Not Air Ballooning

I didn’t go hot air ballooning yesterday. This may not sound that remarkable. There were many other things I didn’t do yesterday. I didn’t do any lion taming, I didn’t go to Canada, I didn’t drink a pint of my own sick. The difference is that I had an appointment to go hot air ballooning at five o’clock in the morning and fully intended to see the sun rise whilst standing in a wicker basket inches away from a flame thrower. However, it was cancelled. For the third time.  Each time has been because of ‘weather’. Each time it has been different weather and one of them I am convinced the pilot just wanted to sit in the sun and eat an ice cream.

It is getting to the point that I feel quite confident that I could be a hot air balloon pilot. There is no actual flying involved, you simply have to leave a message on an answerphone saying that it’s been cancelled. I could do that.

I am possibly being slightly harsh and I am still very much looking forward to our rescheduled flight. Weirdly, although I am terrified of flying, I have no fear at all about being in the air in a basket. It seems quite a gentle way to see the countryside and bimble about. Of course I’d imagine that it could turn nasty quite quickly if a huge gust of wind got you (I suppose that’s why they cancel so many flights) or if the bottom fell out the basket (I suppose that’s why they make you tell them your weight). But unless it’s Richard Branson related you don’t here much about hot air ballooning gone wrong. There’s certainly no ‘Hot Air Ballooning’ disaster movie genre. Perhaps this has lulled me in to a false sense of security.

Imagine how differently we would view things if there was a series of ‘Balloon!’ films. They’d certainly be easier to cast and be able to be made on a much smaller budget. ‘Snakes on a Balloon’ would be thirty seconds long as the offending snake could simply be picked up and thrown over the side of the basket. In turn this could lead to the sequel – ‘A snake fell out the sky and landed on me’. I honestly think that the worst thing that could happen in a balloon would be that you haven’t worn enough warm clothing. Which, given that they cancel flights if it’s not a perfect 22 degrees with no wind speed and no moisture in the air, is unlikely to happen.

Whilst we’re on the subject, please don’t take time out to send me the details of all the horrific things that can happen in a hot air balloon. I really don’t want to know. I have to get on a plane in 3 weeks and I am already wetting myself about that. I don’t have the time for another fear. I am too busy writing the screen play to ‘Snakes on a Balloon’. Set deep in the heart of the British countryside, balloon pilot Samuel L Jackson gets the shock of his life when he actually has to pilot a balloon (the weather conditions being favourable). But this is no ordinary flight. There’s a grass snake on board. Samuel and his three passengers have to decide what to do as their balloon flies dangerously close to the M25.

It’s a winner. 

Heatwave!

Heatwave! A proper, honest to God heatwave. Not our usual four days of 18 degrees and we start putting fire warnings out but a solid week of temperatures around 30. Peaking at 38, which was slightly unnecessary but if you’re going to do it then you might as well do it properly. It also meant I was able to sit in a park at 9-30 at night, not freeze and see a beautiful sunset. 

Not that everyone else thinks that we are doing it properly. Australia launched the slightly saracastic hashtag #prayforLondon as they mocked us for issuing advice on how to deal with the heat. Apparently in 38 degrees they don some Uggs, wrestle a dingo before heading home to eat hot soup under a duvet. It possibly escaped their notice that they are built for heat in a way that we are not. Air con is more of a novelty than a necessity here. It’s also a bit rich coming from people who think 19 degrees in winter is cold.

We also didn’t really help ourselves. We had the obligatory pictures of people jumping in the fountains at Trafalgar Square, of an over crowded Brighton Beach and the Daily Mail telling us we were going to die and issuing screaming headlines telling us that London was ‘Hotter than Johannesburg’.  Well yes Daily Mail, it’s winter there.

I’m sure we’ll all calm down soon. But lets enjoy it’s while it’s here. Let’s just all drink a bit more water while we’re doing it and I’m sure we’ll be fine. It’s probably best to ignore Paul Gascoigne’s tweet: “ If you know of any old people try&get them out the house today as some might find it hard to breath indoors plus try to check there ok xxx” That’s not a thing. I admire the sentiment and would encourage you to check in and get to know your elderly neighbours, but please don’t drag them out of their cool houses and in to direct sunlight. It won’t be appreciated.

It’s also best not to do what I did either. I headed to the beach with thirty thousand other people (we weren’t all in the same car) and got stuck in traffic. Whilst sweating away in the car I decided to drink two litres of water. Just to let you know, drinking gallons of water in a traffic jam is not a good idea. And no, if you put the windows up and try to make the water ‘evaporate’ out of you, it won’t work.

However if you are heading to the beach this summer can I make a recommendation? Take my book with you. It’s not out in paperback and can be purchased on amazon. Do it. You might regret it but I won’t. Buy the 'Joy of Depression'

And if you do like it... leave a review! 

