A "Wow" Christmas

I hope you've had one?  Y'know, one sublime moment or a special surprise which over the past few days has made you stop what you're doing and shout "Wow!"  No?  Well keep your beak up, it could still happen.  The "Wow" element happened on December 21st, my traditional solo flight to the Leicester Cathedral Carol Service for a bit of a sing song in the old fashioned, non-PC way.  There, I can sing as loud as I like without anyone complaining or calling Gareth Malone's choir police for help; I can dose off like one of the choristers did or engage in a bit of people-watching whilst my shredded nerves settled down for the holiday season. Perched on the end of a row, I let out an audible sigh at the sight of the glistening tree and nodded in respect towards the tomb of Richard III who's in a much better place these days. Ahhh ... I felt lighter already.

Volunteering to sing descant to my tenor this year was Valerian who'd had a spectacularly bad year and needed an injection of festive cheer too.  Sensibly, I'd left Alphonse in The Nest but Valerian had dragged her husband along to see if we could kick a bit of the 'Bah-Humbug' out of him, but he remained resolutely unmoved.  As always, there were tears during 'O Little Town of Bethlehem' mainly from our rusty voices choked with fond memories of absent friends but we persevered.  Imagine my surprise when the Deputy Dean of Leicester wished us all a "Wow" moment at Christmas.  My head said "Yeah, right" and my heart felt otherwise.  2016 had started well but not wow!

Admittedly, through October and November I wondered if I was going to feel anything for the coming festivities except skint and exhausted?  I was both by Bonfire Night but remained hopeful in the face of darker nights and brussels sprouts until I came out of work, staggered to the car and dropped my left bum cheek on a sleepy wasp who'd planned to sleep off the winter nestled into the crevice of my driving seat.  It was my first ever sting and the unfortunate wasp's last; the little git had pierced my work uniform like a taser and I drove home in tears, mainly of humiliation.  Worse it itched for a month.

Dust in large quantities makes me itch too.  In October, I'd thrown my full weight behind increased hours in Medical Records and, despite having some measure of seniority these days, I have been filing.  Constantly, mind-numbingly filing.  Putting away the same notes we'd spent only two days previously pulling out of the ancient racking.  I was still calm of mind at this point and reasoned that 'It's giving me thinking time.' I would keep on writing the epic work in my head and it would be finished by Christmas. HaHaHa! Like that's going to happen and as we ambled into November, our 18 year old fridge-freezer rattled it's last after I'd spent an entire Saturday morning cleaning it out ready for the annual food shopping extravaganza.  This was possibly the same day as the Peugeot's exhaust pipe blew it's last like Gabriel's trumpet, but its non-standard part took all morning to replace instead of the usual 15 minutes Mr Tyres Exhaust-Pipes had initially predicted.  HoHoHo!

And so the dust of ages took its toll on my eyes, bunging up my sinuses and covering my wonderful new specs in cack.  Originally when I had my eyes tested in June, I'd picked some trendy Ted Baker frames and ultra thin, super lightweight lenses which looked great. Unhappily, once they were on my face, I couldn't see much despite the High Street optician's best efforts to tweak them.  He put my lack of vision down to my 'difficulty in adapting to varifocals'.  I put it down to utter tripe as I've worn varifocals for two decades and never had a problem 'adapting'.   By the end of October, I'd returned them for a full refund unable to see car number plates in the dark. Then a stye popped up, a bonus infection discovered after a corridor consultation with a senior nurse.   She pulled me aside and barked.

"What's wrong with your eye?"

"Don't ask." I muttered and tried to push past her. "It's just sore that's all."

"Right!" Sister St Nickie felt my collar and dragged me struggling into a treatment room.  Thrusting a phial of liquid into my hand she commanded me to 'Flush it with this!' and 'Buy some anti-biotic drops.'  I did both and it made no difference but I did feel better being told off by someone who cared.

It took until December pulled up its socks before my eyes were sorted.  I can see perfectly well now with my new chocolate-coloured Italian Murano specs with their classy bling at the sides.  I did a little "Wow' when I put them on for the first time as they're cool; not hipster at all. And to celebrate I showed up in Ashby [de la Zouch] for a cup of Costa coffee with Marie-Celeste wearing my poppy-red coat with the black buttons, black boots and a big smile.  I felt elegant and it's been a while, believe me.  I'd not seen the M&S 'Mrs Santa' advert had I?  By this time, everyone else in the UK had seen it though.  Queueing for a medium macchiato with extra chocolate, I looked down to see a little girl staring up at me, grinning.

"Hello little one ... where's your Mummy?"  She just giggled, toes turned in and bobble hat shaking.  Then bold as brass, she came out with it.

"Hello Mrs Santa."  Marie-Celeste keeled over laughing as did half of Costa.  I was the M&S advert personified and this little girl had massive expectations of red glittering trainers waiting under the tree.  Not wanting to disappoint her in any way, I told her a whopper with a very serious face.

"You will have a "Wow" Christmas and Santa will bring you everything you wish for."  Oh, may her parents and the Choirs of Angels please forgive me?

Christmas preparations became even more furious from that point onwards and I bogged myself down with buying a new frock for our party night at Shearsby Bath.  I snatched a great little black number for £3.50 from the bargain rail in House of Fraser; it said 'damaged' on the label but really it needed major reconstruction.    Shame it didn't fit when I got it home and I had to race back to Debenham's for an alternative bargain frock; this only needed a sparkly cardigan as I didn't have time for underarm shaving or any of that nonsense.  Overall, I had a great time provided I shut out the carping of the others comparing this year to last year's party when the food was fresh not frozen, the drinks were cheaper and the band was much, much better, so I won't be going again.  Not a "Wow" for them either.

Time was running out and with a list of a thousand things to do although I was slumped in front of The Yorkshire Vet with a large sherry; I have a massive crush on the Vets, Julian and Peter, they're superstars.  Stupidly I'd decided to bake cakes instead of writing cards to people who don't want to do it either and next morning was icing buns at 6.00am instead of finding a flashing jumper to wear for the hospital's seasonal lunch.  Hours later, when I finally sat down in a room on my own for a bit of much-needed head space, Amber popped in to show me pictures of her cat at the very moment I burst into tears of exhaustion.

