Kisses, Handshakes and Hugs

Posted on September 4, 2011 by Scribe Doll

When my Italian, Spanish, Irish and Basque friends greet or part with me, they kiss me.  That is, their lips smack into my cheek full on, like a firm cushion.  A solid, present, committed kiss.  My English friends*, for the most part – no doubt as a sign of immense deference – choose to kiss the air next to my face, instead.  In their eagerness to plant their pursed lips on that elusive point in space, they either press their cheek against mine for a nanosecond, or collide with my cheekbone.  It leads me to suspect that these people do not really want to kiss me.  They just need my cheek as a springboard.

For all our croissants and cappuccinos, we are not “Continentals”.  Being tactile does not come naturally to the English*.  It does not sit well with centuries of emotional reserve.  Until we can find the misplaced keys to the cellar where our emotions have been carefully bottled up, any adventures in the land of cheek pecking (for it sure isn’t kissing, yet), will involve nothing but embarrassment, clumsiness, and that very English brand of self-consciousness.

I am going to get a T-shirt which says, Don’t kiss me unless you mean it.

Why do people here feel the obligation to kiss, anyway? Let us just shake hands.  I like handshakes.  They help me form an opinion about people.  Firm handshake? Warm? Sweaty? Crushing? Hasty? With straight eye contact?  A popular national style*, however, – especially among women – seems to be the fingers only handshake.  No matter how fast I try to catch the proferred hand mid-flight, it escapes me, allowing me only a squeeze of the fingers.  Then there are those who are so skillful at the game, the have perfected the art of the top two knuckles shake.  What is it with this palm and dorsal shyness?

I am going to get a velcro, hand-trapping, glove.

Hugs should be the physical equivalent of chocolate.  Belgian chocolate.  With praline.  Rich, warming and comforting.  The majority of English hugs*, however, fall into the following categories:

The Crustacean Hug: A hard collision between shoulders or collarbones, while the soft and unprotected abdominal areas are kept wide apart. Better keep them safe.

The Tapping Hug:  I always wonder why some people feel the need to tap you on the back as soon as they hug you.  Are they worried physical contact with them will trigger a coughing fit? Or is the light tap, tap, tap aimed at stopping you from getting too comfortable?  There, there.  Don’t go reading anything into this hug.

The Back Rub Hug: A couple or so single-handed, light strokes on your back, as though they are brushing off dust.  Do they think you are a baby who has just drunk too much milk and needs to have air expelled to avoid hiccups?

I am going to take up a subscription to Italian, Spanish, Irish and Basque kisses, handshakes and hugs – until my English* friends commit to a given choice of physical contact.

* Usual exceptions apply.  I just wish I could name them.

© Scribe Doll

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Pet Hates: Job Interview Platitudes

Posted on August 28, 2011 by Scribe Doll

Sorry to keep you waiting, we’re very busy today.

Tempting answer: Are you suggesting I am not busy?

 

I can honestly say that I have seldom been seen at the agreed time.  It is the would be employer who sets the time of the interview and yet still manages to run late.  Is it his/her way of hinting from the very beginning that he/she is the one with the power to put food on your table… So don’t you forget it?

 

Tell us a little about yourself.

Tempting reply: Have you not read my CV?

 

Every job seeker knows that it is of paramount importance to research the potential employer thoroughly before the interview; and yet employers get away with this blatant proof that they have barely read your CV before you walked in.  They do not seem
to realise that it comes across as a lack of respect on their part.  However carefully they dress it up by pretending that they are either trying to spot inconsistencies (are they
measuring you with their yardstick?) or that they want to hear it “in your own words” (do they think you can afford to have your CV and covering letter ghost written?), the fact is, you go in prepared, and they demonstrate a cavalier attitude towards your efforts.

 

 

What do you think you would bring to this job?

Tempting reply: You tell me! You’ve read my CV, and decided to meet me.  You know what the job entails better than I do.

