can trap a nerve in your neck that causes you to faint.

So, armed with all of this knowledge, I now avoid standing for extended lengths of time in the heat whilst wearing an Aran sweater, make sure I eat something, and I do all my stargazing laying down.

And for now, I am happy to say, it appears to have worked.

Oom Pah Pah By Holly Searle

There's a little ditty
They're singing in the city.............

I have noticed of late, a rather alarming stream of repetitive responses that I am hearing from men, whilst I am engaged in a simple and innocent exchange with them.

And it goes like this.

I will just be being friendly, having a plain and simple conversation with them, and nothing more, I promise you. And all of a sudden, out of the blue, they will say something along the lines of "Yes, I know, my wife/girlfriend/partner likes that too."

I didn't really think anything about it at first, but then, when it happened again, and again, and again, I mentioned it in passing to a female colleague that I work with, (as these exchanges invariably appeared to be happening at there), and she laughed and said she knew just what I was referring to.

But then it happened to me one evening while I was out with some friends. I was just being chatty with a chap who was part of the group, but someone whom I had never met before. I wasn't flirting, I was just being friendly.

When he suddenly did it as well.

So, I began to think, why do all of these men feel the need to verbally signifying their relationship status?

Whilst I may be single, I don't own a badge or a t-shirt that clarifys this. Neither do I have a tattoo on my forehead that blatantly points this out, believe me, I know, as I have checked. I don't carry a butterfly net either, one in which I intend to capture any unwittingly off guard males.

It's a funny one.

I want to say to them, "Look, I realise that you have a wife/girlfriend/partner, as you are far too clean and well kept, to lead me to think otherwise."

I want to explain to them that they are not displaying that Havishamesque air of someone who has not bothered to look after themselves, since they were jilted at the alter.

I want to say, "Look, I was just being friendly, I have not other ulterior motive, other than that."

I think that that, might make them think on. But now, because I have made a mental note of these exchanges, as soon as one crops up, it kills the conversation entirely. And the whole purpose of the innocent friendly non-sexual exchange between two human beings, simply becomes redundant.

However, I have started to think on, and have come to the conclusion that what is actually going on here is the following.

Maybe the man in question, is just a happy well kept chap, who has found his mate. In his brain he has long since lost the thread of the banter that would have once been a necessary part of his primitive discourse, and one that he would have had to relied upon, in order to find a one.

Fair play. I understand that.

Maybe, what these men are really saying is "Look, I have covered this already, and I am finding the fact that I am having a conversation with a rather pleasant woman, that I have no intention of whisking away, a little uncomfortable. It is confusing me, so I am going to have to put a stop to it right now, before my brain overheats, by telling you that I am taken."

I think that is probably it.

I really do.

It is the way, I think, that they find of distraction themselves from what they think is going on, as opposed to what they then translate in their brains, to be the on the spot actuality of what the situation is.

And as I can quite clearly see what they are doing, it all just puts me in mind of that rather lovely sequence in the musical version of Oliver where Nancy sings that rather wonderful song Oom Pah Pah.

She starts this tantalising tavern sing-along in order to create a diversion, so that she can get Oliver out of the place, to prevent Bill from involving him in a preplanned nefarious activity.

But, despite all of her table boarding, skirt shaking, cartwheel spinning attempts, Bill sees exactly what she is up to.

Well, I guess I am Bill.

Men, I appreciate your good fortune, I really do. But please, I implore you, just go with the flow with what is really happening, and not what you feel your repressed primitive nature is telling you it thinks is happening.

For if you do not, innocent friendly women everywhere, might just start shouting an unpreventable tourettic "Bullseye!" in an Oliver Reed Voice, every time you mention you have a wife/girlfriend/or partner.

They all suppose what they want to suppose
When they hear...oom-pah-pah!!

Men, you have been warned.

Pretty Vacant By Holly Searle

In 1977, I became a teenager.

I was a pretty shy and retiring one at that. I was painfully self-conscious about all the changes that were taking place to my body and the transition between being a child and those years crossing the bridge, on my way to becoming an adult, were scary with no clear signposting to assist me on my journey.