"Can anything improve Christmas 2016?" I blubbed into a chunk of blue hospital tissue as she squeezed my shoulders.

"Nothing short of two weeks in the Caribbean ... sorry Raven."  I reasoned that Burleigh's Gin just might help, although alcohol isn't welcome at a Muslim wedding.  The Prosecco would have to wait too.

Our wonderful neighbours' youngest daughter was marrying the cousin of the chap across the road. They knew each other by sight of course but after a formal introduction in August, the two families moved as one to secure the right venue on the right date.  Her oldest brother told me the amazing news.

"It's on Christmas Eve ... you are both coming, aren't you?" He's a bit of a joker obviously.

"Why Christmas Eve?  That's mental"  He shrugged.

"Nothing ever happens over Christmas does it?   So it's perfect, innit?"  He had a point.

Luckily, I didn't need a frock for this event because I wore the special one I'd had for a decade, hiding in my wardrobe waiting for just the right party.  I nearly gave it to charity five years ago because it's too blingy for Leicester; happily it looked fine with a long-sleeved t-shirt and leggings underneath.  And I'd taken advice from chums Sandra and Fanna who told me loads of insider gossip:  a) don't be on time because it won't start on time, b) eat yoghurt before you go and c) spicy food will mess with your pale English insides so drink the pink tea at the end.  Okay!!  I briefed Alphonse with the same rigour as 'M' would lecture James Bond about to embark on a mission casually leaving out the bit about the pink tea.  Yes, it looks and tastes like a used surgical stocking.  Yes, I tried it scolding hot.  No, I won't be drinking it again thank you.  The whole evening was a blast and when the bride finally came on to the stage looking like a Bollywood princess, we all had a massive "WOW Moment" that made our Christmas truly special. Thanks Mrs Santa.

Tip of the Beak:  And so this is Christmas, for everyone.  And if you're in the sales and hear George Michael singing about his "Last Christmas" please have a kind thought for the man who had the voice of an angel and a crate of demons on his back.  Perhaps his band should have been named "Wow" and not “Wham".

I wish you all the very best for the Festive season and a "Wow" moment of your own - there's still plenty of time y'know?

From Raven, with love .x.

Cage Fighting Children!

Who would have thought a £99.00 bargain trampoline from Argos could create so much mayhem on a hot afternoon?  Me, for a start.  Having turned up my talons with the hospital virus doing the rounds, I'd retired to the cooler, more comforting back bedroom in the Nest for a rest of my vital organs.  As gastroenterology bugs tend to wreak havoc with their hosts, I'd felt awful for 24 hours and bloody awful for the following 48 hours too, and so stayed home to recover my equilibrium.  Except the little ones two doors down weren't about to let anyone in a five mile radius rest.  Back to the trampoline for a moment.

Their loving parents have recently bought the house and decided to level what was left of a mature but overgrown garden back to its original post-war formation.  Okay, so the previous pensioner owners wouldn't have won a gold at Chelsea but they were trying with the 'two lawns and a veg patch either side of a concrete path’ scenario.  Viewers on Escape to the Country would kill for this much land.  After a frantic weekend of 24 hour assault by one man with a digger, the apple tree had gone along with mature shrubs and a luscious bramble and been replaced by wooden panel fencing akin to The Berlin Wall, thus creating a safe haven for their little ones.  Except the 'children vs trampoline' scenario had started to unravel as I observed out of the closed window, wearing earmuffs.

The little boy had learned the subtle art of bullying his much smaller sister at an early age. They'd been sealed inside the trampoline net for safety I'm guessing and every time the younger girl took a bounce on the rubber tramp, her brother gave her a shove and so she screamed "Mummy!" at the top of her tiny lungs.  Such fun!  It rapidly descended to full-on cage fighting for tiny tots and I was utterly enthralled.  I'd grown up in an era of the Moors Murders and Mum instilled into us that 'screaming is a Bad Thing To Do' unless of course we were being abducted.  She actually meant 'kidnapped' because the word 'abduction' heavily relies on the presence of an alien spaceship, a lonely road and very bright lights paralysing the subject from above.  

Having an older brother, I was conflicted about 'the screaming thing' as he was the main source of my childhood anguish.  He was rapidly gathering the scars to prove it so Dad took time off polishing the Triumph Herald and sitting me gently on the trendy white vinyl sofa he explained about 'Crying Wolf'.  Okay, so no screaming then unless we were being properly killed?  Understood.  By now, the children in the trampoline were obviously about to die so I shouted out the window.

"Oi! Which one of you two is being murdered?"  This stopped the bouncing.

"We're not being murdered."  The boy felt he had the upper hand.  "And you're making a lot of noise."

"I'm only SHOUTING because you're being a nuisance."  Still he felt he had maleness on his side.

"My Dad will come round and tell you off."  Idiot.

"Your Dad had better bring friends because I'm not bothered.  Besides he's shorter than me and his command of English is nowhere near as rich as mine."  I could hear other neighbours sniggering in the undergrowth.

"I'm not being naughty."

"True ... but you are being very loud and annoying and I fear for your sister's life unless you leave her alone."  This was a perfect moment because he pulled her up to standing and poked her in the stomach.  Screaming properly this time, she threw up all over him and so karma was rebalanced, at least until the next time.  In my weakened state, I had to throw up too but am now on the road to recovery.

The next time I woke up, I heard gales of manly laughter coming from the office and stumbling downstairs in search of nourishment I found Alphonse doubled up and howling, with tears rolling down his cheeks.  The source of his hilarity was a YouTube classic episode of Space Patrol, an animated sci-fi story from 1963 called 'The Swamps of Jupiter'. If you're too young to remember it then I should warn you it's the forerunner of Fireball XL-5, Thunderbirds and possibly Alien.  I've watched it through this morning and feel the creators hadn't read a Ladybird book on simple astronomy.  Fundamentally, the reason they couldn't contact Jupiter was because they'd got it upside down.  Any aspiring space cadet would know this.  My favourite characters was the moonwalking robot and then there was Marla, the commander's secretary.  Now Marla was a full-bottle-peroxide-blonde but whoever had carved her face knew a thing or two about messing up plastic surgery.  Those cheekbones were sharper than my beak!

