Bring Me Sunshine... (Why I Will ALWAYS Love Morecambe & Wise)

I have always loved comedy.  There was a time in my life where it seemed like every other weekend, I would disappear to some comedy club or other, to see what the stand ups were like there.  When comedy is good, it can make you forget your troubles and you can experience the wonderful freedom of simply letting go and laughing out loud.

I like all sorts of comedy, really.  Of course there are some styles I dislike and some comedians I just don't find funny, but for the most part, I'll give anything a try, from acerbic stand-up, to parody songs, to modern-day sitcoms.

My love of comedy came, as so much of my great loves have, from my childhood.  My sister and I watched a lot of the stuff our parents (and their parents) liked.  We giggled at Carry On films, we watched so many episodes of Dad's Army that we could practically quote scenes and we were introduced, via BBC repeats, to the magic that was Morecambe and Wise.

Eric Morecambe (born John Eric Bartholomew) and Ernie Wise (born Ernest Wiseman) had been child performers on the old UK variety scene.  Eventually, they'd teamed up (whilst still only in their teens) and formed a double-act, which went on to become quite probably the greatest comedy double-act the UK - and possibly the world - has ever seen.  Their television shows attracted enormous audiences 

and their Christmas specials were absolutely not to be missed, featuring big-name stars of stage and screen, practically queueing up to make fun of themselves.  

Tom Jones found himself equipped with a new pair of backing singers...

Of course, the days of Morecambe and Wise dominating the Christmas schedules are, sadly, long gone.  Eric Morecambe suffered his third heart attack in 1984, as he left the stage at the Roses Theatre in Tewkesbury.  He died a few hours later, aged just 58.  Ernie Wise was devastated at the loss of his oldest and dearest friend and, heartbreakingly, read the lyrics to "Bring Me Sunshine" (the song the double act were famous for singing at the end of their shows) as a eulogy to his comedy partner.  Although he outlived Eric and appeared on stage and television, Ernie suffered a series of mini strokes and heart problems in the years following his partner's death.  He passed away in 1999, aged 73.

So it is, that Morecambe and Wise are something of a memory, now.  But what a memory.

In today's hectic, sharp-tongued world, there are, it seems, hundreds of comedians out there, just waiting to tell us what they dislike about modern life.  And of course, there's nothing wrong with that.  As I said, I find all kinds of different comedy entertaining and I can definitely get on board with the ranty, putting-the-world-to-rights style of many of today's stand-ups.  But Morecambe and Wise weren't about that.  They weren't wanting to moan about the cost of living, or go off on a political rant.  These were two men from a variety hall background - they wanted to sing, dance, tell jokes and make people smile.  They wanted to entertain.

Unlike many modern comics, Morecambe and Wise had no intention of resorting to cruelty or mockery without purpose.  When a guest star was made fun of, the audience could tell that it was never being done with any kind of malice.  It was, simply, just funny.  When the famous conductor & composer, Andre Previn appeared as a guest, he was constantly referred to as "Andrew Preview" and Eric Morecambe delighted in seemingly frustrating Previn with his deliberately bad piano playing.  Whilst Previn was undoubtedly the stooge for Eric and Ernie's comedy, he was never personally insulted or put down.  In fact, his rather superb (and unexpected) comic skills instead meant that the "Andrew Preview sketch" has gone down in history as one of Morecambe and Wise's greatest moments.

Presenting: "Andrew Preview" in all his glory.

Eric and Ernie sometimes told a risque joke, or alluded to adult themes, but they were never, ever crude and their shows were free from bad language, meaning the whole family could enjoy them together.  There was no need for cussing or insulting anyone - they were just happy to make people laugh by doing something silly; performing with the kind of genuine warmth for one another, as well as for their craft and their audience, that endeared them to viewers in their millions.  

Eric and Ernie may have mocked one another on stage, but the many years of friendship behind their eventual television success always shone through and you never felt that the pair were anything but mates as well as colleagues.  Their lampooning of one another simply came across as the kind of harmless banter that is inevitable between two people who know one another very well.  From Ernie's despair at Eric's supposed lack of intelligence, or appreciation for the finer things in life, to Eric's mocking of Little Ern's height and his constant insistence that Ernie wore a wig ("but you can't see the join!"), the pair were always happy to be the butt of their own jokes.

