Gimme dat harp boy

Sad to hear of the death of Captain Beefheart. It feels like my past is fast disappearing from this world.
In spite of his acknowledged influence, he was never a mainstream performer. Back in 1973 you were part of a elite minority if you liked him. Female fans were an even rarer breed. I was one of them. I had just joined Drive in Rock as a Rockette. Our manager Roger Eagle was a friend of Beefheart's - two men of similar age ( and build) united by their passion for the blues.
When Beefheart and the Magic Band came over to tour Clear Spot a group of us went over to Liverpool to see them with Roger. One thing led to another and after a night with Rockette Morton ( different days, different ways) the two of us went off to explore Liverpool, taking the ferry across the Mersey. As he saw me off on the train back to Manchester from Liverpool Lime Street he announced that his girlfriend was coming over from California that week, so that was the end of that.
However, thanks to Roger, my friend, fellow Rockette and fan Cathy and I still had reserved seats on the tour bus. I struck up a friendship with the tour manager Bill Shumow, and spent the rest of that English leg of the tour meeting up with him and the band.He was older than me , married with a family, and a really lovely companion. I knew he was someone special at the time, and many years later I read a tribute to him in Bill Harkleroad's (aka Zoot Horn Rollo) book about his Magic Band Days, so it wasn't just me who loved him! He came to visit On the 8th Day, where I worked then. We explored antique and junk shops wherever the tour went, and I had a beautiful enamelled butterfly brooch he bought me for many years. I had met the Broughton brothers and their families through another 8th Day contact, Brian Livingstone, and the Edgar Broughton Band were huge fans of Beefheart. I took Bill round to meet them, and he took a cassette of theirs back to Beefheart. We spent a great couple of days chasing round the Suffolk countryside trying to get hold of Honeyrose Special herbal cigarettes and John Peel. We managed to find the Honeyrose Special factory, and bought a supply for Beefheart. His wife Jan ( and they were still married when he died) was travelling with him - Art Tripp, Roy Estrada, a great crowd to be around - legends then and legends now. Beefheart gave Cathy a drawing, which she gave away in her rush to rid herself of material possessions when she joined an ashram! One of life's regrets. One of mine is that I never saw Bill Shumow again - I kept in touch with some friends of his from Leeds for a short time, when I went to University there later that year.
Amazing times - I can say I went on tour with Captain Beefheart. I still have my copy of Clear Spot, given to me then.
We will not see his like again.

Bridestones Revisited

On Saturday I visited the Bridestones near Congleton. A group of us met there, representing ( more or less) England, Ireland, Scotland and nearly Wales based on where we are living at the moment. It's an amazing place. An ancient burial place for a significant person. Linked with Ireland, Scotland, Anglesey and the Isle of Man in its structure and form. Pillaged by the Victorians for gothic rockeries in the garden of the adjoining house and in Tunstall Park. I hadn't visited since 1982, and as I arrived I could picture the photo taken there that day. When I got home I rummaged in the laundry basket full of random photos, literally hundreds of snaps, and of course found the one I could visualise.
As amazing as the stones are, the view on that crisp clear November day was stunning. We could see across Cheshire and Staffordshire, through the Midlands and over to Shropshire and Wales. When we climbed The Cloud, the beautifully named hill behind the stones we could see from Winter Hill, across the city centre of Manchester, picking out the Hilton Hotel tower, to Jodrell Bank, Alderley Edge,Mow Cop, Axe Edge, Hen Cloud,the Roaches, right across to Fiddlers Ferry power station and down to the Wrekin and the Shropshire Hills. A kingdom. A panorama in space and time for me - my past, present and no doubt future life in one view. From childhood memories of visits to Rivington Pike, to my old home, Manchester. Links to the book I had re-read this week - Alan Garner's Red Shift. My sister's house in Anglesey. My life on the day I visited in 1982, contrasted with my life now. Family trips to the Green Man festival, driving along the borders of England and Wales.
Quite a day and quite an experience for all of us - a sense of place. Far horizons. Who am I? Who was I? Why am I here?
I will never feel trapped in the Midlands again!