Tip of the Beak:  I'm not sure if I mentioned my resignation from the hospital's secretarial pool after deciding I’m too hipster, rock-n-roll and totally science fiction for the new regime?   If not, I apologise as it seems a long stretch since 13th May 2016.  And having had a few days off with this gastro-bug I was reluctant to return to the fray.  Princess Valkyrie is being quite nice to me possibly because I'm no longer a threat to her authority or grand plans for the department, although I never was. You see, I worked for her once before in the 1980s and she doesn’t remember me.  She was the office manager in sole charge of the new word processing machine when we gels were stuck with electronic typewriters with only enough memory for one line at a time.  She gave me an audio tape to transcribe only once; it was her shopping list and the offending dictation was returned with a curt note saying 'Do This Yourself'.  As I'm still working my notice, unable to move on or apply for another role as they can't find a suitable replacement for me, I felt unusually annoyed at the Hospital Director who sent out his usual doom & gloom email last week then rocked up the next day in an Aston Martin.  It beggars belief.

Raven 

The Library of Hope

It's been a while since I've visited a Library, mainly because I've no time to write or read and is a shameful admission for a lifelong bookworm like me.  Alphonse though, takes 'bookworm' and trumps it with his enormous collection of technical books on, well, everything.  The 'Bottomless Pit of Engineering' is a well-thumbed favourite, as is 'How to Make Your Own Guitar' (for beginners) acquired around the time Eric Clapton picked up his first plectrum and 'Teach Yourself Sailing' is a hoot from our perspective being buried in the most landlocked county in England.  Please don't mention Rutland Water which is cold enough, even in mid-Summer, to freeze the flippers off an Emperor.  Alphonse picks up the slim volume occasionally, sighs a lot, then returns it to the Habitat bookcase in the hall with its bulging shelves and slightly bowed top filled with X-File videos back from Series 1.  No, I'm not getting rid of them because our JVC VHS still works, thank you.

Imagine my horror then when he stumbled home with a carrier bag filled with local Library rejects, the main event being an American DVD about woodworking, specifically making your own bench from raw timber.  For the old fashioned amongst you, you might want to buy a decent bench before you start making your own furniture but what do I know?  Essentially, it's a gripping watch about hand tool wood working.  I said nothing because I had a particularly arduous shift in Medical Records ahead of me and feeling totally envious of his now seamless relaxation schedule, I left in a huff.  Returning hours later with shredded nerves and raw talons, I noticed something amiss with The Nest.  It drifted in darkness surrounded by a sea of privet hedge save for a mad flickering light pouring from the living room window, so I let myself in with all the stealth of a rampant hippo just in case any miscreants had broken in.  No, I don't keep a baseball bat by the front door either.

In screenwriting terms, I'd describe the scene before me as 'ALPHONSE, a slumped man, greying hair, spectacles slipped over to one side, an uneaten bacon sandwich on white curled bread gaping open, old newspapers and DVD cases litter the sofa.  Cold tea on the table.  He's fit but has no strength to reach for the remote, being completely hypnotised by the screen, now flickering.'  If I'd banged a gong it wouldn't have ejected Alphonse from his state of hypnosis so I poked him unceremoniously and demanded an explanation.

"Have you been self medicating on Horlicks or what?"  He unfurled a tanned finger, pointed to the screen and then tapped on the box of the DVD.

"It's this thing." He mumbled of the dread woodworking DVD.  "Interesting ... can't keep eyes open."  He drifted off again.  Now I have some sympathy with his situation, as does anyone who's dozed off to the hypnotic voice of actor Sam Neill, narrator of 'New Zealand: Earth's Mythical Islands' on Beeb2 lately.  Yes indeed, they are mythical, awesome and staggeringly beautiful but I've not lasted past the 25 minute mark without reaching for a snuggly blanket, and please don't mention Sir David Attenborough's delicate delivery during 'Blue Planet' either.  Somehow, I had to get Alphonse's blood pumping so I made him a double bagged mug of tea and questioned his motivation.

"It's hardly porn is it?  What can be so bad about a bloke making a bench?'

"Voice.  Three hours ... bloke planing like Gibbs in NCIS.  So relaxed ... can't move."  Thankfully, the caffeine kick-started his metabolic system and he struggled to recover from the slump.  On further questioning it seems the chap who presented the DVD had a southern States drawl more relaxing than a Paul McKenna CD on Ultimate Relaxation.  I have a signed one of these too but am too stressed to listen to it.  and there's strict instructions not to use it in the car whilst driving.

Washed and primped, we went out for tea to a new Turkish eaterie in the Village with Them Next Door.  Alphonse and Ian were buoyed up by the Platter for 4, costing a measly £27.00, vowing to finish it up themselves without including Bel or me in the feast.  When the bulging platter arrived they subtly changed their tune and generously volunteered to share its glorious mezze dips, crusty flatbread and succulent kebabs.  No alcohol, of course.  I had Ayran which, if you've had a gyppy stomach in Turkey for example, you'll know it's a finely crafted drink made from yoghurt and soda water and will calm a bad night's voyage around Cape Horn.  The owner was so impressed that I knew what it was, he made some for me personally.  No, I didn't share with him my torrid tale of getting food poisoning after a barbecue on a Turkish beach however, or the subsequent six weeks off work.

Just as the boys had their elbows in the air over the kebabs, the owner asked if we'd like some fish to go with it?  As a quartet, we just nodded and he got on with delivering a filet of Moby Dick accompanied by more rice and salad. Somewhere between a lamb kofta and the baclava, I decided to check out the decor at the side of me.  It looked like a Library with a vintage typewriter and shelves piled up with matching sets of books you only find in stately homes these days. Then a dusty blue pile caught my beady eye.  Selecting the book from the top, I brushed off the dust jacket and opened it up to reveal the contents of "Teach Yourself Writing."  It's one we don't have and I'm grateful.  Leicester University have just sent me an invitation to join next year's MA course in Creative Writing for a snip of £10,000; I could get a loan they joyfully informed me.  'That's a new car' scoffed Alphonse who did his Metallurgy degree when University education was free in the UK.  So no, I don't think that will be happening either.