This year, my son will hit the same marker in his life.

This got me to thinking about how different the culture he abides in is, and how much more demanding and unrelenting it appears to be in relation to the one that my rite of passage into adulthood evolved within.

It almost seems as if the culture we all live in now, combines an unapologetic helping of trash with a dollop of sophisticated technology, but, that it is devoid of the milk of human kindness. One that might offer a much needed cuddle every now and then, to those whom may find it all a little stressful to deal with and adhere too.

I feel both impressed with his good fortune to be a child of modernity, whilst incredibly sadden, that there appears to be something missing, something lost. An innocence and a creativity, that would be more suited to his personality, but one that he will somehow never know ever existed in the same way it did for me.

When I was a child, I was very much one. I spent my days, riding my bike, hanging out with my friends, still playing with my dolls (and was quite ashamed of doing so), listening and taping the top twenty off of the radio on a Sunday evening, and watching one of only three television channels.

I invented things and used my initiative to occupy my mind. It wasn't a necessity, it was a pleasure.

Times were simple, but then again, they were far more advanced than they had been for my parent's generation, or for my grandparent's before them.

Seems odd to think about that now, in these racy modern times that we live in.

We didn't have labels that made us who we were, we crafted who we were out of what we had. We created ourselves, and we weren't invented by the shallow ideals of ad men, whose didactic boardroom concepts, would soon start to dominate our identity of who they thought we should be, and of whom they thought we should be like.

I had grown up on a diet of a weekly subscription to The Bunty, Marvel and Whizzer and Chips comics. A cocktail of girly garb, mixed with a healthy dash of fantasy, combined with a smidgen of cheeky comic humour.

Pop stars were older than they are now. It was a rarity to see some singing poppet reach the top of the charts and claim an army of followers the way they do today. If they did, they were usually the product of Opportunity Knocks or New Faces, that soon faded into obscurity, rather than checking in to The Priory or The Betty Ford Clinic to purge themselves of some addiction that was brought about by their life in the spotlight.

My only sin of idolatry for these pop stars, were the one or two posters that I may have discovered within the pages of the odd copy of Jackie that I bought.

I soon discovered that I was not a magazine type of girl, and ditch them as an option for things that I felt worthy of spending my pocket money on.

Then in the summer of 1977, The Sex Pistols delivered punk into our lives and we all boarded a bus to an alternative destination that shook the very foundation of society.

They weren't the by product of a Hughie Green hosted show, but rather a backlash against the prime time produced popularity and the safe choices of his viewers.

I was terrified of their anger, but refreshed by it, as they heralded a new wave of music, bands and performers that were real, by the same token that Bob Dylan must have been for my parents.

Out of that culture of new wave music came the affirmation of individualism, and that was so good and inspirational. And freed us from mediocrity and underlined our lone creativity of ourselves, by ourselves.

But something has happened to all that, and this is one of the issues I worry about for all of those that will turn 13 this year.

Mediocrity it appears is king.

And I frown and scratch my head in wonder and dismay of how this could possibly have happened given the popular cultural gems that we have produced, but that have sadly been drown in a shallow puddle of the celebrity and reality culture that has taken over our society today.

And it is everywhere, like a mind altering virus without a cure.

The shallow unashamed and marketed to the hilt, label wearing, surgically enhanced, entourage accompanied soulless pack of beings, that have replaced the necessity of the mother of inventiveness that my generation proudly produced.

Kids today are identified by what they have, and sadly, not because of who they choose to be.

They are consumed by and idolise those that live in an unattainable reality to theirs. They are encouraged to objectify these idols of trash via weekly reality television shows, and then given the option to ridicule them via the covers of magazines.

It is truly horrible and ironically pretty vacant on so many levels of comprehension that it makes me want to weep.

I don't believe illusions
'cos too much is real
So stop your cheap comment
'cos we know what we feel

I'll definitely be giving my son a Clash album and an introduction to The Sex Pistols this year, as well as explaining that the only Kardashians he need ever know about, are the ones that feature in episodes of Star Trek.