Yes, when you watch some episodes back, a little of the humour is dated.  But there is something genuinely wonderful about stepping back into a time when comedy was simply for fun, without trying to spread a message or cut anyone to the quick.  When you watch Morecambe and Wise, you can see the love for performing that Eric and Ernie both had, as well as the immense skill they had in doing the job.  It's not hard to imagine the enormous amount of work that went into making a show that was adored by millions, yet the boys managed to make it look effortless.

Sometimes, we don't want to think about anything too deeply; we just want to switch off and have a bit of a laugh.  And that's what Morecambe and Wise gave us.  A chance for a good belly-laugh.  An opportunity to enter a world of silliness and fun, in which of course two guys would choreograph an entire dance routine whilst making breakfast!

I was talking about Morecambe and Wise to someone the other day and I described an evening in, watching their old Christmas specials, as being like "a really big, squishy hug."  It's heart-warming.   It's hilarious without being nasty.  It's silly.  It is, at its heart, just very, very funny.  It was after that conversation that I decided to use one of my weekly bedtime stories here on my blog, to pay tribute to the boys.

I may have only been eighteen months old when the world lost Eric Morecambe, but I grew up watching him and Ernie and loving them.  And now, three decades later, they're still bringing me sunshine.

Bedtime Story (19/8/2015)

As a heads-up, at some point between Friday and Sunday, I intend to write a blog post in which I gush over my enormous love for Morecambe And Wise.  The above gif is making me smile like there's a hanger stuck in my mouth, because pretty much anything featuring Eric and Ernie always does.  This week's bedtime story is dedicated to them, for always bringing me sunshine...

That's What Friends Are For

Eric and Ernie had been rehearsing for weeks.  Now, the school talent show was just a few days away.

"So," Ernie said, scratching his head.  "You do that joke, then I do my dance and we end on a song, yeah?"

Eric nodded, pushing his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose.  "I reckon we're a shoe-in for first prize, you know," he told his friend.  "Everyone else is either acting, singing, dancing or telling jokes.  We're the only ones doing everything!"

Ernie grinned.  "What are you going to buy with your prize money, if we win?"

Eric let out a long puff of air.  "A new football, maybe," he mused.  "And a football shirt to wear whilst I'm having a kick about."

"And we'll each get a trophy," Ernie reminded him.  "That would look so cool on my bedroom shelf.  I've cleared a space already, just in case."  He glanced up at the shelf on the wall and clapped his hands.  "I'm so excited, Eric!"

"Well, Monday night will be here before you know it," Eric replied.  He glanced down at his watch.  "I've got to get a move on; we're off to see my grandparents this weekend and mum wants to leave before rush hour."  He smiled as he gave his friend a quick hug goodbye.  "I'll keep practising, whilst I'm away!"

Ernie nodded his head.  "Me too," he promised.

The weekend passed by in a blur, as Eric spent time with his family and grabbed every spare second he could find to practise the routine he and Ernie had so carefully planned.  By the time he arrived home on Sunday night, he could barely wait to see Ernie and have one last rehearsal before the talent show, the following evening.  But when he rushed round to Ernie's house, he was in for a nasty shock.

"He's ever so poorly," Ernie's mum told Eric, when she opened the door.  "We had an emergency doctor round yesterday and he thinks it's flu.  Bless him, Ernie's got a really high temperature; he's shivering and his joints are hurting him...  I've not seen him this ill for a very long time."  She sighed and shook her head.  "I'm sorry, Eric.  There's no way he'll be well enough for school tomorrow and that means he won't be able to take part in the talent show, either."

Eric's shoulders dropped and his mouth hung open.  All of their plans and dreams seemed to come crashing down around his feet.  He swallowed hard and shuffled on the spot.  "Can I see him?"

Ernie's mum wrinkled her nose.  "Well...  I'm sure he'd want to see you, but..."  She sighed.  "Okay, come in," she told him.  "But don't get too close. I don't want you catching this as well."