Tip of the Beak:  Another Library story from a few days later moved me to tears.  I tuned in to Radio4 to hear a young boy, maybe 12 years old, talking with passion and hope about his Library.  He was besieged in the depths of Syria and the only place of safety he could find was at the heart of the wreckage.  His Library had a cubby hole with 'The Management' on the door.  He had a desk and his own chair, and spoke with fierce pride about how they keep going despite the bombs.  They had all the great Syrian writers he told us, and a more adult helper shared tales of dangerous scavenging raids in the ruined city for books, any book to add to their collection.  Proudly, they admitted, they have a 'top shelf' too.  And a young doctor broke into the interview reiterating the necessity for keeping the medical books together; sometimes it was his only way he said of being able to perform surgery on wounds they'd never seen before.  Finally the frail voice of a small girl ultimately broke my heart.  She told us she was seven, and had only one meal a day of rice and water, and that most nights she goes to bed hungry yet books are her lifeline.  Someday, they all agreed that by keeping the Library of Hope open they will be well enough educated to understand why this is happening to them.

Raven 

Alive and Frisking!!

When the deadline siren sounded for my Script submission, I almost wept with joy.  For five days straight I’d hopped out of bed, still in my onesie, galloped downstairs and applied my beak to the task of creating a 90 minute screenplay.  So thoroughly immersed in the lives of my characters, I forgot about the fundamentals of life and was getting by on a nourishing bowl of fruit +/- dark chocolate rice cakes.  This only lasted for the first two days.  After a challenging yoga session out in the open air, I developed the appetite of a T-Rex.  Luckily, next door’s main pet choice wasn’t a tethered goat or it would’ve been on the menu. 

Confident I would finish early, I accepted a 60^th birthday invitation to dine at Leicester’s finest eatery, The Suitcase.  I don’t know the difference between a restaurant and an eatery and the internet’s no help but in this case, I suspect eateries are for people who can’t cook.  I submitted with two hours to spare, although much work lies ahead try to make the synopsis and treatment match the script; a task not unlike hiking up K2 in new Louboutin’s.

Turfing through my wardrobe generated a choice of outfits.  Alas the backless, baby pink and blue lace number from a summer wedding went straight to the charity bag along with a silver velvet jacket last seen on the album cover of St Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.  I’d also been to Phase Eight and as everything that fit cost twice what I was willing to pay, I’d opted for a dress that aged me 20 years.  I did a twirl in front of the mirror and gazing at the back view, all that came to mind was the main stage at Glastonbury and it went back the next day.

After all the thunderstorms, Friday evening’s air maintained a swampy feel making any garment containing polyester attach itself to the body like clingfilm.  In desperation, I’d ditched my black feathers for a floral wrap number from Wallis but made a subtle miscalculation in my underwear choices.  I tried it on wearing an elderly ‘gardening’ bra in an A cup yet flew out of the Nest in a C cup and found the attractive bundle of fabric gathered at my waist had slithered up to my chin as I clambered up into the front seat of a taxi.  I spent the next half an hour apologising to the driver.  

We flocked at the Gin Palace Bar which used to be a very expensive hi-fi shop; something of a rarity these days.  Its dark interior suggested long nights of inebriation, suspicious plots and after counting up the number of black bottles along the bar, I felt at home immediately.  My relationship with gin has been a long one, especially after two weeks in Ibiza in the 1980s.  Granny’s Bar in Es Cana still exists although the website’s a bit disturbing.  They celebrated a decade of inebriation in 2014, but back in 1982 I was served a highball glass filled to the brim with ice and gin and a tiny splash of tonic; all for a couple of Pesetas.  You could lose days of your life drinking those and I’ve got the pictures to prove it.  On Friday, my beverage of choice on an empty stomach was ‘Burleigh’s London Dry’ with a £34.00 price tag and it tasted divine with a slice of pink grapefruit.  After two of these with slimline tonic, I was ready for that tethered goat again.

Culinary choices as a child were a tug-of-war between what I liked and what we could afford, and daily featured cheese slices, tinned marrowfat peas or a Vesta packet curry with added corned beef chunks (thanks Dad!).  Aged five, I petulantly refused school dinners for a year after being served the malodorous cheese pie and beetroot salad combo; I can still smell it now.

Upstairs in The Suitcase, we finally realised the need to pre-order our food weeks ahead.  We hadn’t and 14 people filled with G&T don’t make decisions in a hurry.  Experience has taught me this and usually I’ll fill up before I leave The Nest.  At one point I was so bored waiting for food that I got up and inspected the ladies room fearing the development of bedsores.  When it arrived, my risotto had lots of parmesan and some green lumps which I think were edamame (windy) beans and tasted absolutely delicious washed down with a good New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc costing £6.99 in the Co-Op or when it’s had the screw top removed by a waiter it becomes £23.00 on the bill.  There was no uncorking fee available I would have smuggled in a case of Aldi’s fizzy for £7.99 which is better than Prosecco.  There, I said it!

I love a good mutton stew or better still a curry for my main course.  Something to be savoured.  They should be gently cooked for at least three hours and left to stand for a day or two.  So will someone please tell me when did it become fashionable to serve lamb not only rare but in danger of exsanguination?  Next time I’m asked how I’d like my lamb, my response will be ‘deceased’ and I didn’t expect it still to be frisking on the plate and surrounded by artwork of brown streaks and green blobs.  One of our number is an interior design student who suggested the blobs might be peas.  Can I please have peas without blender involvement next time?  At 10.00 pm, I refused pudding consisting of a circle of frozen chocolate mousse, tarted up with a chopped up Crunchie bar although the bit I tried tasted lovely.  Those patrons who chose the Eton Mess with Basil Ice Cream felt it was ‘interesting but more appropriate on Dolmio Day’.  

This is the second time in 2016 I’ve been for a meal and landed back at The Nest still hungry.  That’s all good because I’ve been eating French trying to shed a few unwanted kilos.  Small meals with tiny pieces of locally sourced meat, hand picked vegetables from the garden and two Jersey Royal potatoes carved into a likeness of  the Emperor Napoleon.  My inner T-Regina said ‘stuff that’ and as I zombied-out at the weekend, I could barely raise my beak on less than 3,000 calories a day.  All this waiting around burns up some serious carbs let me tell you.