The Evil That Men Do By Holly Searle

Let's face it, it's a given isn't it, that we live, and probably always will do, in a society, and sadly a world, that is, and always will be, dominated by a patriarchal ideology.

Whilst I do not accept this, I have at times, had no choice in the matter, other than to admit, that it is probably true, and despite the attempted changes, the accepted norm that we all adhere too.

And whilst, I would not consider myself to be a feminist, as I dislike monikers that group individuals and mark them, with all due respect, as belonging to a single minded collective consciousness. I would have to admit, that I find that I am one by default, simply due to the fact that I was born a woman.

And as such, there is no escaping the fact, that as a woman, I am one, that lives and functions in this ideology as best I can, regardless of the man made walls and attitudes that I have encountered and have come in to contact with all throughout my life.

Having said that, I used to feel a bit sorry for all the men that grew up in a post feminist ideology, as I felt that it had messed with what their concept of what their generic social role model was, and who they were meant to be and how they were meant to behaviour. Especially as I will admit that I quite like a man who will adopt an air of masculine social etiquette and as such, will still open a door for you, or give up his seat.

However, I am of the opinion that now more than ever, that as these generic lines have became so blurred, that they are now lost forever in a torrid sea of Hemingway angst. And I realise that all of factors that have contributed to and have influenced modern man's social behaviour, the one that is most to blame is in all probability derived from, and due to his bringing.

Of course it is, I hear you all scream.

It's that old nature versus nurture chestnut, isn't it?

But is it?

And one of the aspects about man's behaviour that intrigues me more than any other, is his capacity to be evil, and to be able to consistency carry out such horrific crimes that demonstrate the heart of this very nature, or nurture. Whilst women on the other hand, do not seem to be that way inclined, or as affected. And regardless of her social limitations, she appears to have held fast and remained steadfast in her role, without exhibiting the same nasty traits.

It is an unacceptable pattern of behaviour that I find most unforgiving.

Everyday it seems, we had bombarded with stories, news reports, footage and images of pure unremitting acts of evil by men.

Why is that I wonder?

Why are men capable of being evil, when women are not?

Personally I think this all may have started with the oldest tale that was ever told, the story of creation.

In the Bible (which I hold no allegiance with, or belief in), it is Adam who is created first in his maker's image. Then old Eve is fashioned as a by product out of one of his ribs, as an afterthought, to keep him company.

Charming.

So there they both were naked with no conscious thoughts between them in the Garden of Eden, when a snake arrives and happens to mention that there is a tree with quite nice fruit on it.

Eve tells the snake that they aren't allowed to eat from this tree, but the snake plants the notion in her mind that he thought that they were allowed to eat whatever they wanted, Adam then duly helps himself.

Before you know it, they realise they are naked, cover themselves up, and are in big trouble with their creator.

This is what is more commonly know as Original Sin and man's rebellion against his maker's house rules, which in turn lead to all of humanity being cursed thereafter because of his actions.

One apple from the Tree of Life, and they were banished to the wilderness forever, where they produced two sons; Cain and then Abel. Cain kills his brother and became the first human ever born to commit murder and the very first act of evil.

Although this is an apocryphal story, it is one that has established an inherent genealogy of an immoral code of practice and wicked deeds attributed to men and not women.

And I wonder if this creationist take on mankind’s evolution, was responsible for some sort of inbred social stain, as throughout history, and well on into modernity, we have witnessed many evil acts, a majority of which have been propagated by men.

Then again, if that doesn't answer the question as to why men are more capable of committing evil acts, maybe the new train of thought with regards to trying to determine the existence of an evil gene is.

Is that possible?

Some geneticists believe that it is, and that there may be a mutation or abnormality in some men, that may explain why they are more predisposed to aggressive behaviour than others.

And if there was a test that could determine it's existence what next? Will we all be tested pre birth and tattooed with a barcode to prevent further evil acts being committed?

Of course, not all men are evil, but it is a given that the most heinous acts are or have been monopolised by men who are evil.