Dancing. English Style

I went to a wedding recently. It was a lovely day, the bride looked stunning, the ceremony was touching and the company was outstanding. Really wonderful. It was in Edinburgh and brilliantly, in the middle of the reception, the Celidh music started up and everyone got up to dance. I stumbled my way through the ‘Gay Gordons’, I was slightly hindered by the fact that I was wearing a strapless dress and was aware that it was working it’s way down to reveal my bra and working it’s way up to reveal my spanx. As pretty much all the dance is spent with your arms above your head it is hard to get a moment to rearrange your dress. I sat out the ‘Dashing White Sergent’ and ‘Strip the Willow’ and I think that was wise. My co-ordination is not the strongest and I could see my partner starting to think I had issues when I couldn’t remember the three moves to the ‘Gay Gordons’.

I used to go to Celidhs at University. Back then I always wore trainers and pretty much relied upon just getting flung about and being drunk. The next day there would always be some kind of dance related injury. I would like to stress that the wedding was far more civilised and no one was thrown off the dance floor and in to a crowd of people. But everyone (save the English) knew the moves and everyone joined in. It was lovely.

…and not something you get an English weddings. I think we’d all be pretty disconcerted if at somepoint in the proceedings a maypole was broken out and everyone was given a hanky and we all broke in to some English country dancing. This makes me sad.

If you fancy a dull challenge, ask someone to name an English Country Dance move other than the ‘dosey doh’. I don’t even know if that’s how you spell it. Perhaps it’s that traditional English dancing involves too many props. Hankies and sticks and special bell straps that you tie above the knees. You also seem to have to wear an all white ensemble and as we all know, only the bride should wear white at a wedding. It would also mean picking a wedding venue based on where you could comfortably situate a ten foot pole with a load of ribbons hanging off it.

I did country dancing at Primary school and I just remember being terrified that the pole was going to topple over and kill us all. Then we skipped around tying ribbons in to knots, then dropped the ribbons and walked off. Never to communally dance again until the school discos kicked in and we could shuffle around to Rick Astley whilst drinking a panda pop.

We’re missing out. Let’s start a dance troop. Let’s storm Britain’s Got Talent. Let’s make leaping around to fluglehorns whilst trashed on cider the new Ibiza. We can do it.

Alternatively – go to more weddings in Scotland. 

The Art of Self (ie)

I'm not sure I have an opinion on Kim Kardashian. I am torn between 'oh good on her, what harm is she doing' and 'Oh for the love of Pete bog off and take Kanye with you'. (On a side note is it CAN-yey or KAHN-yey? It would seem that which ever one I say people laugh). She seems to have made a fortune out of getting married and being followed around by a camera crew. It's difficult to type that sentence without it sounding judgemental but I honestly don't care. I wouldn't want to do it (and no one is offering) and it looks flipping awful but she seems to be good at it and we're the ones buying photos of it. But now she has a book out. A book of selfies. 

I haven't read it, I shall wait for the local library to get a copy, but it has been handily condensed in many newspapers and websites. For example this one:  Buzzfeed Kim Kardashian.  Now we've all seen the Paper Magazine pictures which broke the internet and we could be justified in wondering what on earth there is left to show us. The answer is about 3000 pictures of herself. In cars, in loos, in changing rooms, that's a lot of self. But, damn it, she takes a good selfie. 

She must have the arms of Mr Tickle. Every normal person (Non internet breakers) attempts to take a selfie, drops the phone, tries to get their whole head in plus a little bit of background, fails. At the same time you try and remember if it is taking the picture from above or from below that makes you look all cheekboney and sultry. You end up taking one from both angles. From above you have an enormous forehead and have accidentally included an acre or two of cleavage in the photo. From below you have seventeen chins and the view of an ENT doctor straight up both nostrils. 

You find the right angle and then blind yourself with the flash. 

Whilst still dealing with the temporary cataract you've given yourself you flick through the 72 photos you took. You have one usable one. But what the bloody hell are you going to do with it. Us mere mortals can rarely get away with posting a picture of our faces on the internet and captioning it 'Make up looked good today' or 'LOL' (Both classic Kim captions) we therefore have to include something interesting in the background to justify why we have taken the photo. Which leads us back to the massive head problem and Mr Tickle arms. Why we think a picture of the Eiffel Tower would be improved by us shoving our head in to shot is debatable. 

If there are a group of you these problems are multiplied by the number of people trying to get in the photo. At some point you will realise it's easier to simply take it turns to take the photos. These photos are also easier to display. Unless you have a wall of photos of yourself in your house. Which I kind of suspect Kim does. 