Tip of the Beak:  On Saturday, Alphonse returned from a lengthy stop at Gregg’s feeling a bit confused.  He’d ridden home on the No.54, generally described as a switch-back ride and akin to the Paris-Dakkar rally.  He’d shared his seat with another of the regulars ‘Scouse Alan’ who is a self-confessed alcoholic and generally full of surprises.  Now Alphonse isn’t a great sharer of private information - not rank, name, serial number or retirement status pass his lips - so imagine his surprise when greeted thus.

“Watcher Alphonse … how are ya mate?”  Scouse then took a slug of White Lightening and vodka, and slumped next to Mrs Alan.  Taken aback, Alphonse asked how he knew his jazz name having kept it under wraps.  Alan’s reply was legendary.

“I might be an alcoholic but it don’t mean I’ve got a poor attention span”  For the sheer brass neck of it, Alphonse treated Scouse and the missus to lunch at the chippie with all the toppings.  More than he does for me, that’s for sure.

Raven

What are the odds of Leicester City winning?

According to Piers Morgan writing in the Event Magazine this Sunday morning and a whole raft of bookmakers, at the start of this season Leicester City were 5,000:1 to win the football premiership.  By Monday afternoon [local time] we finally realised that the combined effort of wearing cobalt blue and shouting "C'mon you 8&**3}$s" was all worth it.  At last, the Fairytale has come true, BBC television have turned up at the King Power stadium and in the majority half a million people are out on the streets, honking horns, wearing cobalt blue and proclaiming their affinity with Middle England's finest football team.  My talons are painted, I've dug out my sapphire earrings and short of painting my beak blue, I've joined the Blue Army.

In inverse proportion to the astounding brilliance of LCFC, the fortunes of our Tigers Rugby Club have been slightly lowered of late, so when I was offered a couple of tickets to see the last home game of the season, I dragged Alphonse along to add our voices to the very vocal supporters at Welford Road.  We were playing Worcester Warriors which took me by surprise because I thought we were playing Wolverhampton.  Still, it started off as a cracking afternoon and we had come prepared for everything by wearing ski thermals under normal clothing.  I'd been caught out before.

Having seen many Tigers' players in the flesh, their vast bulk seems to blot out the sun as they amble down the corridors of power.  I've seen them play before too but on the last occasion they were pitted against a South African junior team who resolutely stamped on their stripy hides winning 54:20 in the frozen mud.  And I have quite nostalgic memories of my chum Carole's wedding reception held there a few years ago, and the odd sketchy photos of her and her groom holding the Heineken Cup aloft in all its glory.  As her friends united, we danced into the early hours carefully hiding our true feelings about the significance of the joyful day and wept buckets a week later when told she had passed away on her honeymoon.  Another long story I'm not telling.

Like all blokes, Alphonse couldn't wait to get stuck into his part of any sporting occasion, that of shouting, berating the referee and wondering what the devil Worcester had done with their game plan?  He and the ginger bloke in front bonded over a pint whilst I was howling with laughter at the pre-match entertainment.  Heavily supervised small children were lined up, clothed in mini-tiger outfits and armed with adult rugby balls bigger than their heads.   They were then encouraged to launch themselves at the posts and score a tiny try.  Oh, it was adorable.  Then a local tenor who had been planted in the centre of the pitch with a microphone sang Nessun Dorma to get the supporters in good voice.  Without binoculars it was hard to make out his features on the big screen but Alphonse suggested it might be that Welsh bloke who sings in the 'go.compare' adverts.  I think not, I couldn't see the curly moustache.

The public address system lacked any high fidelity so I missed most of the announcements particularly as I was herded up at the back with my hat and earmuffs rammed on.  I joined in with a polite round of applause for the chap who, after 25 years and to celebrate his retirement from the club, gave a cheery wave.  Secretly, I like to think he wanted to do one last victory lap, naked. Thankfully, there were too many minors present for that to happen, ever.

Overall, the actual game of rugby was interesting in that Warriors took the initiative and stormed into an early lead, only for Tigers to claw back the points with a cracking try.  It was tit-for-tat all the way through to the end of the first half when the heavens opened and the visitors seemed to lose heart when faced with Leicester's infamous weather, it flipping from glorious sun to freezing rain in minutes.  I'd been queueing for a cuppa at the Pie & Pint stall and rather than get soaked, I bought two mugs of weedy tea from a burger wagon. Alphonse's brew was fine.  Mine was £2.50's worth of lukewarm dishwater.

In the half-time entertainment slot, we were treated to a brilliant game of 'catch the rugby ball'. Established as a league throughout the county, it involves 10 men [maybe women, it was hard to tell] and 10 rugby balls fired from a cannon into the air and onto the pitch; the aim of the game is to catch [and hold on to] as many balls as possible.  The current leaders of the league have an impressive 8:10.  In contrast, both of these teams needed more practice, significant improvement in their hand-eye co-ordination and a measure of physical fitness; today the eventual winners managed a respectful 4:10.  It was nearly as funny as the tiny tots earlier.

The final score reflected Tigers' domination and Warriors' loss of body temperature; they were beaten 31:17 and a great time was had by all.  And being the last game of the season, the players did their own gladiatorial lap of the pitch to thank loyal supports for their continued efforts in a difficult season.  On the forced walk back into the city centre, the homebound crowd began speculating on our football club's chances of a) winning the Premiership and b) if LCFC could offer any of their spare cash to the Tigers to improve the toilet facilities.  Please help them you Foxes, or next time I'll be nipping along to the King Power rather than brave a frozen rump at half time.  Sorry.

Tip of the Beak:  I'm bursting with pride today, chest feathers puffed out and basking in the borrowed phenomenal glory that is Leicester City Football Club.  And although I've travelled a lot in my life, Leicester was the only place I genuinely wanted to be this weekend; as it's possibly the only place on Earth I'll ever truly call 'home'.  As Gary Lineker said on Match of the Day recently,
"It's Leicester City; it's complicated."
Complicated it may be but who cares?  WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!!!