Ask yourself this question. How many women have been responsible for acts of pure unremitting evil?

A handful, that is how many.

Now ask yourself how many men there have been?

Makes you think doesn't it?

All I know is this.

The difference between men and women, is that although women have the capacity to be spiteful, it appears, and is accepted, that men are the gender most capable and predisposed to commit acts of evil.

And I doubt that this will ever change. And I have no idea why that is or how or if that will ever change.

And although as a woman, I may have been affected in my life due to my gender, I am glad that I am not a man.

For the evil that men do, makes women weep with both deep sadness, and joy.

And probably always will.

Bring your sons up well, and teach them all to be better men.

Circus By Holly Searle

I do love a circus.

Over the years, both before and after having children, I have always made an effort to see as wide a variety of them as I possibly can.

Although, having said that, I have never been to one of those Albert Hall hyper stylish one, as they aren't what I consider to be a truly proper circus.

No, I like those old fashioned ones, with sawdust on the floor and a slightly debauched David Lynch Blue Velvet air too them.

In all probability, this stems from the fact that I saw The Greatest Show on Earth when I was a kid, and I was so intrigued by the character of the mysterious clown called Buttons played by James Stewart, that I was hooked. Buttons the clown never removes his make-up, not even in between shows. Who is he, and what is he trying to hide by concealing his true identity from the rest of the troupe?

And why has he left Bedford Falls and what has he done with Harvey?

Turns out that Buttons the clown is hiding something. Yes folks, he certainly is. He hasn't just run away with the circus because he likes to make people laugh or because he has run out of make-up removing cream. No, the truth is that he simply has a past that is cleverly concealed by a think layer of pancake and a red nose.

Personally I disagree with people who spoil the plots and story lines of films, so I am not going to ruin the movie by telling you what it is, or indeed, what is
was.

Ahhhhhhhh.

Nope, you'll just have to find out for yourself.

And maybe Buttons' duplicitous behaviour is much more to blame for an inherent fear of clowns, than Stephen King is. Or maybe, it was those nasty evil drunk clowns in Dumbo. My money's on the latter. Disney was evil, full stop, and so were those clowns. You would have to be a nasty piece of work, to slip an abandoned minor a Mickey Finn just for your own amusement.

But the fact that there were seemingly real personalities behind all of the make-up and glitter, with real stories, housed within the spectacle of the circus façade simply intrigued me. The circus had it all going on, and had it all going down, or so it would seem.

To the onlooker a circus may appear to be all sparkle with illusions created to enthral and excite its audience, and nothing more. But what The Greatest show on Earth revealed, was the concept that behind all of the smoke and mirrors, lurked an array of dark socially fragmented characters.

So thanks to Cecil B. DeMille's masterpiece, I was smitten.

And there is of course more to the film than the question of who or what Buttons the clown is hiding. It also features an array of interwoven stories between all of the circus folk and is a succulent feast of brightly coloured costumes, tricks, tears, love, betrayal and of course their public performances.

And as well as staring the incomparable James Stewart, it also features in inimitable Gloria Grahame.

Around about the same time, I also saw Trapeze, another circus based movie that features Tony Yondah lies da castle of my foddah Curtis as part of a trapeze act set on defeating the odds by completing a triple somersault, way up high in the air on the trapeze, at all costs without the aid of a net to catch them if they should fall.

I sat on the edge of my seat holding my breath, as the scene approached in which they attempted this death defying act.

It was quite thrilling to watch.

The tangle of bare torsos, sequins and spandex all just added to the tension.

But once again, no, I am not telling.

And so it was, thereafter, forever and beyond, after having seen these filmatic portrayals of all the dramas afoot in the circus and between their folk, that my love for it, was well and truly embedded in my psyche forever.

In real life, I was fortunate one late summer's evening in the mid eighties to have witnessed, the raw spectacle of the French circus Archaos in the open air on Clapham Common.

Their take on what circus should be, had more in common with Mad Max than DeMilles's The Greatest Show on Earth, as it consisted of performers on motorbikes driving through rings of fire, a highly misappropriated use of chainsaws, and a fearsome butcher with a meat clever, whose behaviour even Sweeney Todd would have found shocking.