Eric climbed the stairs and gently pushed open the door to Ernie's bedroom.  The room was dark; the curtains were closed and the light was off.  Ernie was lying under the bedcovers, looking thoroughly miserable.  "Eric?"  He croaked, as his friend entered the room.  "I'm so, so sorry."

Eric shuffled into the room.  "Don't be silly," he insisted.  "You can't help it."  He forced a grin, clapped his hands and fiddled with his glasses, so that they rested wonky on his face.

Ernie chuckled in spite of himself.  "You look funny like that," he said.  "You should do that tonight, in the talent show."

Eric rearranged his glasses and quickly shook his head.  "Not a chance," he replied.  "I can't do it without you.  We signed up as Eric and Ernie, not just Eric!"

"But you'll win, Eric," Ernie pressed.  "You're funny and you don't need me there; you can sing and dance without me.  Then you can go and buy that football and we'll have a kick about when I'm feeling better."

"It won't be the same without you, Ern," Eric protested.  He hated seeing his best friend so crestfallen, so he rushed to the window, just as an ambulance went speeding by, with its siren blaring.  He turned and gave Ernie a broad grin.  "I tell you what; he won't sell many ice creams going that fast," he joked.

Ernie giggled and shook his head.

"Shall I do a dance?"  Eric broke into a shuffle and beamed as the smile on his friend's face grew wider in response.  "See, look at that," he told Ernie.  "You look better already!"

"That's because you make me laugh," Ernie replied.

Eric dug his hands into his pockets.  "That's what friends are for," he said, simply.

"I really mean it, you know," Ernie said, his voice sounding a little weak.  "You could win the talent show on your own, tomorrow night."

Eric shrugged his shoulders.  "We'll see," he replied.  "Listen, you look exhausted.  I ought to go; some of us have got school tomorrow!"

Ernie smiled.  "Let me know how it goes," he said, managing a wave as his friend left the room.

The next day dragged for poor Ernie.  He managed to get out of bed a few times, but he spent much of the day under his duvet.  At ten to six, his mum came in with a bowl of soup.  "Ern?"  She sat on the edge of the bed.  "How are you feeling?"

Ernie let out a long sigh.  "I wish I was there to cheer him on, mum," he mumbled.  "The talent show starts at six o'clock.  He'll be nervous and I'm not there to calm him down."

His mum stroked his hair and gently kissed his forehead.  "Eric's going to be fine," she promised.  "You just need to concentrate on getting better."

"I know," Ernie breathed.  "I just wish I was there.  I practised so hard, mum..."

His mum rose to her feet, hearing footsteps on the stairs.  "Hear that?"  She asked.  "That's probably your dad coming up to check on you, too."

The door creaked open and through the gap, an arm poked through, waving.  It was too small to belong to Ernie's dad.  Ernie sat up in bed.  The arm disappeared and when it came back again, the hand was holding a pair of glasses.  "These," a voice said, "are for seeing around corners.  And you, Ernie, look terrible."

Ernie burst out laughing, as Eric bounced into the room.

"What on Earth are you doing here?"

Eric popped his glasses back on and shuffled his feet.  "Couldn't do it without you, could I?"  He nodded hello to Ernie's mum as she left the room, then sat on the edge of Ernie's bed.  "We're a team, you and me, aren't we?"

"But what about the trophy and the new football you were going to get?"  Ernie frowned.

"You've got ears like a trophy and if you curl up small enough, I'm pretty sure I could use you as a ball..." Eric joked.  He sighed.  "Seriously, none of that matters.  I thought about going up on stage without you, but after all the practising you'd done for the show, it just didn't feel right.  If you're not up there with me, I don't want to do it."

Ernie blinked back at him.  "That's the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me," he said.

Eric grinned.  "Ah, the act was rubbish anyway," he teased.  "We'll come up with something even better for next year's talent show and we'll definitely win.  And we'll win it together."

"That's what friends are for," Ernie nodded, remembering what Eric had said the previous evening.

"Hey," Eric tutted.  "That's my line."  He rose to his feet and nodded to the door.  "I ought to get going," he said.  "I'll come back and see how you're getting on after school, tomorrow."