Raven

Are You Listening?

Indeed I am.  Or at least if I'm not listening, I'm trying to pay rapt attention throughout a half-hour Medical Records meeting that's into its second hour.  The first hour had been taken up with the usual fluff followed by a sit.rep from the Andrex Puppy and her sidekick who had paid a visit to a sister hospital down south.  Their mission was to bring back good ideas of how we could streamline our filing system and the genius at work in her head had seen 'Alphabetised Filing' as the way forward. Now being a bird of positive proportions, I could see how this might appeal to the unwary thus: small hospital with small throughput of patients and no-one in the county of Sussex with an unusual name. Translate this to the multilingual conurbation that is Leicester 2016, and I could see how we would need 50 extra staff to get us past names beginning with Al- in the first month of the project.  Alibone was giving it the full beans in the face of management stupidity and at this point I stopped listening.

Shame on me.  When the second hour of the meeting screeched to a temporary halt because The Fruit Bat had to leave, she nominated me to do the minutes, suggesting I was a faster, better [smarter?] typist than her and could she have them in the morning for editing.  I opened my beak, didn't I?
"How can you edit Minutes for a meeting you've only half attended?"
"Oh don't be naughty Raven.  You just do your best and we'll make up the rest."  Not patronising at all then?
"Sorry?"  I meant 'pardon' but it sailed straight over her Primani hairpiece. "Nine tomorrow will be okay.  Fire it off on an email will you?"  Oh god, someone's taught her jargon.
"But I don't start until noon."  She really wasn't listening.
"Nine will be fine.  I've got to apprise Matron of our progress stat."  Alibone kicked me under the table.
"Better do them stat Raven!" Stat!? Who are you ... Colonel Jack O'Neill of SG1?
"Right.  I'm on it!"  I thrust out my chest with enthusiasm.  Except I was still listening to interminable drivel from around the table 60 tortured minutes later, as we had to be briefed on the building's musical office policy which will be played out over the next month.  See if you can understand this because I'm damned if I can without a flow chart.  Trust me, it rivals Game of Thrones.

The first push happened this week when two bedrooms were converted into an overspill area for Medical Records, locally known as Room 101.  Alibone was thrilled and chirped out without thinking.
"Seventeen years and I finally get a window seat!!"
Let's curb our enthusiasm shall we?  Next week pre-assessment are moving downstairs one floor.  The secretaries already occupying this space are moving upstairs to a room opposite the Kingdom of Princess Valkyrie.  The finance manager has been bumped sideways to her old domain, sending the Spin Doctor downstairs to share with Marketing now they've lost their 'Manager with Cardigan' bloke who only lasted two weeks before bailing out.  Two different offices occupied by 'very elderly medical secretaries of the old school' will be needed for some nefarious purpose so the old biddies will be ejected into the Goldfish Bowl, where I started off and was certainly happier than I am now.  Especially as I am confined to The Smallest Desk in the World and at some point, someone will be made to pay for putting Raven in the corner.

Back in the Bunker I was given special dispensation to abandon file preparation in order to type up the Minutes.  It was only when I hit a snag over whether we'd agreed to go alphabetised or were sticking to the quarter of a million notes we have currently in numeric-only order that I needed help from the office upstairs.  Good Job McGee, one of the engineers, was behind me when I dialled Room 101 on what I believed to be the correct extension.  Nothing happened so I asked for tech assist.
"I'm ringing Room 101 but there's no answer.  Any ideas?"
"There's no-one there."  Another comedian, that's all we need.
"Four of my colleagues are perspiring over tomorrow's clinics.  Guess again."  I had to wait for the lightbulb moment but it came on eventually.
"We took the phones out."
"Why?"  I suspected for sheer devilment but had to give the bloke a chance.
"The management told us to.  We thought it was a bit stupid to be honest because no-one can ring them, they can't ring anyone and at some point there'll be a problem."  I'll say.
"So ... I want a set of notes that I know they've got.  How do I contact them other than email?"
"You could get up and talk to them."  True, I could.
"The new room is to ensure we concentrate on the the task at hand, not go wandering off like Dr Who's assistants."
"You'll have to ring them then, won't you?"  Wahh!

I remember the series of programmes where Sir Gerry Robinson tried his hand at turning the NHS into a profit-making organisation.  To his credit, he gave it the full 110% before admitting defeat.  And yet I'm sure there's a whole barge of wannabe management types out there who would love to sink their teeth into such a challenge.  At my minuscule level, it's far too big for me to understand how it all works especially when I spotted an email from my favourite Gastroenterologist.
"Erm ... my new ward assistant has complained because you sent her a letter using 'Ms' in the title."  I replied thoughtfully at first.
"Only the first time because I didn't know any better.  Now I know, I will stick to her first name if that's okay?"
"Yes thanks."  Then with too much time on my hands I fired off a further small reply.
"When I started here, all the ward clerks were called Jo.  To avoid confusion, I was called Jo too even though I'm Raven.  So imagine my horror recently when one of the nurses asked me when I was leaving and said 'I'll miss you Jo'."  The Gastroenterologist thought I was being sarcastic and didn't believe a word of my story.  Why should he when one of the Orthopaedic Surgeons is convinced I write porn in my spare time ... now there's a rumour worth listening to.

Tip of the Beak:  The Scriptwriting Tutors suggested we listen more to what people really say, insisting that writing great dialogue is very hard and should be as authentic as possible.  This morning, over a lukewarm cappuccino, I cosied up to a table of writers having a bit of a chat at the Phoenix.  They were all male save one lady of an uncertain age, all had iPads and note pads, and there was one bloke at the top of the table giving it his all.  I'd already guessed they were Science Fiction writers and edged a little closer to hear him utter these immortal words.
"Oh absolutely ...  there can be great moments of action in periods of complete silence on screen."  Yep.  Sci-Fi has it and that noise you can hear is Stanley Kubric quietly rotating!