On The 8th Day 40th birthday celebration

On Saturday 4th September a group of people with 8th Day connections in common gathered together to celebrate 40 years of the shop. From the early days of New Brown St - now buried under the Arndale Centre in Manchester - through to the recently developed new building on Oxford Rd. Old friends, new friends, absent friends - in the end probably quite a random mix of those involved who had been in touch and could come to the party. It was wonderful for me to see some friends I haven't seen for many years - more than 30 in some cases - but who were such an important part of my teenage life and beyond. A few mysteries solved - who thought of the name for one. A first viewing of a piece of film from Granada's archives taken at New Brown St - all fake psychedelic camera effects! Lovely old photos from the 70s of lovely young people working there at the time. A real sense of pride, friendship, love for the ideals that created it and the people who continue to keep it going. Three of the five originals were there - the fourth has sadly died and the fifth lives abroad, so three out of five was great.A real affirmation of a different way of doing business, created by a crazy mix of luck and judgement over the decades. Long may it continue.

Green Man

I can't believe I haven't written for so long. A lot of water has flowed down the river since June. To bring things up to date I have spent some of today talking about my Hacienda days and the potential for music tourism in Manchester. It was great to have a chance to consider the possibilities.I was interviewed by someone I met on C.P.Lee's musical heritage guided walk there a few weeks ago. I have just got back from the Green Man festival in the Brecon Beacons - my family holiday with my 3 children. It's the fourth time we have been in 5 years. Glanusk Park in Crickhowell is a stunningly beautiful setting. It rained incessantly for most of the festival but there were some real highlights and inspirations in spite of the weather. We spent more time in the literature and cinema tents than sitting around on the grassy banks listening to music. Special moments included Trevor Lock dealing with child hecklers in the comedy tent, John Cooper Clarke, Lone Wolf, First Aid Kit, the spectacular Flaming Lips, Billy Bragg talking and singing, Laura Marling, and the magical Joanna Newsom. There was a real sense of a relationship between performers and audience - Billy Bragg, Wayne Coyne and Joanna Newsom all referred to the magic of the place and the people for them. I came away inspired to look for unusual books in charity shops ( Robin Ince), and to consider a list of songs to break your heart - Billy Bragg was asked for his and he came up with Tracks of my Tears and Little Feat's Long Distance Love.
And autumn seems to have arrived in Derbyshire.....

One of those weeks

The image is of one of the 3 fates holding the thread of life. I feel like I've been threaded along it at great speed this week.
Ups and downs, and then ups again at work as we plan for how we survive the cuts - arts provision for vulnerable people has its own vulnerabilities. Tuesday night was the opening night of Bert Broomhead's exhibition in Sheffield - I met his daughter, the image of her mother, the most significant teacher of my life. I also met old school friends - lots of memories and some very beautiful and fascinating paintings. Wednesday night took me to a special film night at Haddon Hall. After all the contemporary films made there, the manager had tracked down a copy of the silent film, made in Hollywood, with Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks.'Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall' rewrote history as we know it, but was a great historical (even hysterical, very slapstick in places) romantic comedy, with amazing sets clearly based on Haddon itself. The hero broke through the window of the room we were watching in at one point. Some of the scenes in the garden must have been filmed on location, but the theory is that they made faithful sets back in Hollywood for the interior scenes. On Thursday night Lester Simpson, who teaches our singing class in Bakewell, asked us to join with his Wirksworth choir for the launch of the new Coope, Boyes and Simpson CD. A great concert and a privilege to be involved. I also met Georgina Boyes ( selling the tickets) who is one of my heroes for her fantastic book on the history of the folk revival - The Imagined Village.
I have just got back from a concert organised by the Derbyshire Literature Festival - Mills and Chimneys - David Gibb and friends from Fleet Arts. A lovely experience - great songs, talented musicians - a real treat. And I met Berlie Doherty there, another hero, for her wonderful children's books set in Sheffield and Derbyshire.
Lots of ideas and inspiration - watch this space!

Morocco

Last night I went to see Jackson Browne at the City Hall in Sheffield. David Lindley played with him. Charlie and I had great seats. We hung round the stage door afterwards with a mix of middle aged men ( mostly) and women, and the occasional youngster like Charlie. Charlie chatted to him, and gave him his new vistaprint business card so Jackson could see him on myspace. Jackson and David had mentioned Martin Simpson. They were thrilled because they had had the opportunity to go round to his house in Sheffield and have lunch with him before the concert. Charlie and I saw Martin Simpson with John Boden at the Boardwalk a couple of weeks ago - a very memorable night.So I talked to Jackson about Martin Simpson.
When I got up this morning I remembered my friend Cathy in Casablanca - all those years ago - she came back from Essouira really excited to have sat next to Jackson Browne in a cafe there. I was always a little bit envious of that missed opportunity.
So on a rainy night in Sheffield - yes it did rain there briefly - I fulfilled a dream from almost 30 years ago.
I wore the bracelets I bought in Essouira last night - I still wear them on an almost daily basis.
Life does seem to be a spiral.