 

This is your cue to start performing, blindfolded, trying not to fall off the stage, while the would be employer judges the entertainment.  Forget all the modern advice about equality
in the workplace.  This question is living proof of the power imbalance between employee and employer.

 

How do you think your colleagues would describe you?

Tempting answer: Why don’t you ask them?

 

At this stage, the would be employer is inviting you for a stroll down Paranoia Lane.  Just to throw you off balance enough to make you cling to this job for support.

 

What would you say are your strengths and weaknesses?

Tempting answer: I don’t suffer fools gladly but I need money.  Respectively.

 

This is where the would be employer is testing your lying – I mean, creative – skills.  It is also your exercise in mind reading, and trying to second-guess what he/she wants to
hear.  For qualities, safe bets are: loving team work, attention to detail (though not too much – they do not want you to notice their incompetence), hard work, loyalty (as long as you accept to give it unconditionally) and reliability (think labrador).  For weaknesses: a good one is to admit to being so work driven, that you will work forsake evenings and weekends just to get the work done.  Consequently, you sacrifice your family and friends (watch them nod approvingly).

 

We will let you know.

Aaah… I dream of a would be employer who would say, “Shall we have a chat on the ‘phone, tomorrow, and see how we both feel about working together?”

 

How do you feel the interview went?

The ultimate cat and mouse game.  When the would be employer rings you, he/she
has already decided whether or not you will be offered the job.  He/she is just asking you that for extra sport.  Like the cat who lets the mouse run a bit further, knowing that it is still within easy reach of its paw.

 

We feel that you are overqualified for this job.

Tempting answer: Then take advantage of the fact that you are getting caviar for the price of cod roe.

 

But there is no point wasting your breath.  Remember, you do not suffer fools gladly.

 

 

© Scribe Doll

 

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Trust

Posted on August 21, 2011 by Scribe Doll

Some thoughts on the painting Tobias and the Angel (circa 1470-80) by the Workshop of Verrocchio.  Egg tempera on poplar.  National Gallery, London.

Trust me, if you will.  I am loving, I am infinite, I am immortal.  I do not judge.  I am beyond all fears.  I will guide you if you ask me.  The decision is yours.  I ask nothing of you.

 

The Archangel Raphael’s sandaled feet tread lightly on the rocky soil.  He does not need the reassurance of solid ground beneath him.  He carries certainty in his tall frame, full of androgynous grace.  He turns to look down at the boy.  His face is weary from the centuries of doubt leading up to this attainment of wisdom through knowledge, but he can now draw strength from certainty.

I do not ask blind faith of you, he seems to tell the boy.  You will learn, and only then will you know and be certain.  In the meantime, trust me, if you will.  The choice is yours.

 

Raphael’s wings are scarlet and black.  They were built on the embers of passion and fear.  It cannot have been otherwise.

I do not want white wings.  I want to remember my past.  I was like you, once.  I want to remember the ashes I rose from.

 

At Raphael’s feet, trots the translucent figure of a small dog.  To warn of approaching demons.  He turns back to check that the boy is following.

Trust this stranger, boy.  Trust your heart.  Trust.

 

Tobias’s boots are firm on the ground.  He needs to feel rooted while his cloak billows in the winds of uncertainty.  He has slid a tentative hand onto the stranger’s arm.

Let me hold onto you.  I cannot take this journey alone.  Not yet.

The boy stares up at the archangel, mesmerised by the stranger’s secret knowledge.  His young body is unsteady, but the faith in his eyes is unwavering.

I want to trust.

 

His mind cannot comprehend but his heart knows that he is safe with the stranger.  He does not know, yet.  And yet he knows.

Guide me to this faraway land.  I want to learn. 

 

I want to trust.  I choose to trust. 

I am glad, says the archangel.   Walk with me.  All will be well.  The world is full of wonders.

