I'm Dreaming Of A Green Christmas

I am slightly ashamed to confess that as a child I was a complete wuss and suffered from an extreme aversion to dirt. I recall several occasions when my sister and cousins waded through streams, had snow ball fights or generally rolled around in the mud while I stood at the side watching, protectively clutching my padded fluorescent hair-band to my head.

At some point over the years I became less squeamish almost over night and started annually going to two music festivals and contending with portaloos without any of the old fuss. Despite miraculous advancements in my stance on dirt, one old hatred has only grown as I have. I don’t understand and will possibly never comprehend the excitement that comes with snow. As a child I remember being all wrapped up, verging on tears and almost having to be forced to go and play in the great white outdoors. I recall enjoying sleigh rides in the fields near to my Nan's house but just like today I wasn't so keen on the uphill walk afterwards.

As an adult I have to admit that snow certainly helps make everything look much more attractive but as soon as it starts to thaw, snow has quite the reverse affect. Rather than helping me feel more festive, snow encourages seasonal tourettes. I am such a clumsy accident prone person already that the very presence of snow puts the fear in me and I start to imagine my demise. Heading out in snowy conditions is never good but is at least safer when the snow is deep. Walking from the flat into Leeds the other day was a severely dangerous task – not a central city road, the route glistened with thick layers of ice daring me to take it on. Attempting to carefully cross at the central reservation, I couldn't help but fear the worst. My walk time doubled as I precariously slid around occasionally having to grab onto a rather filthy railing to avoid the worst as passing drivers most probably giggled at the spectacle.

The arrival of this year's second major freeze was perfectly timed to almost ruin my holiday plans as it decided the day I was flying to Cologne was a good time to settle. Thankfully East Midlands Airport wasn't too badly hit and we took off on time but arriving into Cologne we were back to havoc wreaked by snow - left waiting on the plane for an hour for some extremely icy steps to arrive. Departing Cologne three days later snow delayed us by an hour and a half and on arrival we faced a frosty car and no de-icer – thank god (or whoever there is) for the hard edges of empty savoury egg containers.

Having been relatively unaffected by the snow once in Cologne, returning to the UK I was advised to avoid my Leeds-Kent journey because of train cancellations – apparently whole train routes had been suspended for days due to “adverse weather conditions”. Southeastern trains cover an enormous commuter route and I honestly couldn’t quite believe the snow had completely halted any kind of service. Ringing up the “weather hotline”, I was repeatedly transferred to the automated service (love those things) and usefully told the journey was “amended” before the message cut out. A lucky friend actually managed to get hold of an operator to ask about the situation but the employee clearly hadn’t been briefed in any way and was equally useful, admitting they had no idea if trains were even running at all.

Deciding to take a chance I stubbornly risked letting National Express take charge of my fate and actually made it to London, merely half an hour delayed. Luckily Southeastern trains were operating a limited timetable again and I made it home safely after about seven and a half hours travelling time. One hurdle overcome now just about five to go!

As I am still a bit of a hobo I have two more weekends and a journey back Kentways before Christmas to haul myself up and down the country AND then after all of that... I need to get to Chester and from there back up to Leeds. Daily newspaper snow forecast updates do little to ease the depression. We’re threatened with the coldest winter in 30 years; warned those planning on travelling cross-country might have to completely postpone Christmas and celebrate the week after; told snow on Christmas Day is a “foregone conclusion” and even reassured by comforting bosses at Southeastern that trains running in snow “will always be a problem”. Is the arrival of this extremely cold wet occasionally dangerous and debilitating white fluff really worth celebrating?

'Tis The Season To Be Merry (As Long As You're Not In Primark)

Forget road rage – as Christmas draws near Primani rage increases. I am not sure there is any other shop that can cause such extreme irritation. The branch in the centre of Leeds is unbearable at the weekend – early in the morning shortly after opening or half an hour before closing are the only times there's a chance of leaving with sanity in tact. And if you think that particular shop's bad try visiting any London branch.

When I first visited the Oxford Street Primark, I vowed to never return – the shop was so vast it felt daunting and queues for changing room and tills were like nothing I'd ever seen. Frequenting the smaller more manageable Wood Green branch is relatively painless but as soon as Christmas draws near queues weave through the shop and everything is in disarray. Of course these days retailers deem Christmas to be near months before the actual date and many shoppers follow suit believing it's better to get in there early.

This week I rather unfortunately had to make an exchange and re-visiting the dreaded Oxford Street shop was unavoidable. Not only was I visiting my most hated branch but also at the worst possible time – 6pm when the workers are out in force and seeking retail therapy. And of course in London there is also the added annoyance of a huge array of tourists to worsen the already burgeoning shop's footfall.