Memories

Last week at Writers' group we were asked to write about childhood toys. The topic triggered memories of toys lost and thrown away. I asked my son Jamie about his favourite toy, as I couldn't remember . Wisely he said it wasn't the object itself, but the memory of it that had meaning for him. This week our 'homework' topic is Memories - much too big a subject. Most of what I write is about processing, recalling and recording my past - there's so much of it when you get to this age! On Wednesday night I was lucky enough to go to a talk given by someone I used to work with at the Old House Museum. She had worked on the code cracking processes at Bletchley Park. She was in her late teens when she joined the Wrens. They weren't allowed to tell anyone about their secret work until 1975. Everything ( except Colossus) was destroyed at the end of the war, they couldn't make notes. How do you keep the memory alive when you have to bury it for 30 years? She didn't even tell her husband until 1975! It reminded me of another talk given by a member of the Historical Society some years ago. He was one of the last group of 42 men to be rescued from Calais, at the same time as the 338,000 were being rescued from Dunkirk by the 'little ships'. He was 19 at the time, and broke both his ankles in the leap from the quay to the deck of their rescue boat. Both speakers have had amazing lives since those wartime days. This morning I heard Dame Stephanie Shirley on Desert Island Discs, talking about her childhood journey to the safety of a foster family in England. She and her sister arrived via the Kindertransport. She was 5. I have been lucky enough to go to the Holocaust Centre near Newark three times, as a school governor accompanying groups of students. On each visit we have had the chance to listen the story of someone who escaped Nazi Germany, and ask them about their lives since. Those who are able to do these talks are now of an age where they too came here through the kindertransport system, and the memories of their difficult lives before escape are seen through the eyes of a child. As Dame Stephanie said this morning - she remembered the lost doll rather than the lost home.

My old school

As often happens, something balanced out the misery I felt at being reminded of my schooldays. The letter in the Guardian last week brought back many negative memories and feelings about convent education. Coincidentally a friend who lives in Bakewell asked me if I had ever heard of a local artist called Bert Broomhead, as a retrospective exhibition of his work is being planned in Sheffield by his daughter. It was strange to have any teacher on maternity leave in a convent school, and even stranger that her artist husband should take over her classes. He looked like a classic St Ives idea of an artist - extremely tall and slim, with greying hair and beard,and bright blue eyes. He always wore a long rib-knit jumper and baggy cords with sandals. He was a wonderful teacher, treating us with patience and respect, something we weren't used to in our school lives. His wife was also the English teacher, and she was a huge influence on me. I chose to study English at University because of her, and what she taught me for A level carried me through the literature side of my degree. She introduced us to a wealth of different influences, and whilst I was very grateful that she was my teacher, I knew she was worthy of better schools. When I moved back to Bakewell I tried to get in touch with her, only to find she had recently moved away. We did reconnect, and a neighbour sent her round to see me one day when she was visiting Bakewell. Sadly she died suddenly a few years ago. Their daughter - the reason for the maternity leave - is now planning the exhibition and has set up a lovely website. I was lucky enough to buy one of his paintings at a sale at the local community centre some years ago, and I'm looking forward to seeing more of his work on display. I nearly bought their old house with my ex - wish I had, but glad I didn't in the circumstances.
And talking of exhibitions, my friend Keith who has the Low Horizons blog, is in Finland as I write for his exhibition opening!

Woodstock

Well it wasn't really Woodstock, but it was inspired by that festival - in fact Joni Mitchell never made Woodstock either even though she wrote the song. We did get our own back on the nuns, in that in 1970 my friend and I managed to get permission to go to the Bath Festival, held at Shepton Mallett, in pursuit of our Duke of Edinburgh award scheme. I still don't know how we did it - it was unheard of to get a weekend off in term time, and to be allowed to go to a music festival was surreal. The line up was amazing - Pink Floyd, Country Joe, Jefferson Airplane and the Byrds to name a few. We had no tent, no sleeping bags, no-one knew what to expect - we stayed up for the duration so I know we must have seen everyone on the bill. Magic times.
And the Duke of Edinburgh connection was that our special interest was folk music.......