As the door closed behind him, Ernie gazed up at the space he'd cleared on his bedroom shelf for the talent show trophy and a smile crept across his lips.  He didn't need a prize.  He already had something much more valuable.  And that's what friends are for.

THE END

Today's Rant: Ageism Makes My Blood Boil...

Yesterday, I saw something that made my blood pressure creep up.  It was a trivial comment - something that many people might have brushed aside and forgotten about - but it lingered with me for the rest of the day and the more I thought about it, the angrier I got.

I don't believe in the term "guilty pleasure."  As long as you don't derive pleasure out of doing something horrific, like using puppies as tennis balls, or enjoying the music of One Direction, then why should you feel guilty about something that makes you happy?  So, I won't apologise for saying that I get a great deal of joy out of watching BBC3's reality TV show, Don't Tell The Bride, in which a couple are given £12,000 towards planning their dream wedding, on the condition that the groom organises everything (even buying the wedding dress) in just three weeks and the bride has absolutely no input whatsoever and can't see or speak to the groom for that three week period, so that everything he (or she; the show has also featured gay and lesbian couples) plans is a complete shock on the big day.  The resulting programme almost always makes me laugh, as a hapless groom orders a dress in the wrong size for the bride, or comes up with a themed wedding so bad it's brilliant.  

For several years, Don't Tell The Bride has been a staple of the BBC's freeview channel, BBC3, but recently, it was given an upgrade and a new series aired on BBC1.  For the new, prime time BBC1 series, the show made three simple changes to the usual format:  They changed the narrator, they increased the wedding budget to £14,000 and they decided to feature couples of different ages, rather than focusing on couples in their early 20s as usual.  As a result, we had a few brides/grooms in their late 30s and 40s, mixed in with the usual young lovers.  For me, the only thing that was ever so slightly less enjoyable than usual was the change of narrator, as BBC3's Rebecca Statton is wonderfully sarcastic and witty, whereas BBC1's Zoe Ball seemed a little hesitant to go to some of the cattier (and therefore hilarious) places Rebecca takes her narrative.  That slight niggle aside, it was the same show entirely.

It still gave me this familiar feeling... YAY!

So, when I stumbled upon the Don't Tell The Bride twitter feed (oh, okay, I searched for it...) and saw that they'd retweeted a comment from a fan that made me bubble over with rage, it came as something of a shock.  The tweet was from a viewer commenting that the show is better on BBC3, "because who wants to see a middle aged couple get married?"

That was it.  No other reason for the BBC1 version of the show being inferior.  It was just because the BBC1 version featured "middle aged" couples, as well as some of the young ones that have featured since the very start of the BBC3 series and who continue to feature on the latest BBC3 incarnation.  To this viewer, the mere fact that a couple of the brides/grooms were in their late 30s/40s, was enough to put her off the BBC1 version of the show.  

Now, let me reiterate:  The premise of Don't Tell The Bride was exactly the same.  The grooms were still trying to create over-the-top weddings, with crazy themes.  They were still buying wedding dresses that the brides would have little choice but to wear, whether they liked them or not.  The same problems with running out of money due to silly spending, or failing to send any invites with only a week to go until the wedding were still happening.  All the elements that make the show were very much still there.

But "who wants to see a middle aged couple get married?"

It won't shock you to know that the girl who tweeted this comment looked fairly young.  But young doesn't have to mean ignorant or immature, so why was she making such an ignorant, immature comment?!

Probably because ageism, however we try to protest otherwise, is still rife in our society.  People in their teens and early twenties seem to view thirty as ancient.  God forbid you're past 40; you're practically a fossil.  You need only look at the way female television presenters in particular are put out to pasture once they stop being youthful and sexy, despite still being more than capable of doing their jobs, to see that we tolerate ageism in every sector of life.  When my mum and I stopped working at a pre-school we'd been employed at (as manager and room supervisor, respectively) for seven years, whereas I was optimistic about finding new employment, mum, at 56, admitted that she knew she would probably be viewed as "too old" by anyone who interviewed her.  Never mind the wealth of experience she had in the field, or the fact that she held glowing references.  She was aware that due to her age, she could potentially struggle to find work again.  When she did begin a new job, she spoke at length of her "gratitude" to the company for taking on an older person.  And that makes me sad, because why shouldn't they have taken on an older person?!  

