St Patrick's Night

"I sing the same song three times"

Not in a row, of course, but over the course of a night we sang 'Fields of Athenry' at least three times, 'Wild Rover' twice, and numerous other Irish standards.

What was I doing - an English lass - singing Irish songs on St Patrick's Night? Well... sometimes you just get offers you can't refuse. Richard phoned up and said he wasn't well, but had to do a gig, could I help him out? Of course. Why did he call me? Because every other musician, and most certainly all those who play Irish music, was already booked! OK, I may be bottom of the barrel, but I still said yes.

We played in a corner of a busy bar that was part of a posh hotel in Cambridge. The bar was teeming with Guinness-drinking punters - some Irish, some Spanish, some American and ... well, I didn't go round and ask every single one where they were from, but Cambridge being the multi-cultural city it is, they came from all over.

I played bass and sang a couple of my songs, but most of the night it was Irish standards. Richard also sang some U2 and van Morrison songs and I have to say he did a sterling job. He worked hard, singing in a rough and harsh voice (not his normal style, the poor man was really ill) and sounded, I have to say, perfect for the occassion.

One young Irish lass asked if she could sing, I said sure, join in. But she took that to mean join us on stage. She grabbed Richard's mike and sang loudly, and rather out of tune, and in a very odd time, but to the great delight of her friends.

There were some daft promotional hats, lots of green teeshirts and a very enthusiastic irish gentleman in a three piece suit with a striped green shirt. The two young American lads I talked to wore baseball caps - the type with no strap at the back that you wear back to front. One, Sean, was a guitar player. He was visiting his friend who was at one of the Cambridge colleges. He, however, was in real estate in Massachussets. We had an interesting conversation about architecture, in one of the brief breaks we had. Ohh... if I'd be 20 years younger and single! ... well, 25 years younger? Hmmm... ok. Never mind, back to the music.

Richard continued to sing though his voice got rougher and he was looking rather ill. His wife Bridget played bodhran and sang a couple, but on the whole it was Richard, with accompaniment by me, who carried off the night.

Next year? Well, I don't have any gigs booked for St Parick's night... so if a bass playing English girly who can sing 'Fields of Athenry' and actually like the song, you know where to find me... (that is, if you have a fistfull of cash and some HUGE bouncers ready to haul out the over-enthusiastic, Guinness- and Magners-fuelled madly spinning, dancing, singing, grinning drunken idiots who get just that bit TOO close to the band....)

The Writers Circle

"I think I've landed in the script for the Vicar of Dibley..."

OK, that's perhaps an exaggeration, but there was something very Dibley Parish Council about my very first visit to the local writers circle. I guess choosing the day before Easter Good Friday means that turnout was likely to be low, but it was just me and four men. (The 'vicar' - chairman, was unable to attend this month.)

I did enjoy myself though (hey, not like that! They are all much older than me, and we were there to write, OK?).

We were set the task of writing a letter - we could choose either a letter that could have changed history, or goodbye to a loved one. We all chose the former. One guy did a letter from Philip Marlow persuading Shakespear not to come to London, one from the Military to Prince Harry saying he couldn't go on active service, one on if his parents had not been allowed to pursue their romance, and one was a witty love letter from Ron Reagan to Maggie Thatcher. It was quite hard to write a letter for 40 minutes - letter writing not being a strong point of mine (or indeed of much of society these days).

Mine? Well, here it is. I make no claims to historical accuracy whatsoever, this is fiction:

Dear Klara

I write with great concern, once again, regarding your son's behaviour. I know we have spoken on may occasions, and you and your husband are well aware of the issues which concern me, as his teacher and your friend.

I do feel, though, that I ought to raise the subject of his behaviour once again. Last Thursday you will have noticed that he came home bruised (or perhaps not, sons are often shy in showing their mothers an injury so received). This bruising to his behind was acquired through a beating he received from the older boys. Why then, you may ask, am I reporting your son's behaviour? Well, the beating he received was earned. Not justified (no, I can never condone such violence), but earned nonetheless.

He taunted the boys about a very private matter, one which I cannot bring myself to commit to paper, but needless to say, was a matter so inflammatory as to result in your son behind held and beaten with a shoe upon his buttocks.

Yes, Klara, I do assure you that I have reprimanded the perpetrators most severely with punishment in kind from my cane, yet still it is your son who causes me the most concern.