I marched in purposefully desperately trying to get the whole inconvenience over with as quickly as possible. It wasn't the Saturday sea of heads you despairingly overlook when entering the Leeds city centre branch so with optimism I briskly located the escalators and ascended to the men's department, quickly locating the desired exchange item and seeking out the customer services till. Much to my dismay a somewhat discouraging queue snaked around the ladies shoes out of the queuing barriers and to add to this, three diligent Primark employees were standing around chatting, watching the ever-growing human reptile. As I slowly edged forward, I could hear their trivial chat - all complaining they didn't want to “do customer services”. Far too much time passed and eventually the eldest of the three gave orders so that two started to work the queue, wheedling out customers exchanging “like for like”.

I had made it to the barriers when the woman in front abandoned her suitcase and went off to have a little shop. We were finally making headway moving forward and looking back, I could see the deserted suitcase was some way off. As we crept forward there was a disruption in the queue behind and the woman having a “little shop” had decided perhaps she had better rejoin the queue so wheeled past me to several places ahead, clearly beyond her original position. The man behind her said nothing – I was internally saying it all for him and more!

Having been panicking for some time, fearing I may be late for the theatre, I was now about eight customers away from a till and starting to relax. That is until a woman at a till started having doubts and decided to get the cashier's advice. Despite the enormous queue of waiting people, she rather frustratingly started to alternate trying on her original purchase and the potential replacement, all the while “umming” and “ahhing”.

I finally reach the till and within moments I'm headed once again towards escalators and the safety of the outside world. As I walked towards the tube station, I couldn't help but wonder how long people actually shopping spend in there. I try not to imagine the pain of rooting through the messy racks of this vast shop, queuing for the changing rooms and then joining an equally alarming line to pay. Surely a few hours or more would have to be pencilled in?

Horrific Short Distractions While I Distract Myself

This week I was going to write about one of two things but changed my mind. I could have written about my slightly depressing supply teaching observations – how I seem to benefit while others suffer. Shingles, Jury Service, tube strikes and volcanic dust clouds... bring them on –after all when something like that happens I finally seem to get some work!

I could have also rambled on about my recent observation regarding the link between childhood, parenthood and traditions. I love Bonfire Night and Halloween but despite this seem to manage to miss both every year with some other poorly planned commitment taking precedent or a complete lack of plans. As a kid I was never allowed to go "trick or treating" in case people put razor blades in the treats – a restriction stemming from my over-paranoid highly suspicious mother. As a result, I have only been once when I was about 15 and was determined to experience it - I trawled around the neighbourhood attached to a friend as a poorly realised “two-headed monster”. This year, I managed to watch a horror film misleading dubbing itself as part of the genre and also missed Bonfire night once again. Observing patterns among friends, it seems to me that, it’s only possible for “adults” to successfully annually attend such events if they have children. But I am not here to talk about that...

I am shortly about to be away for a few weeks in an attempt to escape facing up to my next scary and exceedingly unexciting Birthday and as a result won’t be writing for a while so I thought it fit to keep you guys busy. Below are a series of absolutely amazing short films and the odd trailer we were shown for other amazing looking future releases I recently watched at the 10^th Leeds' Film Festival “Night Of The Dead”. The Horror-shy should be aware that none of the below are remotely scary and all are worth watching. I also include a link to a film called Still Life that featured at the festival some years ago but I was reminded of once again at this year’s event. Anyone who likes the look of “Rare Exports” should check out the feature film when it’s released on December 3. Right: “Happy Viewing Folks.”

Rare Exports: Part 1

Rare Exports: Part 2

The Horribly Slow Murderer With The Extremely Inefficient Weapon - shown last year but you need to see this to fully appreciate the next one!

Spoon Vs Spoon

Papa Wrestling

BLARGHAAAHRGARG

Iron Sky

Still Life

At War With Time

A friend once gave me a rather random Birthday gift – a wall clock with a homemade inverted face whose hands went backwards. Although somewhat perplexed but appreciative of this pointless gift, I didn't use it much - after all, twice a year life gets confusing enough, causing my body to go into revolt. Generally the clocks going forward is less traumatic. I'm aware this statement may sound a little strange to any SAD sufferer but it's the truth. The clocks going forward always seems to coincide with my sister's Birthday which means we're often out somewhere arguing over when the taxi is actually coming. One year was particularly disastrous but in an attempt to avoid completely embarrassing myself I'll avoid going into that one.