But all too often, it's fair to say that older people are passed over in favour of the young.  And it's not just in the job market; it's a frighteningly general thing.  We don't show anywhere near as much care or respect for the older generation as we should.  For some reason, far too many people still view anyone much over 65 as being "past it," or uninteresting.  

Well said, Sir Ian.

Ageism is, perhaps, one of the most stupid "-isms" around.  Whilst discriminating against any group of people is quite obviously wrong, when we discriminate based on age, we're behaving as though we, ourselves, are immune from the passing of time.  Unlike any other form of discrimination, this is the one where we almost certainly will eventually become the people we're discriminating against and therefore we'll be put in the position of experiencing an uncomfortable role-reversal.  That girl, so mortified by the idea of having to watch a middle aged couple getting married, might find that she doesn't meet "the one" until she's in her late 30s and becomes a middle aged bride herself.  Those bosses who turn down potential employees because they're older than the other candidates, could eventually find themselves interviewing for jobs many years later and being turned down due to their age.  It is, frankly, a circle of stupidity.

If we're lucky, we'll all be old one day.  Our hair might turn grey and there'll be lines on our faces that aren't there in old photographs.  But, health providing, we'll still be the same people, with the same skills, memories and sense of humour.  Our thoughts and opinions will be no less relevant.  Our capacity to love, to fear and to dream won't simply disappear.  And we'll crave - and deserve - the same level of compassion and respect that we expect to receive now, whilst we're in our (relative) youth.  We'll have gained a few ailments along the way, I'm sure, but we'll have gained a whole lot of experience with it.

Years ago, I overheard a teenager say to his friends: "Old people are so boring."

Pictured: My reaction.

Through my dad's involvement with The Royal British Legion and also simply from knowing people as they've grown older, I can say that I've spent evenings in the company of people in their 60s, 70s and even 80s and laughed more than I have with younger acquaintances.  I've danced, I've gotten drunk (their fault completely, I should add) and I've heard some of the most incredible stories from them, too.  If you think about it logically; the older a person is, the longer they've lived and therefore the more experiences they've had to tell you about.  As the world constantly moves forward and changes, people of every generation have memories that become stories.  Whether it's about running down the road, chasing after a milk cart, or my generation boring younger people with stories about taping songs off the radio onto an old cassette tape, we experience things in our lives that newer generations won't.  And that makes our memories different and interesting.  Last year, a walk with my dog ended up taking well over an hour, because I stopped to talk to an elderly neighbour and was engrossed in the story of his wedding day, which had taken place more than fifty years earlier.  People of all ages want to be listened to and shown some respect - that's not something that magically stops once you reach 50, 60 or 70.  When you open the papers and read headlines about elderly people dying of loneliness, then you have to ask whether that's the kind of society you want to live in.  It's not one I could ever take pride in being part of and I think it's vital that we stop seeing the elderly as being past it, or not worth spending time with.  They're older, that's all.  They're still people.  And that's the point, really...We've got to start viewing people as people, rather than numbers.  Because, as the old cliche goes, that's all age is, really - a number.  If you genuinely think  that someone's not worth speaking to because they're older than the people you'd usually converse with, then all I can say is...

I do feel a bit better, now I've had a bit of a rant.  But I think I need to answer the question that started me off on this ramble in the first place:

"Who wants to watch a middle aged couple get married?!"

Me.  Especially seeing as I'll be a middle aged bride, if I'm ever lucky enough to get married.  I enjoyed watching a couple who'd been together for well over a decade tie the knot on TV.  I loved how well the groom knew his bride and I enjoyed seeing how he was overcome with a childlike enthusiasm when it came to giving her the most perfect day possible.  I liked seeing a bride who was finally having the wedding she'd waited years for.

I enjoyed seeing a middle aged couple get married.  I would find it absolutely charming if they had a couple in their 70s tying the knot on the show.  And if that girl really, really couldn't enjoy a TV programme, simply because the participants were a decade or more older than usual...  She has my sympathy.  Time's going to catch up with her, too.

