Life Begins At Forty?

I turned really old last week and I'm starting to believe I am ageing for the first time ever. Asked what I wanted for my Birthday, I drew a blank – not because I have everything in life I could ever want but because the few things I do want are either too expensive to ask of anyone or too difficult to find. Without a desire for yet more material possessions and the ability to use pay cheques for such luxuries, Birthdays no longer feel exciting. I don't experience a sense of dread quite yet but more of inevitability.

Equally, annual dates on the calendar like Bonfire Night and Halloween no longer elicit such feelings of anticipation. Like the rapidly growing number of friends around me, I guess I need to somehow muster the desire to reproduce to rekindle that childhood enthusiasm.

I do at least have my forties to look forward to. A recent study by Travelodge has revealed a fifth of Britons in their mid forties admit to “Skinny Napping” (sleeping in the nude) because it makes them feel liberated. From the 2,000 people surveyed, the results showed Yorkshire to be the top “Skinny Napping” region and Leeds as the UK's “Skinny Napping” capital, apparently suggesting “life begins at 40” (http://www.sourcewire.com/news/75213/yorkshire-revealed-as-the-uk-s-naked-napping-capital&utm_source=journalert-protd&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=ja-protd).

If my 30s continue to be fraught with indecision and personal instability, I can look to the forties as a time I might finally feel comfortable in my skin. As time seems to have sped-up with ever year that passes, I've unfortunately not long to wait. 

Day Of The Dead Derriere

As I am getting aged now and chose to be away exploring foreign lands over half-term, I missed Leeds Film Festival's horror film all-nighter. To make up for it, I attended Day Of The Dead this weekend. In comparison there was no atmosphere and it was a damn sight easier to stay awake but the seats were just as uncomfortable, the timings off and films equally variable.

First up was Room 205 Of Fear from Germany that bored more than frightened. The next film was from Indonesia but bizarrely delivered in American English. Modus Anomali was certainly better than its predecessor but included an unnecessary twist explanation that dragged for a whole 15 minutes. The third feature of the night, Thale, from Norway was not very horrific but an original idea with superb lead performances. The finale of the night proved to be worth the wait. Kern Saxton's Sushi Girl had an incredible cast (including Mark Hamill) and was on a par with early Tarantino.

The shorts weren't as consistently good as previous Night Of The Deads but there were a few gems in there, including a series of animations from the exceedingly talented Lee Hardcastle. My favourite undoubtedly being his version of The Raid in 60 seconds:

Him Indoors surprisingly starred Reece Shearsmith (League Of Gentlemen) as an agoraphobic facing an impending eviction from his family home who gets an unexpected visit from his new neighbour, Pollyanna McIntosh (The Woman):

The equally oddball short, Saw Misgivings, was reminiscent of a darkly humorous Chris Morris Jam sketch - a suburban housewife prepares for dinner guests while being hampered by a hapless husband and medieval head trap that could kill her at any moment:

Unfortunately none of the above shorts seem to be available in full but if anyone else is impressed with Lee Hardcastle's work, more can be found at:

http://leehardcastle.com/

The GREAT British Queuing Tradition

In Love Actually, as the Prime Minister, Hugh Grant says, “Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that.” Unfortunately the same isn't true of departures.

Coming back from Riga late on Sunday night, we arrived just over two hours before our flight, despite already having pre-printed boarding passes. We're always a tad paranoid and overcautious when flying but on this occasion our feelings were justified. The queue for Ryanair was enormous to check-in bags and ate up a lot of this time. Security was surprisingly painless, despite virtually needing individual changing rooms to meet their demands. It was at the boarding gate the whole experience suddenly became rather stressful.

Descending the stairs, we entered a small room rammed full of people reminiscent of a gig venue and moshing crowd. There were groups of passengers waiting for two different Ryanair flights who'd merged into one rowdy mess. The scene was stressful to watch from a distance let alone become a part of. Completely lacking any form of queueing system, people stood shoulder-to-shoulder awaiting instructions that never came.

Eventually one uniformed woman pushed her way through the irritable crowd and started pen marking checked boarding passes – a futile job without queues to track who has been checked and who hasn't. As she passed from passenger to passenger, rumours spread where each flight queue actually began and passengers frantically turned in different directions in order to avoid being at the back while others blatantly stormed towards the doors completely disregarding obstacles in their path – two men actually battered a toddler around the head with their luggage.

While I hate queues in England, I appreciate the fairness of them so found myself getting progressively more incensed by people feigning ignorance and unashamedly pushing in. But hey none of this matters when we land because after the famous fanfare sound we're told we've just had the privilege of being on yet “another on time Ryanair flight”.

The Mysterious Cobweb Fetish

I'm in the bathroom dressing after a shower and the door suddenly opens very slowly. From the light of the bathroom through the open door I can see The Maj porning. He's lying on his back with legs akimbo perfectly framed by the doorway while The Boy slumbers in our darkened bedroom. I'm puzzled by the door's movement wondering if a friendly poltergeist is trying to draw my attention to The Maj's comedy pose. It's only after I lean forward to investigate that an explanation presents itself.