It was just breathtakingly incredible to watch and I have never seen anything like it since.

I watched it with my eyes as wide as saucers in childlike disbelief. It was like circus crack to me, and I wanted to explore more aspects of this genre.

Thereafter however, I downscaled some and attended a more traditional circus in a tent, in a field in Ireland. In comparison to the Archaos performance, it was the complete polar opposite, but nevertheless, it was full of charm and retained all of the composites one would expect to see; A ringmaster, clowns, acrobats and a smidging of animal participation in the form of horses.

Back in London and during some lean financial times whilst in my second year at university, I was working two jobs in between lectures so that Child One and I had enough to live on, when I saw that the circus was coming to town.

I saved some money and bought two tickets.

On the night in question we sat entranced ringside while the circus weaved its magic. It was just extraordinary to watch and a blessed few hours of much need escapism for us both.

Afterwards we were both high on post circus bliss as we sat by the river eating our burger and chips chatting, when Child One pipes up “That was the best night of my life. Than you Mum.”

Many years later, I invested the same for Child Two and he loved it just as much.

As I grow older, I find I am just incredibly fond of the circus and all of its attributes. I am still intrigued by the performers and what motivated them to join the circus, and, just like Buttons, as I watch them perform, I wonder if they are harbouring a secret or two.

I hope that they are.

And the circus is just like a family, with the Ringmaster as the soul overriding parent, while the Acrobats are the well behavioured children, whilst the Clowns are not.

And just like real life, the circus features ordinary people performing extraordinary acts.

And that's way I love the circus so much.

Pet Sounds By Holly Searle

I miss my cat Jones.

He was the most majestic and glorious of creatures, that came to live with us for seventeen years, until he became quite poorly and sadly left.

He was one of a pair, as initially we were lucky enough to be able to home him and his sister Reece

But she, unfortunately met with a dreadful untimely end, and as such, I always felt so guilty about having taken her as well.

And here is why.

On the day that Child One and I went to visit our friend's house to decide which one of the litter we would like, Jones, chose me. He made a bee line for my lap and that was it. We were engaged from that moment on, and later married.

She, on the other hand, did not chose me. She was a timid little thing right from the start, and in retrospect, I should really have let her make her own choice as too whom she wanted to spend her life with, instead of rather greedily taking her home with us as well.

She was an exquisite silver tabby, and just like him, she had the Mark of Mohamed above her eyes.

For as long as I can remember we always had a cat or two that made up the make-up of my family.

Our Islington cats were Cromwell and Midgy, followed thereafter by Jiggle Bells whom lived with us in Holloway Road.

In Fulham our cat in residence was Sam. He used to come on holiday with us and he later moved with us to Chiswick. And then we had so many various cats, that at one point we had nine.

Emma was a tortoiseshell, with a purr as loud as a black taxi. Arthur was a ginger and white cat and one of Emma's kittens who had been born on my bed, who often thought I was his mother. Charlie Parker, also one of Emma's kittens, was a charming black and white cat who was very, very chatty. Alas, he never played a saxophone, but nevertheless was too cool for school. And then there was Fluff, a high maintenance grey cat, who was a picky eater. They were the last of the Mohican cats, in an end of days of my family's historical feline frenzy.

When I left home however, I promptly carried on this tradition by finding a ginger cat called Clarence. He was a bit snooty to be honest, and we didn't get on so well.

But then, much much later, after Child One was born, and whilst we were of no fixed abode, we couldn't even entertain the idea of having a cat. It was a feline famine of the worst kind.

Once we had finally put down some roots, and had room to house a couple of moggies, we did just that, and that was when we when Jones and Reece arrived.

Jones was the most beautiful ginger marmalade tabby. Fact.

He was a big ball of ginger sunshine. Fact.

And, he was his own cat, and you couldn't argue with either him or that. If he didn't want to do something, he wouldn't, and that was all. No room for discussion or debate on the matter.

He lived his life as and how he wanted too.