And the bitch in me hopes she gets LOADS of wrinkles...

Bedtime Story (12/8/2015)

Photos that capture genuine giggle-fits are the best.

This week's story is inspired by - and dedicated to - my awesome mum.

Mrs Mudge Won't Mow

Mrs Mudge hated mowing her lawn.  The mower was old and heavy and the grass seemed to grow so quickly, that she had barely finished mowing, before it was time to start all over again.

One day, Mrs Mudge gazed out at her garden, where the grass grew wild and she shook her head.  "No more," she said, aloud.  "I won't mow it.  I've had enough!"

She made herself a cup of tea, picked up her pen and started to do a crossword puzzle.  Outside, the grass continued to grow...

The next day, the grass looked longer, so Mrs Mudge decided on a plan.  She went on the Internet and searched for animals that eat grass.  Later that day, Mrs Mudge went out and bought some grasshoppers from a local pet store.  "There," she said, as she let the insects into her garden.  "I read that they eat grass.  Maybe they'll stop it from growing too long."

But the grasshoppers simply hopped about.  And still, the grass grew.

The next day, the grass looked even longer, so Mrs Mudge went back online.  After searching for a short while, she went out and bought some chickens.  "This will sort the problem out," she declared, as she let the birds into the garden.  "They'll peck at the grass and keep it short."

But the chickens just pecked at the garden fence, whilst the grasshoppers hopped about.  And still, the grass grew.

The next day, the grass was even longer.  Mrs Mudge sighed and headed straight into town, where she bought two goats.  When she got home, Mrs Mudge let the goats into the garden.  "Come on you two," she told them.  "Eat up all that lovely grass!"

But the goats just butted heads, whilst the chickens pecked the garden fence and the grasshoppers hopped about.  And still, the grass grew.

The next day, Mrs Mudge could barely bring herself to look out of the window.  Just as she suspected, the grass was longer than ever!  Mrs Mudge went into town and came home with a cow.  "Everyone knows that cows eat grass," she said, as she let the animal into her rather crowded garden.

But the cow ate all the daisies, whilst the goats just butted heads, the chickens pecked the garden fence and the grasshoppers hopped about.  And still, the grass grew.

At her wits end, the next day Mrs Mudge marched down to the local zoo and came home with an elephant.  By this time, her little garden was running out of room at a rapid rate!  "Munch on that grass," Mrs Mudge told the elephant.  "Or if you won't eat it, stamp it all down!"

But the elephant just trumpeted all day long, whilst the cow ate all the daisies, the goats just butted heads, the chickens pecked the garden fence and the grasshoppers hopped about.  And still, the grass grew.

The next day, Mrs Mudge had finally had enough.  "There's no room for anyone else in this garden!"  She exclaimed.  So, wearily, she trudged back into town and took back the elephant, the cow, the goats, the chickens and the grasshoppers.  Afterwards, Mrs Mudge went back into the kitchen and made herself a well-deserved cup of tea.

It was just as she was drinking her tea, that Mrs Mudge had an idea.  She went back onto the Internet and contacted a local gardener.

"You tried grasshoppers, chickens, goats, a cow and an elephant?!"  The gardener laughed, when she called him on the phone.  "Well, don't worry, Mrs Mudge.  I'll be round first thing tomorrow!"

That night, Mrs Mudge finally went to bed with a smile on her face.  Her garden was no longer crowded and there was no noisy trumpeting to keep her awake.  Soon, the only sound that could be heard was Mrs Mudge's peaceful snoring.

And outside, the grass still grew...

THE END

A Picture Tells A Thousand Stories

This one acts as a reminder that doors are supposed to be closed at night...

My best friends have this little joke they like to share about me whenever we get together.  "We'll get home," they'll all say, "and half an hour later, the photos from today will be up on Facebook."

It's a fair comment.  I'm one of those annoying people who always has her camera in her bag and is forever looking out for a good photo opportunity.  I may not own a selfie-stick, but that doesn't mean that I don't take more than my fair share and every time my friend Lizzie and I come home from Butlin's, I spend at least an hour editing photos on my laptop and uploading them to Facebook (saving the best ones on my camera to be printed out later).  There's a shelf in my room that's pretty much groaning under the weight of several photo albums, all of which are packed with pictures taken over the years - complete with little handwritten notes beside each photograph, serving as a handy reminder of where and when it was taken.