The Magdalene Laundries

Yesterday's Guardian included a short letter in response to recent news items regarding Catholic priests and abuse of children in their care. The correspondent made the point that nuns at her school were equally culpable but that no-one would believe her. I too went to convent schools. The first two schools I went to were run by nuns from an order based in Manchester, but founded in France. They were worldly wise enough to provide a good education at school and teacher training levels. One elderly nun did have the habit of throwing her scissors across the room to make a point ( too many puns), and once threw my needlework out of the window and into the River Irwell, but we knew she was passionate about her subject and I forgave her. My parents then went to live and work in SE Asia and my sisters and I were sent to convent boarding school, in the next town to where I live now. I never imagined I could live so close to the scene of my teenage misery. This school was rooted in 1950s Ireland, even though this was the late 60s.It was academically challenged - my mother still regrets the fact that none of us became doctors, ignoring the fact that the school didn't offer science A levels - we no longer have the heart to remind her. The nuns generally had a cruel and sadistic approach to dealing with hormonal teenaged homesick girls, trying to find their way in the early days of women's lib and the swinging sixties. Personal hygiene and laundry and communication with friends and family were all areas of power and discipline for them. Baths and hair washing was restricted ( and this was enforced), letters were intercepted though we found ways of sneaking them out with the help of the day girls. Tampax and drying underwear were confiscated ( honestly!)
I was 13 when I went and left when I was 17. My best friend had been at the junior part of the school - ironically now a residential care home. There the nuns used an iron bar across the legs as a punishment, and put naughty children to sleep in a room they believed was haunted. Whether they ever really did this is debatable, but the fact that it was used a threat for the pupils says it all. No internet, no mobile phones, censored Sunday letters - it took 2 weeks for letters to reach my parents and the last thing they wanted to hear was how desperately unhappy we were. And this was a supposedly priviledged education.
The song 'The Magdalene Laundries' describes a particular type of convent life that I feel has a lot in common with my experiences.
Ironically I now find myself leading a secular but nun-like life- with duties and responsibilities for others, working for a charity, spiritually seeking, trying to lead a 'right' life, toying with the idea of living within a community in the next ten years as work and family responsibilities change.No love life since the terrible betrayals of two years ago.
A representative of the Catholic church was on the radio this morning commenting on the furore over the emails a junior civil servant at the Foreign Office had written about the Pope's forthcoming visit. Jokes abound about nuns and convent schoolgirls too - humour can dissipate horror! He made the point that it is part of the Catholic culture to forgive and move on. And no wonder.......

The circle game

Everything seems to be coming round again - astrologers would say it's my second Saturn return, when life is reassessed, in preparation for the next 28 years! On the 8th Day, where I used to work in Manchester, is celebrating its 40 th birthday this year. My time there was an enormous influence on my attitude to life, work and friendships, and I'm really looking forward to being involved in the preparations for the celebrations. Last weekend I visited a friend I have known since those days at her new home in Bath. It was wonderful to see her and her husband ( and cats) in their lovely new home in such a beautiful city. Old bonds.Lots of past but plenty of present too in our relationship. This week I went to Radio Derby to record some more stories - anecdotes about things that have happened to me, and again I was reliving some special times in the telling. The interviewer's response made me appreciate that I have had an interesting and eventful life, and that while I sometimes get frustrated with the limitations of my days here in the Peak District, it still presents opportunities. Great bus journey home from Derby - the frustration of the bus not turning up, the classic scenario of two Transpeak buses turning up at once, but the most surreal explanation for lateness from the driver - the air filter on the bus was full of volcanic ash and had to be changed. There wasn't the hint of a smile....