He had his own agenda, and timetable and could always be found positioned on the other pillow next to mine, on my bed in the early morning, trying wake me up with a gentle tap of his paw on my cheek, followed by a mipping sound.

He could be most insistent. And if I didn't get up to feed him straight away, he would simply apply more strength to his action, and the occasionally claw or two if I failed to respond.

And on days when I wasn't feeling well, and would take to my bed, he would always follow me up the stairs and climb into bed with me and curl up into a comforting little ball next to me.

He adored Child One, and allowed her to get away with all sorts of mischief at his expense. One morning she declared that she had cut his whiskers off. To be fair it was more of a trim, but he had sat there in his trusting way, and had allowed her to do it.

Once I had got over the horror of my child having found the scissors and her attempt to give him a short, back and sides.

I explain to her that without his whiskers, and until they grew back, he would be unable to gage his ability to access gaps and spaces, as they dictated his height and width.

Safe to say, she learnt a lesson that day, as did he. Eventually his whiskers grew back and he survived the ordeal with great aplomb, and I, of course hid the scissors in a safer place.

When he felt like it, he did a few tricks as well. You could throw a ball of paper for him, and he would fetch it and bring it back to you. This was a good game, until he grew tired of its repetition, and would simple stop and stare at you as if to say "I am bored with this now, so I am not playing any more."

Fair enough.

When Child Two was born, he was very upset and demonstrated this by leaving a suitable gift in his Moses basket one evening.

His nose was well and truly out of joint, as he felt that his ranking within the family had changed.

He used to come and sit on the edge of the bath with me while I was bathing to keep me company. I made sure we had a few extra us moments like these, and he seemed to default to his factory settings and re-established in his own mind, his rightful place.

He liked to lay in pools of sunlight and snooze for a hour or two.

And he loved a cuddle.

But his greatest love was to chase a feather or two.

He liked that very much.

I would often catch him vocalisation a warning Rahhing sound to the birds as they attempted to land on the balcony of our little home. And just like in one of those Warner Brother's cartoon, there would often been a pile of discarded feathers floating above his head when I went to see what he was up to.

On catching him in this post terrorist mode, he would just look very guiltily in my direction, and then smile at me and blink his eyes to placate my angry tone.

It always work.

It is seven years since he died.

It was the most God awful decision I have ever had to make, calling that. I am not God, but he wasn't well, and the choices were nil.

I can't recall crying as much about anything else in my entire life with such fervent emotion as I did that day.

It was just horrible.

After he was gone, I could still feel his paws on my lap, and I could hear his footsteps padding around the place when the house was still.

I miss him dreadfully.

I haven't replaced him, because I can't.

But one day, when I am ready, and when I have a garden, another cat will come to stay.

Climb Every Mountain By Holly Searle

For my brother Tim, the big know all.

My very talented writer friend Christopher Karallis.

For Jemma Evans an all round lovely person.





I haven't been able to write a blinking thing of late.

I have no idea why.

I have simply had no ideas.

Usually, I get my ideas or inspiration for pieces from everything and anything. They may derive from a minor exchange during a conversation, or from something I have seen or read. Or, the seed may be sown as the result of a social event or interaction that I have taken part in.

Now, I have been doing all of those things, but nothing, nothing, would evolve in my mind. There was no spark, no interesting head scratching frown germ of an idea. There was instead, just a great big listless excruciatingly painful dull void.

After a while, I started to panic. I started to think oh dear, I have lost my thread of ingenuity. Has that muse, the one that has kept me company simply got bored with all of the endless cold and snow, now left me and decided to hibernate? Has it frozen solid, lost forever and unable to return?

Maybe, I had begun to think like Peggy Lee, is that all there is? And that there simply isn't any more?

And then it got worse and I just felt devoid of everything. EVERYTHING.

I'll be honest with you, it wasn't a particularly nice feeling, feeling like that.

To put it into context, it is a bit like going to the supermarket and wistfully happily going about your business and filling your trolley with all of those items that you have run out of at home. Feeling all warm and safe in the knowledge, that as you head towards the checkout, you will soon be home and that all of your cupboards will once again be full, only to discover, as the cashier tells you the total, that you have left your purse at home.