As the time draws near for the clocks to go forward, I find myself for the first time ever contemplating where this ritual comes from and who observes it. Why I have never pondered this before I have no idea. My rich friend google is quick to tell me that we are one of about 70 countries who utilize daylight saving hours – the Chinese and Japanese do their own thing and equatorial/tropical countries have no need for DST due to daylight hours remaining fairly constant regardless of season (see http://www.webexhibits.org/daylightsaving/g.html for maps http://www.timeanddate.com/time/dst/2008.html for country lists).

Although ancient civilisations flexibly adjusted daily schedules and Mr Benjamin Franklin anonymously suggested something similar back in 1784, modern DST wasn't actually proposed until 1895 by the Kiwi Etymologist, George Vernon Hudson. The combination of his shift job and insect collecting hobby made him aware of the value of after-hours daylight and lead to several proposals to the Wellington Philosophical Society suggesting a two hour daylight saving shift.

A decade after Hudson's idea a British builder by the name of William Willett came up with a similar suggestion in 1905 after his dismay at the amount of Londoners sleeping through a large part of the summer day. Rather selfishly he also wanted to extend the day in order to avoid having to cut short his golf round at dusk. He drafted and published a proposal two years later that went to a Liberal MP but was repeatedly rejected right up to his death. It wasn't until World War One when the Germans introduced DST to try to conserve coal that Britain and the allies followed suit and countries across the world gradually wanted a piece of the action. Sure there have been plenty of readjustments since then but essentially the Germans are responsible for our biannual clock alterations.

Despite a yearly muddle, I am not complaining. I am just immensely grateful Benjamin Franklin's suggestions weren't too influential – taxing shutters, rationing the light source of his time and ringing church bells/ firing cannons at sunrise to wake the public. I'm far too much of a night owl to appreciate that last kind gesture. Pretty sure my dad wouldn't mind though!

All I Want For Christmas is...

For at least a month now various shops have been stocking both Halloween and Christmas themed wares but with the clocks going back soon, winter is truly kicking in. Recently Metro (and probably a variety of other publications) printed a list of top ten most wanted children's Christmas presents using survey results. As I'm soon due to be an entirely unexciting old age, it's past the time for Birthday lists but a recent conversation led to the formulation of this joint Christmas list to ensure The Boy and I are warm and entertained for winter, safely cocooned in the flat.

Item 1: Either a Chow Chow resembling a lion to curl up next to or

a cat named Tessa to provide company when dining alone.

Item 2: A sleeping bag suit for those particularly icy days...

Item 3: When your muscles have seized up this overly expensive boy's toy will both help clean your pad and if you have pets, provide hours of entertainment.

Unsurprisingly none of the above items featured in Metro's list but then I'm no longer aged five-sixteen years-old or quite as demanding as those interviewed who better have rich mummies and daddies...

All The Time In The World

It's late Sunday night and I'm trying to book a series of coaches but after entering my card details my booking fails. Having attempted to book one journey approximately five times, I'm now swearing profusely and decide to give up. Enough of my time is already swallowed up by National Express journeys these days but now unsatisfied by this, they've decided to deprive me of the remainder of my weekend.

The next day, determined to book ahead to get cheaper ticket prices, I tempt fate and go through this rigmarole again. Naturally the same error page is displayed so I decide to book another journey using a different site only to face a similar helpful onscreen message. Complaining to little sis, she asks if I'm with “GayWest” to which I answer in the affirmative. She instantly recommends going to the branch and getting them to check my card, having had her card frozen due to “unusual activity” after buying a bottle of wine from the farm shop next to our childhood home she used to drop-in on daily.

Already attempting to fit the London Film Festival around supply teaching and failing pretty badly, I have an exceedingly busy week that isn't helped by the schedule for press screenings or the process of applying for and collecting film screeners. I am not particularly overjoyed by the prospect of a trip to “GayWest” but I'm unwilling to waste my own precious phone credit to call their Visa helpline when I'm sure I have done nothing untoward with my card. I end up queuing for some time at the information desk to be told there is an error message on my card and I may use a phone in one of the private side offices to contact the helpline. Simple? No.

Typically on a day when I am already feeling pretty ill, all of the phones seem to be out of order. I have to repeatedly wait for an office to become free, only to be met by a dead line. After nearly 40 minutes in the bank, a lady goes to get me the cordless but that's also not working for inexplicable reasons. Eventually she takes my cards and rings from the back office on my behalf but returns to inform me she can't access my account details because she's not me. Really?