Here comes the sun

I spent Penny Day in Lathkilldale - not quite what it sounds! - the Thursday after Easter Sunday is designated Penny Day in the Dale. To maintain the footpath's concessionary status , visitors are charged one penny to walk through. Natural England manage the dale, but the Melbourne estate owns the shooting rights and this means they can continue to use it in the pheasant shooting season. It's a slightly odd combination of interests - nature conservation and shooting, but not uncommon in this part of the world. I used to work for English Nature, who morphed into Natural England. When I left, I wanted to stay involved, so became a White Peak volunteer guide. I help with guided walks and events, and Penny Day is one of my favourites, mainly because of the people you meet and their reactions to it.
It was a glorious day on Thursday - the first real hint of the summer to come. the butterflies were flying, the water was flowing crystal clear and the woodpeckers were pecking. In surroundings like that you wouldn't want to be anywhere else.
In complete contrast, I spent Friday in London - equally enjoyable in a completely different way. A two hour queue outside the Royal Academy for the Van Gogh exhibition - sunshine and people watching whilst catching up with my younger sister, and random good company on the train journey home.

Easter

It's Easter weekend - the first time I haven't been working through Easter for some years. I wrote very little of anything and nothing on this blog through March, and I really thought I had come to the end of the music links, but I just realised Patti Smith made an album called Easter, and seeing Patti Smith was one of the outstanding events of last month for me. She came to Sheffield to tie in with Robert Mapplethorpe's touring exhibition at the Graves Gallery. An evening performance was planned and sold out very quickly, but she also gave a lunchtime interview. I managed to get a ticket for it, swapped my day off at work and headed for Sheffield. The bus broke down on the way - luckily at a bus stop. She was about three quarters of an hour late - as the organiser said, 'it's rock n roll'.I was aware that some of the people there must be on their lunch break, the person sitting next to me had another afternoon arrangement, and had to leave early. John Robb interviewed her. She was impressed with the fact that he had obviously read her book about her life with Robert "Just Kids", and she commented on how handsome he is! She looked fantastic, her attitude to the audience was wonderful, and the way she expresses herself is a joy to listen to. I had domestic responsibilities and wondered whether to leave before she had finished, but decided to stay and am so glad I did. She spoke so eloquently about her life and work. She is one of the most refined people I have ever encountered, and yet she's a true punk spirit. There's an amazing contradiction in what she does and how she does it -both a rebel and a charming conversationalist - you can see the angel/devil tension in Robert Mapplethorpe's work and it's there in her too. I found it a life changing experience. She has made me reconsider my approach to my life,family and creativity, in a positive way. And at the end she sang us two songs, and we all got to sing 'Because the Night' with her.
When my friend Larry Jenkin first introduced me to Patti Smith's work back in Todmorden in the early 70s I never imagined that one day I'd sing with her in the Library Theatre in Sheffield, feeling such a deep connection to her attitude to life.
March brought two other examples of my past and present connecting in totally unexpected ways. The first was the Chatsworth staff party for the Dowager Duchess' 90th birthday - done in amazing Chatsworth style - a real sense of witnessing a celebration of Deborah Mitford. My first visit to Chatsworth at the age of 9, bus journey from Manchester, boiling hot day, paddling in the cascade with my best friend and her older sister, is still very close to the surface of my memories, especially when I take that age group round on a guided tour. I could never have dreamt I'd be there for Debo Mitford's 90th. Finally I spent last weekend with friends in North Wales, again revisiting places from my childhood. When I do the ghost walks in Bakewell, I talk about people leaving impressions behind, that then get picked up as apparitions, sensations, whatever. To me these sensations - finally seeing Patti Smith, witnessing that 90th birthday party, revisiting North Wales, are like experiencing the living ghost of my previous self. Strange, but good.

What keeps me in this tourist town?

Paraphrasing Joni Mitchell for my song link for this last post in February. Not sure if I'll keep the song lyric links going, but I have enjoyed the way they appeared so effortlessly. Bakewell is a tourist town now - far more so than when I moved here in 1993. It's all year round, though it all looks a bit miserable in bad weather, and there are too many cafes and outdoor clothing shops all selling the same thing. The charity shops are good though. The ducks, geese and seagulls by the river can get you down too - all that bird shit everywhere.
No cinema, but there is a film society. No theatre, but there is a stage in the Town Hall and a Youth Theatre. No art gallery, but there is an independent museum. The best book and music shop you could wish for anywhere - Bakewell Books.
Houses are expensive, schools are good, the countryside is lovely, job prospects are limited, the public transport is limited too, though there is a National Express bus to and from London which passes through daily - maybe a relic of coaching days - it certainly takes hours to get there.Chatsworth House and Haddon Hall are on the doorstep. Good Farmers' Market once a month, weekly stall market, well dressings, carnival, Bakewell Show, Bakewell puddings (not tarts).
I'm ready for a change, I have never lived in the same place, let alone the same house, for so long, but at the moment friends, family and work keep me here - the usual story - and whilst I imagine a life elsewhere it's not going to happen for a few years.
There needs to be a bit more water under Bakewell Bridge. It's a young families/retirement town and I have a horrible feeling I'm going to move seamlessly from one to the other once my youngest leaves home.