And on that note here is my favourite selfie of Kim and Kanye. It is brilliant for many reasons. 
1. They are in a public (or badly decorated private) bathroom. 
2. The photo is rubbish, half the sink, towel dispenser all in shot. 
3. Kanye. He looks like Tony the Frosties Tiger forced in to clothes. 
4. Kanye. He has voluntarily worn that. 
5. Kanye. That's an eagle vest top from Harlow market and a necklace that was last seen on the Queen Mother. 
6. Kanye. From his stance he was in that bathroom to use it not have his photo taken. 
7. Kanye. This is his 'cool' face. 

Mentoring

There's a new post coming (honest) but in the meantime here is something I wrote for Bridget Whelan's Creative Writing website. I can't recommend her website enough as a resource for writers. 

Here's a link to the article I wrote, enjoy. http://bridgetwhelan.com/2015/05/01/what-the-opportunity-of-a-life-time-did-for-me/ 

The Wonder of the Modern Age

Inevitably when I came to write this post, a post extolling the wonders of technology and all it can offer us, my computer crashed. I thought it had died and as I stared at the black screen I was vaguely impressed that I had backed up everything. I had only backed it up as someone had shouted at me, but still everything was backed up. My itunes has backed itself up to the cloud. I do not understand the cloud. Please don't explain it to me as I simply don't care. From my understanding it means that every time I want to purchase some kicking tunes (perhaps some Paula Abdul) my itunes will insist on transferring all purchases to my computer so that each song is saved a million times and 'my documents' folder is filled with weird album artwork. Nothing can be done to stop this. It also means that no purchases will actually be put on my ipod, presumably because it's all in the cloud. Still there seems to be no solution to this problem. It is similar to the time I managed to make an entire post production script my default word template. There was no point trying to find a solution, it was far simpler to start every session by deleting 40 pages of work. 
This wasn't meant to be a rant, I just happen to be multitasking and trying to buy some music and failing. (I am buying 'Uncle' the music by the way. An excellent purchase that I recommend you all make). I think I have bought it. I just can't access it. What I actually wanted to say when I began was that technology is marvellous. Pretty much every technological term I used in the first paragraph didn't exist five years ago. If my computer died, which it did after I poured a cup of tea in to it, I had to wait for it to dry out before I could see if anything had been saved and accept that perhaps it had all gone. Now, I'd have to dry it out again but in the meantime 

Sorry to interrupt but Itunes is being an absolute bastard. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. 

Anyway. But in the meantime I would be able to access it EXCEPT ALL MY BLOODY MUSIC WHICH IS TRAPPED SOMEWHERE BY FUCKING APPLE. 

I have now lost everything. No music for me. As this is with Apple I am not allowed any actual help. So I have sent some feedback. I would imagine this feedback has gone to an unmanned help desk. 
Perhaps it has something to do with drones. 

I was going to write a post about how I have been enjoying Skype chats with children in Canberra who are reading a book I wrote as their class reading book. This post will now be delayed while I groan and wail in to a cushion. 
Technology is sick and wrong. It is the enemy. Bring back cassettes. 

A Strange Return

Before flying back to the UK from LA I warned my friend that there are reasons why I normally travel alone and try to always fly alone. This is because in the run up to the flight fellow passengers are treated to me moping around with a look of impending doom plastered across my face. I also only have one topic of conversation. Correction; I only have one sentence of conversation "I really don't want to get on to that plane." I really, really didn't. As we left our hotel I was offered a complimentary whiskey. I took it. It was disgusting, I now know why I've not drunk it before. I then took three sleeping tablets. I then stopped self medicating as I was about to do a Marilyn Monroe. 

I was awake for the entire flight. I have the constitution (and arse) of an ox. 

Just before take off my friend tried to take my mind of the journey by showing me news stories on her phone. Sadly she showed me pictures of dolls. I saw no need to replace one intense fear with another so carried on fretting about the flight. Fretting so much that I ignored the announcement that said we would have a flight time of just over nine hours rather than nearly 11. I took it as good news. 

What it meant was that we were powering along at the speed of light on the bumpiest trajectory known to man. We were clearly caught up in some 'fronts' that were blasting Canada and the Eastern US so we skipped and hopped our way across the Atlantic. I had a breakdown (and a revolting dinner) and wondered what on earth I would have been like without the drugs and alcohol. 

Now I am home and I am not going to fly for a while. 

However I would recommend the above combination as preparation for going on the radio. Fifteen hours after landing I went to Three Counties Radio to talk about my book (STILL available on Amazon). I loved it. I think not really having time to think about it helped and I would imagine jet lag and drug comedown also played it's part. The DJ was such a nice man and I hope I came across OK. They asked me back and I went back again on the Wednesday to take part in a panel discussion show. All in all a weird way to spend your first week back in the country. 

It's also probably worth pointing out that despite what it says in the photo above, I am not an audiologist. But I am happy to shout at you to check you can hear.