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!

By the time you realise this, you have packed all of your shopping away in the bags that you have brought with, in that organised fashion that you do (fresh food in this one, cold and frozen foods in that one).

Sweat starts to break out on your brow. You search your bag again again, and again, in the hope that you didn't search it thoroughly enough the previous ten times.

But, alas, it is true. Your purse isn't there and you are going to have to confess this to not only the check out person, but also to yourself.

You bow your head in shame and drag your feet as you exit the supermarket in search of the rest of the disenfranchised who have abandoned all hope.

What a looser.

You ride home on the bus. You pass a tattoo parlour. You think to yourself I don't have a tattoo, but if I did, it would be that L shape that people make with their hand whilst holding it to their forehead and mouthing the word Looser at you.

You return home. It is cold. Your cupboards are empty, and so is your mind and your heart.

You try to read. But all the books that you start, you find no enjoyment in at all. They offer none of the much needed escapism that you need. Their words mock your own inability to write anything yourself.

As you read, you think, I could have written this. Then your inner daemon places its hand on its forehead and mouths Looser.

You stoically agree and close the book and toss it on the floor by the side of your bed. It joins several other books as it lands with a muffled thud.

You think like Scarlet O’Hara and tell yourself that tomorrow is another day. But the next day and the day after that, and the day after that, the void just continues to expand at an alarming rate.

You loose your sense of humour.

Your writer friend tells you not to worry and to stop thinking about it so much.

But the void follows you everywhere that you go. It is like an additional shadow, you can't shake it.

You think to yourself, if I can't write, I am fecked. Who am I without writing something, anything? You concluded your worse fears that without writing you are nothing.

I am nobody.

I am a looser.

You have a backlog of ideas for a series of Children's books. It is what you fondly refer to as your own personal till roll of creativity.

You sit down to review what you have written so far, but nothing will come, there is no flow of ideas.

You are blocked.

There is just a great big solid brick wall in front of you, on which someone has spray painted the word Looser.

Then, just when you think it cannot possibly get any worse, something happens.

Your brother suggests that you write about not being able to write.

You mull this over in your head as it hits your pillow.

And then a germ of an idea starts to form.

You think about the void and then you think about Joe Simpson's story Touching The Void.

Tick, tick, tick goes your mind.

And then the rusty cogs finally start to turn.


If you haven't read the book Touching The Void, or seen the movie based upon the book, I would urge you too do so.

It is the most incredible story about two men called Joe Simpson and Simon Yates, who decided to climb a mountain called Siula Grande in a remote area of Peru in 1985.

Their ascent, although marred by bad weather and freakish snowfall, was successful.

However, during their descent, things started to go wrong when Joe brakes his leg.

In the middle of nowhere, thousands of feet up a mountain, they were, for all intent and purposes, buggered.

But then Simon came up with a workable plan of action as to how to get Joe down from the mountain.

He would simply lower Joe down with a climbing rope 150 feet at a time, until they finally reach a safe place, from where help will be easier to access.

However, as he was lowering Joe, Simon is unaware that Joe had slipped over a ridge and is hanging in the air, at the end of the rope with a massive drop below.

Simon waited for Joe to give him the agreed signal, but when it never came, he had to make a decision; to precariously proceed down the mountain at his own detriment to discover Joe's location, or to cut the rope and save himself.

He cuts the rope and saves himself.

Joe, on the other hand, fell and landed in a deep crevasse far below.

Simon makes it down the mountain, but with the albatross of knowledge hanging around his shoulders, that Joe is probably dead.

But Joe wasn't dead and had miraculously survived the fall. He then managed to get himself out of the crevasse, and to make his own way back to base camp with a hideous bone shattering leg injury.

It is quite an incredible feat.

If Simon hadn't cut that rope, in all probability, they both would have died, or maybe not. We will have to agree to agree that we shall never know the answer to that alternative sliding doors interpretation, as it wasn't the one that was written.

But, the one we know and are familiar with is.