As Time Goes By (or Rock the Casbah)

The song made famous in the film 'Casablanca'. There was a great item about Casablanca on John McCarthy's Radio 4 programme Excess Baggage yesterday. The writer (and blogger) Laila Lalami talked about the reality and image of Casablanca, the setting for her new novel.I lived there in 1980/81. I ran away from cold wet Manchester and unemployment - the funding had run out on my job as a language teacher in an Asian women's refuge. I'd rowed with my boyfriend, and decided to use what little money I had to go to the nearest exotic place. I persuaded a friend to come with me, and bought coach tickets from London Victoria to Algerciras. We then took the ferry to Tangier, and then the Marrakesh Express to Casa. I realised money wasn't going to last long, my friend decided to return to England, and I went in search of a job in a language school. I'd thought to take a photocopy of my degree certificate, and I'd arrived just as autumn term started, so I found a job, found a flat and someone to share it with, and settled in. I loved the whole experience of Maroc. I didn't do as much travelling round as I would have liked but having a job gave me a great insight into real life. Students became friends, I sang in a band made up of Moroccan,English and American musicians. I co-directed Hamlet and played Ophelia in a production organised by the language school. I'd never lived anywhere so full of contrasts - and Laila echoed some of my thoughts and feelings. In Casa great wealth and poverty live side by side. A walk to work was like passing through at least four centuries simultaneously. There was a Rick's bar, run by an American woman. I met members of the Moroccan royal family. I went to a circumcision party. I saw the Queen and the Royal Yacht on the famous visit where she was kept waiting for hours. I loved the medinas, the architecture - Moorish and Art Deco French, the bargaining, the everyday life in the area where I lived.It was too different to feel like home, but it was so attractive that I didn't want to leave.I came back to England to sell my house, but met my husband to be instead and have never been back.
And the story about the king and his fighter pilots in Rock the Casbah was true....

Fashion

Last night I thought about writing about my relationship with clothes, and the David Bowie song came to mind.
This morning the fantastic BBC radio series,The History of the World in 100 Objects began with the same word.
The object was a piece of Peruvian embroidery, part of a mummy wrap (dead bodies, not live mothers), and various contributors discussed the role of clothing and textiles in ritual, society and archaeology.
I was trying to draw some threads together, having written about fashion and the Cuban Missile crisis yesterday. Coincidentally, the man credited with advising Kennedy through that crisis came from the village of Over Haddon and was the uncle of my unpleasant ex. I occasionally do talks about his life and career, and sometimes take a guided walk round the village called 'Celebrities, Spies and Heroes' - more of that another time.
I love clothes - they are my weakness - I don't drink, smoke or spend money on drugs, but I love fashion. I had very little disposable income as a teenager (not a lot different now), and the hippy fashion for second hand and ethnic clothes suited me. Long before 'vintage' was acceptable and mainstream, my friends and I were buying from charity shops and jumble sales. I used to work for some friends who had second hand clothes shops in Manchester, and learnt a huge amount about fashion and textiles from them. I don't buy on e bay, but I look out for the occasional find in my local charity shops and dress agency. It's still amazing what you can get. I do buy new clothes too, often in sales, and there are some labels and looks I particularly love.
My first ever second hand dress cost 75p from a charity shop in Eccles, and was bought for me by my friend Gina Broughton.I was 18 and it was early 1972.
I wouldn't wear it out as it has started to fray, but I can still get into it for a photo. My latest buy is a lovely mock brocade late 1950s coat with three quarter sleeves,very fitted, with big buttons and no collar. I took a risk and washed it - successfully! It was £10 from a local charity shop.
Last year I read a book called The Thoughtful Dresser by Linda Grant which really helped me to understand the role of clothes and fashion in my own life, and the way that both are so tied up with image and self esteem. How you choose to dress can be a creative statement. Some people I know are chameleons, changing their look daily or weekly, refusing to accept limitations of age and conventionality in their appearance - and I'm not talking about inappropriate fashion here.