And this photo might be a handy reminder not to eat as much cake as I do, these days...

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words, but for me, it's not simply words.  A picture can bring back a thousand memories, or tell a thousand stories.  When I look through my photo albums, I don't just see dozens of pictures of me and my friends or family in similar places, doing similar things.  I see reminders of days out, in-jokes, times gone by and people lost along the way.  I can judge by the clothes, hairdos or even the colour of the walls in our house as to when the picture was taken and from simply knowing the date (roughly, if I haven't scribbled down the exact date beside the photograph in the album...), I can remind myself of where I was in my life at that time, right down to where I was working, whether I had a crush on anyone or whether it was pre or post abuse (because when you've been through a life-changing event like that, you do tend to look at yourself as two different versions - pre and post).

A photograph can make you laugh, or even make you cringe.  It can cause you to wonder what on Earth you were thinking with your outfit choice, or what the heck you were doing when it comes to the bizarre pose you're pulling.  

A photograph can make you cry.  It can vividly remind you of a person who's no longer around.  It can bring back profound memories of what that person meant to you.  And of course, a photograph of someone who hurt you can cause enormous pain, if accidentally discovered.

For me, a photograph is not merely an image, printed out and stuck in a book.  It's a snapshot of a moment in time.  A memory, preserved forever.

Even if that memory is of thinking you might be about to plummet to your doom...

Yesterday, a friend gave me two new photo albums, complete with spaces for handwritten notes beside each picture I put in.  I have a whole load of photographs to sort out and stick in to the new albums and I'm genuinely excited about getting on with that little project for the afternoon, because I know that every photo I look at will bring back its own memories and cause me to smile, on an otherwise very grey and dull Sunday.

Everything we do - every place we go, every person we meet along the way - shapes us, even if only in a small way.  Pictures help to remind us of the journey we've been on.  And for every step of the journey left ahead, you can bet I'll have my camera with me...

Greedy Guts

I was always skinny.  So skinny, in fact, that when I was a little girl, my dad would lightheartedly tease me, by calling me "Lucky Legs" ("they're so spindly, you're lucky they don't break").  I was that girl who, during my teens, could eat my body weight in pizza, chips, ice cream and anything else you care to mention, without putting on a single pound.  I was a UK size 8-10.  I was decidedly slim and as far as I was concerned, I was just lucky enough to stay that way.

Of course, age has this nasty little surprise up its sleeve.  "Middle age spread" is not a brand of margarine for people in their late 30s, unfortunately.  And as I progressed from my teens to my twenties and now into my thirties, there's absolutely no doubt that I can't eat whatever I like without gaining weight.

But damnit, it tasted goooooooood.

I'm still a UK size 10, just.  But I'm at that point where I own precisely no pairs of jeans in a size 10 that fit comfortably.  See, when I gain weight, it seems to go to just one place: right on my tummy.  I end up with a pot-belly that makes me look as though I'm about 5-6 months pregnant.  But there's no baby in there.  Just a heck of a lot of cake.

Now, granted, I'm normally the first person to moan about women who are only a size 10, but who insist on weeping and wailing about how "fat" they are.  But recently, I made the fatal mistake of googling what my ideal weight is for my height.  I'm only 5'0", so I knew in advance that it was probably going to be below my actual weight.  What I didn't expect - and what I was horrified to discover - was that I was not far off a whole stone overweight.

For the love of GOD woman, order a salad.

Annoyingly, my gut-reaction (pun only slightly intended) to feeling porky is to comfort eat.  Frankly, when Kate Moss said "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels," I just assume she's been going to the wrong restaurants her entire life.  

I'm a foodie.  I don't see food as just a fuel we need in order to live; I see it as a joy of life.  Something to savour.  My grandfather was a pastry chef and cooking is in my blood.  I love experimenting with flavours, trying things I've never eaten before and using food as a social experience with friends and family.  I also have one heck of a sweet tooth.