Raven

Coolest Ever Dude

Last Saturday morning was all very confusing.  The sign outside a huge Asda store nestling in the groin of Leicester shouted out ‘Open 24 Hours’ and although my eyes were barely focussing, I’d spotted the basic untruth.  It was shut and the doors refused to slide open whatever I waved in front of them, so I checked my watch.  At 6.58 am, I was starting to panic. I’d had the genius idea of shopping for provisions after completing an early morning dash to deliver ‘Last Minute Alphonse’ onto the first train to Bristol for the annual Hi-Fi Show.  He’d been gifted with explicit instructions to ‘buy nothing or else’ and assured me he was only on a fact-finding mission.  This is akin to Bear Grylls being dropped into the Great African Rift Valley for an awayday.  He would automatically seek out something to jump off whereas Alphonse would need to be dragged away from his favourite German speakers, so blissed-out by the purity of sound that he might just ignore the almighty price tag of £60K. I was invited to attend Bristol to ensure no large cheques were handed over but I have an aversion to the place which stretches back to March 1999.

IT Project Management had been a newly chosen career for me.  I was keen enough to impress my boss with my knowledge of telecommunications and the mobile phone industry and daft enough to swot for a month in advance of the supplier meeting.  Little did I know that these excursions were an excuse for an almighty piss up.  To be precise, the supplier of the first part [BT] would be required to pay the bar bill of the customer [us] which gave our hardened IT Management carte blanche to drink themselves into oblivion, which they did at the San Carlo restaurant and the hotel bar afterwards.  

We had been booked into one of the Marriott Hotels i.e. the most expensive on offer and my reasoning for staying sober was the gorgeousness of my room, the roll-top bath on a raised plinth befitting a movie star and a bath robe you could dive into.  I also realised the meeting and corporate presentation the following morning was in the alternative Marriott, over a mile walk through the city centre.  

It was a struggle but I made it to the marble-lined pool area and downstairs gym at 7.00 am independent of the only other survivor of the previous night’s excesses,the IT Manager of the Distribution Fleet and one very dark Raven indeed.  We were made for each other then but, stupidly, neither of us would admit it and so 'the rest is history' part didn't happen.  After breakfast, the previous night's carnage was obvious.  None of the others could walk straight and most got taxis.  I lost count of the litres of mineral water drunk around the table that morning and observed that no-one paid any attention to the corporate deals on offer except me.  It was Budget Day too and on the way home, I keeled over on the back seat of a BMW 328i with Radio 4 ringing in my ears.  Luckily I wasn’t driving, particularly as I couldn’t account for the Walls Solero stains all down the front of my pale grey suit.  I daren’t look in the mirror either in case my vital life signs were absent.  These days, I avoid the Leicester branch of the San Carlo just in case it unleashes a tide of Bristol-related nostalgia.

With no life coming from inside the superstore I used the ATM, turning around to make sure there was no-one behind me to steal my pin number.  In reality, there was no-one awake within a half-mile radius of me and the only object of interest nearby was the enormous phallus of the National Space Centre rising into the sky through the dripping mist.  The last time I was there, they had a TARDIS but it’s vanished apparently.  And just as I considered heading to Tesco, I heard banging coming from behind me.  Urgent and insistent, the security guard was knocking on the window and shouting ‘oi!’ to attract my attention.  He mouthed something and believing I was deaf as well as dense, he shouted through the glass.

“Seven!  We’re open at seven.  I’m getting my keys.”  

And true to his word, I was in the warm at 7.03 precisely and outnumbered  10:1 by incredibly cheerful staff.  As the sole customer you’d think I’d do the whole 26 aisles in ten minutes then head home wouldn’t you?  There was no way I was going to pass on such exemplary customer service which out-greeted the staff of John Lewis.  I progressed slowly through each department, hauling into my trolley all the kit needed to give our jaded bathroom a ‘Death in Paradise’ vibe with watermelon coloured towels and a vibrant, retina-destroying shower curtain.  I ambled through the Home section heaping scented candles and knick-knacks onto the pile.  My hand trembled as I approached the pot pourri and later as I delicately arranged it in the bowl with the precision of an Australian bowerbird, I could hear Alphonse’s voice echoing from Christmas when I bought a pack of Frankincense-scented nuts and dried fruit from M&S. 

“You HATE poo-pourri.”  Honestly, anyone would think it contained toe-nail clippings.

“No.  What I hate are ten year old bowls of dust and crap masquerading as pot pourri.”  And plastic flowers, but that’s another story.  “But this is new stuff.”  

Besides I was having fun.  I never have time these days to stop and stare, to go swimming at dawn or to spend an hour over breakfast and I was determined to make the most of this small, meaningless task.

After half an hour I stopped being ‘the crazy lady’ and stepped up to ‘valued customer’ when I was overtaken by a bloke in Leicester City-themed jammies.  It was zero degrees outside and -4 in the freezer section yet this chap was wearing flip-flops.  Heading through the wine section for a second pass, I picked up some joyously cheap Sicilian white which sparkled as it went down with my fishcakes much later.  I even saved some for Alphonse who is pining for the return of Inspector Montalbano.  As the store started to fill up and customer numbers reached double figures, I took my cue and gatecrashed the checkouts, having spent triple the amount I’d normally hand over and barely any of it was real food.  It was 8.00 am.

Tip of the Beak:  At 8.00 am this morning as I walked from the Retail Cathedral to the hairdressers, I heard the unmistakable sound of a Bentley approaching along the pedestrian-only route into the City Centre.  This acuity of hearing takes practice and I’ve had lots in this lifetime.   The car was black with immaculate coachwork; it even sounded black.  It had a cream leather interior which you could just glimpse through the tinted windows and as it pulled alongside me, the driver’s window slid silently open and out came a manicured hand complete with awesome wristwatch.  The dude held a remote control device.  He pressed it once and the shutters of the classiest jewellery store in the city started to rise.  The rollers weren’t silent but I was speechless; my jaw was hanging open.  It was the coolest thing I’d ever seen and I vowed to be up early in future to experience more of the same.

Raven

The Force Awakens ...