And so, I thought about Joe Simpson and Simon Yates, as I closed my eyes, with my head resting there on my pillow.

And I thought about that mountain.

And I thought about that void.

And I thought about how mad they were to even attempt such a crazy insecure venture as that.

What were they thinking?

Shall I tell you?

They looked at something that most folk would consider as impossible thing to do. They considered their options, they made their plans, they packed all of the necessary equipment that they needed, and they wore all the right clothes.

But even though they took all of these precautions, things that they had no control over, like the weather and that darn snow, effected the outcome of their adventure.

But what an adventure they had, and what a story that had to tell because of it.

Well, do you know what?

Writing is a lot like that.

And I have just climbed a new mountain by delivering this piece.

My flag has been well and truly planted on it's summit.

And that, my friends, is good enough for me.


Climb every mountain,
Search high and low,
Follow every highway,
Every path you know.

Something Changed By Holly Searle

Do you believe in love?

I do.

I believe in love and romance, and the notion that there is someone for everyone in this crazy world that we all live in.

And for me, one of the most beautiful songs to envisage this notion is Pulp's Something Changed written in part by Jarvis he of the same birthday as me Cocker.

I wrote the song two hours before we met.
I didn't know your name or what you looked like yet.
Oh I could have stayed at home and gone to bed.
I could have gone to see a film instead.
You might have changed your mind and seen your friends.
Life could have been very different but then,
Something changed.

Do you believe that there's someone up above?
Does he have a timetable directing acts of love?
Why did I write this song on that one day?
Why did you touch my hand and softly say.
Stop asking questions that don't matter anyway.
Just give us a kiss to celebrate here today.
Something changed.

When we woke up that morning we had no way of knowing,
That in a matter of hours we'd change the way we were going.
Where would I be now if we'd never met?
Would I be singing this song to someone else instead?
I dunno but like you said
Something changed.

The fuel of this song's sentiment, has kept me going.

With the tenacity of The Terminator, as the years have passed by at an alarming rate of knots, I have never given up on the randomness of finding love.

And oh boy, how time has flown.

One minute, you appear to be quite nonchalant about its arrival.

But then, one day, in the blink of an eye, an incredible amount of time appears to have passed by.

What?

And it is then that you start checking your watch, and audibly sighing and anxiously tapping your foot.

You start to worry that love's cutting its eventual arrival a bit damn fine and close to the edge for your liking.

And then you enter your Judy Garland period and catch yourself humming The Man that Got Away and a majority of The Carpenters back catalogue, as you lament past loves that you have known throughout your life, worrying endlessly that one of them was it.

And then one day, after far too many Rainy Days And Mondays, you just decide that it's time to move on.

You realise what a wonderful, funny, attractive person you are and you just stop worrying about it all.

You catch yourself looking back at yourself from the bathroom mirror, and you decide that the years haven't been that unkind, and that given the option, you would probably chat yourself up.

This makes you happy, and you smile.

It's a nice smile.

You store away all of the those sad torch songs and opt for the more upbeat positive ones.

You spend a lot of time with your friends. You make time for them as you enjoy their company.

You love laughing and love to hear a funny story.

Life, you decide is quite funny and a pleasure, and that nothing is fixed, or should be expected.

Some days, you like the fact that you can do whatever you please.

But then, you realise what it is that you do miss.

Sometimes when you have been shopping, you return home and get annoyed with yourself because you have forgotten to pick up a certain item.

This realisation is a bit like that.

You come to realise that it isn't so much the love that you miss, but the actual loving.

You also decide that the intimacy that is afforded on a regular basis to those who have another soul with which to share their lives with, is what you are actually are missing most of all.

And yes, while it is highly probably, that in the right situation, you may encounter the opportunity in which to make this intimacy a reality, you know full well, that this isn't what you want.

What you want is it all.

The romance, the courting, the proposal, the wedding, the life that follows on and all the love that holds your hand in its.

Yes, that is what I have finally realised.

Something changed and it was me, and those are my terms.

Thanks Jarvis.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uvpEOFy8oQg