Doughnuts the size of my HEAD.  That's how much of a sweet tooth I have.

But I also love clothes.  I love pretty dresses and skirts.  And when I try things on and discover that they're not fitting correctly anymore - or aren't fitting at all - that makes me feel lousy.  I can't afford to entirely update my wardrobe with clothes a size up, so that leaves me with only one option.  And that brings me to the point of writing this blog.

It's out there, now.  Short of taking a photo of my ever-increasing pot-belly and plastering it all over the Internet, this is as close as I can get to baring myself online and saying I need to do something about it.  Let's not forget that I also suffer from chronic asthma and any weight gain is bad news for my breathing.  So, I have more than simply aesthetic reasons for wanting to slim down a little and get back into shape.  By writing this blog, I've now made a promise to myself to stop eating like a pig (at least all the time - I'm sure as hell not denying myself forever!) and to try to exercise a bit more (a feat not made any easier by the aforementioned asthma...).  I don't think I need to lose the whole stone.  I don't believe everything I read online and nor do I have any desire to become super-skinny again.  But I do want to be healthier and to be able to fit into my clothes without having to lie down and breathe in, just to do up a zip.

I'm aiming for around 7lbs.  If I can shave that off, I'll be pretty pleased.  I might post updates as to how I'm getting along, now and then, but not too frequently, because let's face it, that would be dull.  Nobody tunes in to read about my wobbly bits.  Not as far as I know, anyway...

So, here I am - a greedy foodie trying to lose half a stone.  Wish me luck!

Bedtime Story (5/8/2015)

Hay fever, hay feveeeerrrr.. We know how to do it!

As much as I love the Summer, I have one little problem with the sun and the pollen-count...  Yep, hay fever!  So this week's story is dedicated to everyone who suffers from seasonal allergies - I hope it makes you smile.

Susannah-choo!

Susannah was awake with the early sun rise,

With a tickle in her nose and an itch in her eyes.

Hay fever!  Allergies made her poor head ache,

No matter how many pills and potions she'd take.

"Come on, Susannah," her sister, Bess, cried.

"It's so hot and sunny, quick, let's go outside!"

But whilst Bess could lie and sunbathe for hours,

Susannah's eyes streamed thanks to pollen from flowers.

"ACHOO!" Sneezed Susannah, blowing her nose,

Whilst Bess danced round the beach with the sand on her toes.

"Achoo," Susannah sneezed yet again,

Whilst Bess built sandcastles and made a dark cave her den.

"I'll stop you sneezing," Bess promised her sister, 

As Susannah's nose ran and she started to shiver.

"They say you need to hold your breath,"

but Susannah simply shook her head.

"That's for hiccups," she insisted to Bess,

so her sister had another guess.

"Try sniffing on some peppermint oil."

Susannah opened a packet of mints and sniffed the foil.

"It's not helping, ah-ah-achoo!"

Susannah spluttered, starting to feel blue.

"Try tugging your nose, like you're pulling it off,"

Bess said, as Susannah started to cough.

But Susannah's nose simply turned bright red

And she continued to sneeze, with a shake of her head.

"That didn't work either," Susannah said. "What shall I do?

I just can't stop sneezing!  Achoo, achoo!"

"Try blowing your nose," Bess said, gazing out at the bay,

But Susannah sneezed mid-blow and her hanky flew away!

"Nothing is working," Susannah spluttered.

"Then we'll just have to get creative," Bess muttered.

"Try standing on your head with your sunglasses on,

Or try gritting your teeth until the sneeze has gone?

Maybe you could  try pinching your lip,

Or fill a bucket with seawater and take a small sip?

Perhaps you should sit with seaweed on your nose?

Or rub garlic all over your toes?

Try hopping on one leg and barking like a dog.

Or have a go at sitting as still as a log.

Go for a swim in the sea, if you're bold.

The shock will stop you sneezing, because the water's so cold!

Or cover your face with a scarf for hours,

So you can't even sniff the pollen from flowers."

Susannah sighed and she shook her head.

"I think I'm allergic to something else," she said.

"Your ideas are so silly," she tutted. "ACHOO!

I think I might be allergic to you!"