 

© Scribe Doll

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Odds & Ends: Human Decency Is Not Dead

Posted on August 14, 2011 by Scribe Doll

The past week has brought to light a ugly side to the nation, that makes me feel deeply uneasy.  I can only hope that History will not spin the truth into a falsely glorified image of an ideologically motivated revolt of the people.  This is not 1789 Paris.  Last week’s events are the offspring of excess idle energy which, deprived of a constructive outlet, turned into destructive anger; and of the growing sense of entitlement that is corroding the country to the chore.

 

In the midst of all this landscape of soul-destroying detritus, I found a diamond.

 

Last week, the son of an American friend of mine, on his first trip to Europe, lost his mobile ‘phone at Victoria Station.  Now, this is not Tokyo, where people’s sense of honour makes it beneath their dignity to steal a mobile.  Neither is it Zurich, where the success of lost property shops is proof of a law abiding nation.  This is London, where the odds of recovering a lost ‘phone are about as high as those of ever getting an enlightened government.

 

Against the odds, the ‘phone was found by a young French woman who works here as a nanny.  She picked it up and sent text messages to a few people listed in the address book.  However, the battery was running out and, not having a matching charger, she worried that the ‘phone would die before she was able to contact the owner.  So she copied the numbers onto her own sim card.

 

A few days ago, I got in touch with her, and we arranged to meet yesterday, so that I could pick up the ‘phone.  My friend decided to give a $50 reward to whoever found it.  As I sat waiting in a South Kensington pâtisserie, and thought of the £30 I had in a sealed envelope in my bag, I felt certain that she would not accept it.  From our initial telephone conversation to the ensuing text messages we exchanged, something in the courtesy of her tone suggested quiet dignity.

 

In her place, I would not accept a reward.  Would you?

 

Of course, she would accept.  People do.  Even if they are not dishonest, most people are freeloaders who say, “why not – if it’s offered?”  They accept, as though unaware that they have either choice or responsibility.

 

My original gut feeling was strengthened at the sight of her smiling face.  A clean, open face of about twenty-two or three.  A face totally absent in the knowing, cynical and bored expressions so common among her peers.

 

It was with a sense of awkwardness that I handed her the envelope with the money, conveying my friend’s sincere gratitude.  The French girl flushed with palpable embarrassment.  “No, that’s not why I returned the ‘phone.”

I assured her that that had been obvious from the start.  She still refused the accept the envelope, shying away from it as though it would somehow taint her.  I begged her not to take offence.  I explained that, if we knew her address, we would send her a bunch of flowers or a bottle of wine, and asked her to accept the money in the spirit in was intended.

 

After several minutes of my pleading, she finally accepted.

 

And I walked away, and watched passers-by with a more hopeful eye for the rest of the day.

 

© Scribe Doll

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Odds & Ends: The Money Yardstick

Posted on August 7, 2011 by Scribe Doll

I know this one is going to spark off controversy, so here comes the disclaimer: this is just my personal opinion, which I have formed from my own observations.  However, I would be most interested in hearing about your experiences.

 

Many years ago, my friend Sue, who is one of the most precious people in my life, said to me, “Money is the most important thing in the world.”

 

As a then undergraduate at the University of Durham department of thespian pursuits, black tie dinners, madrigals by the river, and a soupçon of academic work, everything in my mind and soul disagreed with Sue’s statement.  I just looked upon her as an example of the many cynical adults I would always be too good to grow into.

 

Now, two decades later, although I all too often find myself hating money for eluding me (let’s face it – if it allowed itself to be caught by me, hatred would turn into instant love), I find myself considering money with the utmost respect.  Respect, because of the lesson it imparts about my fellow humans.  If we think of it, money is the only exchange currency we all – no matter which corner of the globe we come from – have in common.  Whether we have excess of it, or are suffering through its lack, it binds and connects us all.  Different languages, religions, climates and cultures may hinder communication, but money provides the code we can all interpret and relate to.  It is the Harlequin dressed in a costume made up of a lozenge from every flag on the planet.