Miraculously one of the phones that was earlier on strike, suddenly has a ring tone so I'm put through to the fraud line. As if the 50 minutes I have already been hanging out for in NatWest isn't enough, I'm put on hold while the same lady stands watching me huffing and puffing and soothing muzak worsens my mood. What was wrong? Apparently booking two RyanAir tickets for approximately £80 was deemed “unusual activity” and NatWest decided to act like a protective parent by blocking my card.

Nearly an hour after entering and I'm finally back on the street ready to locate the drop in clinic to see a doctor merely to have my own self-diagnosis confirmed so that I can access the prescription drugs the chemist refused to give me. Ironically, while the NHS waste my time, there are initiatives in place to try to reduce the amount of wasted appointment time. I'm certainly glad the NHS exists but at times like this wish some drugs were more readily available over the counter like in countries like Vietnam and China. But I guess if they were, certain people would selfishly abuse the system, resulting in a rise of “unusual activity”.

Morally Dubious Scenarios

I'm sandwiched between The Boy and my mum watching Slinky Sparkles and Candy Girl slowly strip one after the other in front of a bare stage with nothing but a chair and two over-sized fake plastic lollies as props - I have to wonder if there is something wrong with this picture. An evening of Burlesque for beginners ends a week of morally dubious scenarios.

Scenario One: I find myself inadvertently being paid to stand in a church aisle and monitor 15/16 year-olds during a fifty minute “re-dedication” service in one of Westminster Abbey's chapels. As a devout atheist I long ago stopped parroting lines vicars and priests spout at me and ceased participating during the prayers. These days I am generally only in church twice a year and occasionally manage to whittle these visits down to once a year. From a family with rigid Christmas and Easter traditions and ceremonies, it's pretty difficult to escape family visits to the church on these occasions – there was in fact one memorable incident when The Boy attempted to avoid a church outing but found himself locked outside and shoeless with little choice but to get in the ready waiting car.

I generally feel happier and less hypercritical not joining in with the “worship” but this week standing on display the discomfort returned. As the member of staff nearest the front in the central aisle of the church, I couldn't help wonder if I was being scrutinised by bored fidgety pupils. Then there was the other matter of the school's Head. Watching his flock and ensuring full participation, he paced at the front of the church where I was clearly in sight and even walked up and down this central aisle passing me by. Surely he'd have seen my still lips and heard my lack of participation? I couldn't help but wonder whether as an adult “role model” failing to repeat the appropriate lines or join in during the prayers would be a disciplinary matter if part of the regular staff? Standing in such a prominent position reminded me of being a school pupil when I'd mouth the words rather than join in with the singing of the hymns - I was almost tempted to mask my principles by returning to this favoured method of old.

Fast-forward to Scenario Two: I'm attending the BBC Four World Cinema Awards for one of the many websites I write for. Aside from the host, Jonathan Ross, I am not expecting to see many recognisable celebrities but then suddenly Tilda Swinton is waiting to be seated across the aisle from where little sis and I are expectantly waiting. Respectful of Tilda as an actress with a varied and often selective back catalogue, I watch her with interest but neither her greatest fan or critic, I am not particularly desperate to speak to her. My sister, however, contemplates a conversation with Tilda and as someone who is inexplicably annoyed by her very appearance, decides attempting to chat with her merely because she's famous would be a hypercritical act, unless of course she was to show her contempt.

I'm back in the Hastings auditorium, I began this entry from and Scenario Three is well under-way. Having watched two dull strip acts, I seemed to have upped my Minstrels intake and wonder whether chomping on chocolate and watching ladies strip are appropriate activities to combine. One of the male audience members directly in front of me doesn't seem to need any snacks – he'd do better with a safety harness, he's leaning so far forward in his seat, I wouldn't be surprised if he dived over the Upper Circle's railings. After an appalling magic act courtesy of “Biff the Magic Dragon”, it's a relief to have ex-Parisian Playboy model, Chrys Columbine, on stage to inventively combine Burlesque with Classical music.

Thankfully after a much needed interval, the reappearance of several embarrassingly named frankly mediocre acts is redeemed by an entertaining stint by the talented “Hula Girl” and a finale from the show's star, Amber Topaz. With it's wartime theme, feather fans and titty tassels, our evening of Burlesque may have incorporated the appropriate props and figures but the seedie-looking organiser, Mr Moonie, clearly lacks imagination and cast members, resulting in a noticeable absence of choreography, chorus lines, dazzling costumes and the splendour of The Moulin Rouge. The most entertaining memory of the evening? Big G reminiscing about her trip to Paris and disappointingly complaining the show was too tame.

Final Consideration: Should a strip show ever be “too tame” for your mother's eyes?