As a house cat, The Maj doesn't get the same amount of exercise an outdoor cat might so we've attempted to create various distractions around the flat to encourage activity. One of these attempts at inspiring physical exertion is a piece of elasticated string that dangles from the bathroom door at a height requiring The Maj to jump in order to successfully attack. On this occasion (like so many others), he has failed to disengage his paw and a trip wire of elastic stretches between the bathroom door and where he lies.

Many times, have I entered the bedroom to find The Maj looking startled as he gives a Nazi salute unable to attach his claws from one of his scratching posts. He is a constant source of entertainment and more recently has taken to spring cleaning. On the terrace outside, he's perpetually licking and eating cobwebs – behaviour perhaps indicative of cats' curious nature. Like small children, animals seem to want to sample the world through their mouths and are attracted to movements, instinctively wanting to touch.

Research shows spiders often eat their own webs as they are made of protein so I at least know The Maj's web fetish is harmless and actually acts as a kind of healthy supplement for him. And while his hair may give everything in our flat a ginger tint, I now know if I hold him up to the ceiling, he's at least happy to get rid of some of those hard to reach pesky corner cobwebs. 

Fashion Refuser

I've never been that interested in following fashion and seem to favour a mishmash of styles. Recent shopping excursions have left me entirely uninspired by current trends and even despairing at times. The Boy and I went shopping a few weeks ago in an attempt to buy him a new “look”. Wanting to make a change, he was keen to try new styles but instead of returning home with a “whole new wardrobe”, we managed to fill his iphone with comical images of hideous chunky cardigans and jumpers with dubious necklines. In order to avoid rail after rail of geometric prints, trawling through charity shops seems to be the way forward and with this in mind, I thought I'd share this bizarre find that caught my eye in the curiously-named St George's Crypt in Oakwood:

Selling School

“So why should my child come here if I'm only going to have to move them to another school after their G.C.S.E.s?” I struggle to answer this question and can truly appreciate how a salesman must feel when faced with an equally awkward customer.

In my first teaching job “open days” were held in the evening after the school day and merely entailed tidying up displays, answering the odd question and eating vast amounts of biscuits to pass the time. I'm not a contracted member of staff here and merely on maternity cover but still part of the school's open day. After numerous staff meetings weeks ahead going over plans for the day, a half-day of preparation and last minute panicked arrangements, I can truly appreciate the amount of work that goes into selling the school – special workshops are being held around school showcasing each subject, there's a concert in the school hall, a stall selling Halloween-themed products made by artistic pupils, tours of the school and even students dressed in costume wandering around as historical figures.

Those visiting the school this weekend will be the September 2013 cohort so will be affected by government plans to raise the legal age of school leavers to 18. After this summer's G.C.S.E results fiasco, schools that were once perceived as successful, really do need to sell themselves to secure “the right” intake. The school I'm working in does not have a sixth form so like so many other schools across the UK may struggle to encourage parents who are sceptical of colleges (“University is for that kind of experience.”) and prefer continuity, it's the right choice for their children.

Every time they make a change or introduce a new policy, the government and examining bodies fail to consider the knock-on affects to teachers, schools and pupils. Education ministers would have us believe there's been no major overhaul to education since O-levels were scrapped but anyone on the front line will tell you otherwise.

Regrets, I have a few

“Poo... wee... jobs...” a small voice gleefully cries, intermittently interspersed with hysterical giggling. This is the sound of a pre-pubescent me recording over one of my Dad's Andy William cassettes. If you listen carefully in the background you can hear a justifiably angry Old Dear shouting, “Are you recording over my Andy Williams tape?”

Back in those days I wasn't a huge fan and was more interested in saying “naughty” words than listening to his music. Fast-forward to the mid-90s and the release of Danny Boyle's excellent big screen debut, Shallow Grave. Aside from introducing me to Ewan McGregor, Shallow Grave helped me to understand my dad's earlier enthusiasm for Andy and prompted the beginnings of my vinyl collection. I have many happy memories of sitting in a friend's car or hanging out in another friend's barn belting out Happy Heart.

Last year, The Boy and I contemplated visiting Andy's Moon River Theatre in Branson for his annual Christmas concert. Although we knew he'd recently been diagnosed with bladder cancer, we thought being Andy, he was indestructible. Branson is far off our ideal North American travel route and pretty tricky to get to. On hearing about Andy's recent demise, I'm gutted we never made it but at the time it just wasn't practical. I can't believe I've seen other crooners like Tony Bennett live doing the festival circuit but not Andy. I'll forever regret not seeing one of my musical heroes but I'm at least comforted by a whole array of fond memories sound tracked by the man. RIP Andy.