Our old mattress was like sleeping on the surface of Mars.  In stark contrast, our new Sealy 5* experience with pocket springs is heaven although the memory foam topping hasn't quite remembered my bird-shaped curves yet.  Still, it's early days and even as I stretched out in the showroom, I knew it was 'the one'.  I let out a long yoga-type sigh as I lay staring at the ceiling and so did Alphonse as he handed over the credit card.  So why am I wide awake at 6.00 am with my force on full blast?  I'm shivering and my ankles are blue but my brain's on 'red hot' and bursting with ideas for a screenwriting course I start on the 2nd of February.  Normally, I prepare by drinking sherry and watching tele in bed although this is proving difficult.  I'm missing the old, noisy springs, the nightly 'comfy-spot-jiggle' and sleeping with my talons dangling over a floppy edge thus the necessary concentration for the task ahead has to be done in sub-zero temperatures.

On Epiphany, I trotted off to see The Winter's Tale filmed from a live performance at The Garrick Theatre in London.  Like most British school children, I've studied all of Shakespeare's greats and analysed them to death thus wringing out any enjoyment left for my future self.  Having drooled over Toby Stephens in Hamlet a few years ago, I decided I was finally Shakespeare'd out.  Joyfully, The Winter's Tale has changed all that.

I'll precis the story for you.  Leontes, Sir Kenneth Branagh, is the King of Sicilia.  Overcome with imagined jealousy, he goes bonkers in a heartbeat and by the end of Act I has banished his baby daughter to the farthest corner of the kingdom.  He is kept in check by Paulina, Dame Judi Dench, in this a torrid tale of abandonment and ruined friendship and seems only to live for his misery.  Sixteen years seems excessive in holding a grudge but I managed it once. Act II starts off in a very jolly way but the redemption of Leontes arrives when a column of white light reveals him with his back to the audience, completely alone on stage.  Sir Kenneth didn't need words to convey the ice in his heart.  He was being snowed on and it was breathtaking.  Later when Leontes sees the statue of the wife he believes to be dead and wants to kiss her lips, his only hope is Supersavers.  There wasn't a scrap of dry mascara in the house, and that was just the men.  And in the missing decades since the last Star Wars movie, how I wish the scriptwriters had taken a look at this glorious production, because in parts of The Force Awakens I thought they'd taken leave of their senses.

Tell me you've seen it.  Unless you live in an electricity-free facility hidden deep under Derbyshire, you've surely seen it?  And probably the previous six episodes? So, mid-movie, when Princess Leia and Han Solo clap eyes on each other after years apart, it's a real shock when he says this.
"You've changed your hair."  In my head their fiery relationship suggests his first words might be along these lines.
"What the flip happened to Ben, Leia??  I left him with you and his daft Uncle Luke and now he's wearing black, worshipping Vader's helmet and trying to dominate the Galaxy."  Not an uncommon reaction from any father whose son has recently joined the Goths.  And why, does their son look more like Professor Snape than the Skywalker/Solo gene mix might suggest?

When we're reintroduced to C3PO, he has a red arm to co-ordinate with his shiny gold body.  Worse, there's an awful dialogue line thrown in at random.
"Excuse the red arm, I must get it fixed sometime."  Pardon?
This is akin to having a new wing bolted onto your Ferrari and forgetting to have it resprayed.  Nuts! And now that R2D2 has felt the force again and recovered from a massive 16 year sulk, will it pitch in to help redeem Ben Solo from the darker-than-dark side?  I can't wait.  Although I'm concerned about the engineering prowess of the new, ultra-cute BB-8 droid.  Rotating on the gritty sands of Tattooine would surely shut down his momentum drive like a cheap set of castors on a shag pile carpet.

And there's that uncomfortable moment when the two worlds of Bond and Star Wars collide in the seven minutes it takes for the weapon of mass destruction to power up until someone presses the red button.  Lets also forget the tedious speech about the New Order.  To the poor kid brandishing a light sabre on the front row at Vue, Leicester, it must have felt like seven days in his Yoda hat. Of course I loved it but I wouldn't have taken the scriptwriter's job for £20m, although the chamber of my heart totally dedicated to science fiction is beating again with renewed vigour. I had to hide my Darth Vader advent calendar behind Amble's filing cabinet before Christmas.  The eyes followed everyone, everywhere and someone complained.  But it was the eyes and real tears shed by actor Shaun Evans which prompted me to chose Endeavour as my third project.

Yes it's set in the 1960s and the production designers have done a glorious job but I don't remember our homely decor being quite that vibrant.  It was much dingier somehow and there are still parts of the Nest that when you apply a wallpaper scraper too close to the plaster, you find evidence of a darker past.  All wallpapers were tinged brown in those days because everyone smoked and pipes were cool.  It's a big surprise that our lungs aren't cured like kippers.  The core of Endeavour was to get to the bottom of why Morse remained unmarried throughout his life.  Initially, I thought it was down to Colin Dexter's excellent characterisation of him but in these enlightened times, it seems every tale must have unrequited love in the mix. And young Morse was no exception in his struggle to express burning passion for his boss's daughter, Miss Thursday.  After a traumatic bank robbery goes awry, she runs off with her suitcase leaving Oxford forever and leaving no forwarding address.  But isn't Morse a detective?  Why didn't he 'detect' her whereabouts and write to her?  Better than being miserable for decades.

Some of the messages were too subtle for me unlike the scriptwriter's nod to my favourite author.  When Inspector Thursday gave a packet of cigarettes to his peroxide-coiffeured PC, he told her to keep the pack hidden in the pocket behind her notebook.  A tip from his old Guv'nor he said, with a nod and a wink, "Inspector Vimes of Cable Street".  Brilliantly shoehorned in I thought from the pages of 'Night Watch' by Sir Terry Pratchett.  Can we have more of those please, if only to keep me on my scriptwriter's toes whatever shade of blue they are.

Tip of the Beak:  Alongside David Bowie, Alan Rickman and now Sir Terry Wogan, there was another great loss to the world of entertainment last week, Glenn Frey.  He knew a thing or two about killer lines and is credited for adding "It's a girl, my Lord, in a flatbed Ford slowing down to take a look at me" to Jackson Browne's smash hit song, Take It Easy.  It wouldn't have had the same resonance had it been about a flat in Bedford, England but it did secure fame and fortune for a little known band called The Eagles, as well as for the town of Winslow, Arizona.  No wonder they put up a statue to him.

Raven