Upon confronting him in the hall after this event I found his attitude most distressing. He was sullen and withdrawn, but also extremely rude to myself and other teachers. As you know, this is not an isolated incident. He has caused trouble many times and, quite often, expertly extricated himself from consequence.

But, hopefully, I am the harbinger of good news. I have been recommended a most excellent doctor for your son. This Swiss doctor is an expert in maladies of the mind for, as we know, the issues of your son's physical health are to be addressed separately.

May I recommend, as teacher to your son and friend to your family, that you send your son to see Dr Jung? I can send with him a letter of referral. Indeed, some of the many issues that trouble your son, and us as his spiritual and mental guardians, may in some way be assuaged. Perhaps we can offer some light to this dark anger within him, and lead him into brighter pastures.

I know the boy is young but he is clever. He is, I have to say, particularly able to manipulate the younger boys. It is his manner with those older, and of any persuasion different to his mind, that causes such touble for both him and the school. I am sure you will wish to talk to your husband about this matter but, be assured, I have already mentioned the troubles your son causes to Alois last time we met at the alehouse.

I know, perhaps, in these troubled times that sending your son away may seem like an extreme measure, but he is a talented boy and carries a great deal of potential within that dark head of his.

I appeal to you Klara, let your son visit Dr Jung and see if easing the ills of his mind may ease the troubles of his soul. For all our good, it may be the making of the boy. Should you require to know more of this doctor, I am assured that Dr Karl Jung is destined for greatness and, I would most sincerely hope that he can help young Adoplh in the pursuit of a happy life and a fulfiling role in society.

Please do advise, Klara, so that we may expedite his visit to Switzerland as soon as possible.

Sincerely.........


Be kind - this was a straight write-away exercise, no editing, or revision (and I've put it up 99% verbatim here).

Bagels!

Chatting to friends, I mentioned I'd never made bagels before. "I have," said my friend Nadine. "I made them with a young boy once." Odd... I thought you used flour and water and stuff. Oh well!

I had a go this weekend. Ahem. Well... I do like baking and I make OK cakes and bread. I've made choux pastry successfully, even puff pastry in the past. But bagels? Er... I guess the picture tells the story. They tasted OK though - once I'd finally managed to pick all the baking paper off.

Great Aunt Barbara

"Driving down the A10, I hit a diversion... memory lane!"

I have no idea why, when driving to pick up my daughter from riding today, I thought of my Great Aunt Barbara. Sounds good, doesn't it? Can you imagine a tall, stately, grey haired, beautifully spoken English lady? Well, you'd be spot on.


Great Aunt Barbara was my mothers aunt, so not from the acting side of the family and not as well 'documented'. And it's a great shame, for I remember her quite clearly and had I known her when I was an adult, I think there's lots I'd have liked to ask her about.

She lived through two world wars, for a start. Yeah, sure, so did loads of people... but there was something about GAB (do you mind? It's shorter, and you know who I mean) had a sort of dignity about her that kind of made you feel perhaps she was one of those no-nonsense nurses, white apron, white hat... or a military driver, ushering Generals about. But, in truth, I have no idea. She could have been a genteel lady, sitting in her London apartment, or hiding in her country retreat.

Enough imaginings! I did know GAB when I was a child, and this is what I remember most clearly about her - her house and her friend. Barbara lived with her friend Elizabeth, and I can see Elizabeth's face and hear her voice more clearly than GABs, in my memory. Perhaps she was a more forthright character, I can't remember clearly enough.

But the house - a lovely house in Ashstead in Surrey, in Skinners Lane. By chance I have met two people since who live in that same road, but I have no idea if her old bungalow (Little Orchard) is still there. It was, to a small child, a magnificent house. No upstairs! An enormous (remember, I was small) kitchen with the sink in the middle of the room (bizarre to me, I assure you) and doors that linked through rooms so that, with a teasing big brother, you could run round and round the house until yelled at to stop by fretting parents and amazingly patient ancient ladies.

The house was probably full of antiques and two young and vigorous children tearing around the place was probably not healthy - for the antiques or the living occupants. But in the garden was something I remember even more clearly - a mulberry tree. Huge and green, with ripe, bublous mulberrys. We obviously went when the tree was in fruit for I remember their rich, full taste, and the staining red juice that my mother despaired of me getting on my clothes. Certainly, it was hard enough to get off my fingers.

I don't think I've ever seen a mulberry tree since. Two old women living together in a country cottage, surrounded by nice gardens and a magnificient tree. I wonder what else she did with her life? I will have to see what mother knows.

We always ask too late.