Don't fear the reaper

Blue Oyster Cult connect to Patti Smith, who in turn connects to Robert Mapplethorpe. I had hoped to go into Sheffield today to see a touring exhibition of his photographs at the Graves, but have decided it makes more sense right now to rest my foot and get it better before I hit the city pavements. I did go into Sheffield on Saturday to celebrate my son Jamie's birthday. We watched Tom Ford's film 'A Single Man'. I'd seen a great interview with Mark Lamarr and Tom Ford on the Culture Show about the film - I have never seen Mark Lamarr so coy! I haven't read the Christopher Isherwood story the film is based on. It was very poignant, especially after the sad news of Alexander McQueen's death. My former husband was in the fashion business, and I still subscribe to Vogue. I'd followed his career from early days, and felt he was a courageous and innovative designer. Sometimes suicide is a cry for help, sometimes it's a brave decision. I have known people who have approached it in those different ways. I can't help feeling that McQueen's was an act of courage after the loss of his great friend Isabella Blow, and more recently, his mother. Who am I to think that when it must be so desperate for his family and friends, but it's what I feel. There's so much in the air at the moment about assisted suicides, mercy 'murders'- not a day goes by without something in the news. Colin Firth's portrayal of a man preparing for suicide was amazing, and it was a thought provoking film with a sense of redemption. A timely blend of the worlds of fashion and film exploring such a topical subject, even though it's set in the 60s during the Cuban Missile crisis when life felt particularly fragile.

Who wrote the book of love?

Post Valentine's Day, and I got a Valentine card - very unexpected in the circumstances. One of my close friends recently sent me a birthday card with the message 'better to have loved and lost than to live with the psycho the rest of your life' (or words to that effect).Perhaps psycho isn't the right description, con man might be closer. I was telling another friend about the circumstances of our break up, nearly two years ago now. She writes detective fiction, and we both agreed that you could begin to understand why wives and partners may claim ignorance of the secret life of their criminal husband or boyfriend. I certainly didn't put two and two together, though I knew something wasn't right after 10 years. The fact that we didn't live together made it much easier for him to maintain the deceptions. I was aware that the shock of the discoveries could have destroyed me, and was determined that it wasn't going to happen because of him. I haven't lived the life I have lived and faced the challenges it's presented to be destroyed by a someone like that. It does mean I don't whole heartedly enjoy living here - neither of us has moved away, I still see his family, who don't know the whole story and wonder why we split up. I'll write more about the circumstances some other time.
So...to get a Valentine card was both unexpected and mysterious - as it should be.
In the mid 70s I sang in a rock'n'roll revival group, Drive in Rock and the Rockettes. Inspired by Sha Na Na, we only performed 50s songs. We had a good time playing the college circuit for a few years.Some of the band are still my good friends, one is no longer with us, another recently got in touch on facebook.
When I was a teenager I always had a song lyric for any situation - I had completely forgotten about it until I started this blog. Each post seems to echo a song, so I am going to see how long I can keep it going without it being too contrived - maybe only until the end of February - maybe forever!

Feats don't fail me now

I had intended to write something every day, but on my way home from Writers in the Peak - the writers' group I joined last September and hope to write about someday soon - I became aware of a tearing pain in my right foot and had to hop home hanging on to the wall!. I hoped the pain might disappear overnight but it didn't, so I made an appointment at the doctors and called my mother for help. I'd arranged for a presenter from Radio Derby to come over and meet some of the writers' group to record some real life stories for a feature they do twice a week - "did I ever tell you about the time'... it was great fun, in the bar of the Rutland Hotel in Bakewell where we meet anyway on a Tuesday evening. The hotel is full of ticking, chiming clocks, sirens sounded outside as the snow fell and presumably accidents happened. Quite surreal, especially as there was a memorial service that afternoon for a notable Bakewell resident 'Granny' Pulford. He had died at the end of October, but last Wednesday would have been his 70th birthday . There must have been hundreds at the wake held in the hotel as we finished our recording. I'd always wondered where his nickname came from - middle name 'Granville' - I should have guessed. If the walls of the Rutland could talk there would be plenty of tales about him I'm sure. If they could really talk we might get to the truth of whether Jane Austen really did stay there when she saw Chatsworth, the inspiration for Pemberley. I just remembered that it's where I first saw - and ate- chicken in a basket on the way back to boarding school in Matlock, around 1970/1971. Whatever happened to chicken in a basket? Is it time for a revival?
Back to feet - walking is such a part of my life - guided walks, walking for pleasure - I can't bear the thought that this might affect any of that - it's plantar fasciitis - more commonly known as 'policeman's heel'!It is common, and there is treatment and advice out there on how to get over it. One of my friends from the writers' group recommended latin mistress shoes - I had a vision of lovely tango shoes, but she meant Latin schoolmistress - not quite the same!
I bought some Clarks black lace ups that look like Charlie's school shoes from when he was about 8, but are part of this season's ladies shoes from Clarks. Fingers and toes crossed they work.
And Little Feat are one of my forever favourite bands, and I was lucky enough to see them with Lowell George in Manchester back in the 70s.

New boots and pans

Didn't actually get new boots but couldn't resist the  Ian Dury reference, especially with the film just out.

I met him twice many years ago - in the early 70s with friends from the Edgar Broughton Band backstage somewhere in a London theatre, and later at a friend's funeral - it was this time of year in the late 70s. Les Prior had been part of Alberto y los Trios Paranoias, one of the best musical pastiche and parody bands ever. Les died of cancer and is buried in Heptonstall churchyard, as is Sylvia Plath. The Albertos had been on Stiff records and Ian was a friend. It was a memorably good funeral, with the sense that Les would have loved it. The fake green grass that the gravediggers used to cover the soil looked particularly incongruous against the snow. It was the first funeral I had been to where there was a sense of the person in the proceedings. I have been to many 'good' and one or two 'bad' funerals since, and they will come up for discussion here at some point.

Anyway - the new pans were in the sale at one of Bakewell's most popular shops - Sinclairs- which is about to close in just over a week. They have had an amazingly busy closing down sale going on for about 18 months (no kidding!) The pans were less than half price and very pretty - even my 16 year old son used that word to describe them! A photo will follow. This is an attempt to satisfy my desire to completely change my house as I have been in one place too

 long - nearly 17 years. But I can't afford to change it in any significant way - so some new pans help. I could remember when and where I was when I last bought a new SET of pans - 1988, living in Todmorden. Charlie was impressed at my recall, but those sort of memories are hooked in to other life events! Maybe it's just me.....

Firesign Theatre LP cover

The plumber fixed the fire, so it was worth the wait

Waiting for the electrician or someone like him

Any closet Firesign Theatre fans may get the reference.

They were a comedy group from America, late 60s, early 70s - very irreverent, very inventive. On one of their albums they created a spoof game show called Beat the Reaper. Contestants were given a disease at the beginning of the show and had to guess what it was. If they guessed right they got the antidote, if they didn't they died! I keep expecting to see it on TV... maybe it could replace Big Brother.

Anyway, today I am waiting for my friend the plumber who is coming to fix my gas fire. It gave up the ghost on Christmas Day. I was reduced to tears. I'd just been to see my father in the nursing home he had moved to, and the reality of his fragile state of health was really brought home to me. So the loss of the main source of heat in my living room was the last straw.

So I was crying for him, but the fire was an excuse.

I got through the funeral, and all the preparations for it, without tears. Less than a week later it was my birthday, and for the first time ever my father's name wasn't on the card. Some years my mother had signed for him - when he was working abroad, and when his handwriting became too shaky, but this was the first card in 55 years that wasn't from him.

The plumber has just arrived...... fingers crossed

Where to begin

I have wanted to set up a Peak District blog for a while, partly to create a different slant on tourism in this area. I have been a local guide for nearly ten years, developing ghost walks and local history walks in the area. More recently I have been a part time guide at Chatsworth. But there's so much more to living in the Peak District. And there's so much more to learn here.

I was going to call this Life Love and Death in the Peak District, but love of the romantic variety  headed out of my life about this time two years ago, and I'll write about it soon because it was quite an exit! Life is what happens here every day - friends, family, work. Death delayed this first post when my father died on the morning of New Year's Day - January was the funeral month, as well as a family birthday month.

So this blog will be about me, my family, my interests now and my adventures in the past, and about one real life in the Peak District.