 

At this point, I am not interested in debating whether money does or does not buy happiness; or whether it is or not a root of evil.  Money is impersonal, and has no power per se.  It is like the magic wand which destroys at the hands of the evil wizard, but creates at the hands of the good magician.  Blaming money for ruining the world, is like blaming the computer – forgetting it was programmed by a human in the first place.

 

We can learn so much about another person not by sneaking a preview at his or her bank balance, but by observing his or her relationship with money.  Their bank balance is irrelevant.  It can fluctuate, soar or plummet at a moment’s notice.  What will remain more steady, however, is the way this person relates to money.  Does he or she treat money like a servant, or is he or she its unquestioning slave? You can form a solid opinion of an individual’s character by watching his or her way of dealing with money, the same way as you would judge someone by a handshake or body language.

 

I once went to the theatre with a millionaire who, at the end of the show, struggled back into the auditorium against the current of the exiting crowd, because he had forgotten his programme on the seat.  I assumed he wanted it either as a keepsake, or as a reference but he said, “I’ve paid for it, so I might as well keep it.”  I also cannot understand people who finish their restaurant meals even though they are either full or are not enjoying the food, just because “you’ve got to get your money’s worth.”  The money is spent.  You can’t get it back.  Let it go.  No point it making yourself sick on top of it.

 

People’s attitude towards money, more often than not, has nothing to do with whether they are wealthy or broke.  I know people who earn three times as much as I do, who buy you a drink, then stare intently at their empty glass to ensure that you know it is your turn to buy the second round.  I also know church mice whose automatic first words at entering a pub or coffee shop are, “what would you like?”  Naturally, I also know well-heeled people who are wondrously generous, and skint misers.

 

I find it very instructive to watch any new acquaintances’ dealings with money.  They get out their wallets to pay for something.  Are the banknotes all stacked up the right way up, face up? Are they tidy people? Do they hand over a crumpled note to the barman or smooth it down carefully, as a mark of respect towards the recipient? Do they count the change or just shove it into their pockets or purses? Or, do they count the pound coins and ignore the coppers? Do they pay attention to big things but cannot be bothered with detail? Do they notice if the shopkeeper short-changes them? And if they are given too much change, do they point it out to the sales assistant, or walk away feeling smug about the extra twenty pence in their hand? Are they honest to a fault, or opportunists?

 

When you sit down to dinner, do they inform you as soon as the menu arrives, where you can find the price list, pre-emptying any initiative on your part, not giving you credit for not taking it for granted that they would automatically pay for you? When the bill arrives (assuming your shares are more or less equal), are they happy to split 50/50, or do they pull out pen and paper and launch into complex divisions?

 

If you lend them £2, do they return £2 promptly and exactly, or do they say, “Sorry, I’ve only got £1.50 on me.  I’ll give you back the rest later.” (I absolutely hate that cavalier attitude.  Invariably, they forget the 50 pence and, of course, you can’t possibly chase it up – I mean, it would be considered far too petty to go after 50 pence.  It’s not about the 50 pence – it’s about respect.)  Are people careful with money, or do they waste it unnecessarily? Are they trying to impress you with it? Are they fearful of it? Who is the boss in that equation?

 

All these little, seemingly insignificant details provide an invaluable insight on how this person will ultimately treat you.

 

In the words of the unforgettable Dolly Levi, “Money is – if you forgive the expression – like manure.  It’s no good to anyone unless it’s spread around, encouraging things to grow.”

 

 Scribe Doll

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Words and Civilisation: Sales Assistants’ Language

Posted on July 31, 2011 by Scribe Doll

You wear a brand new purple T-shirt and notice, and the end of the day, that the colour has run over your white underwear and even rubbed off on your skin.  The following day, you take it back to the high street store, complete with receipt, and ask to speak to the manager.  You explain politely what happened.  Nine times out of ten, this is the reaction you get –

 

“We haven’t had any complaints.”

 

You then have a fraction of a second to select your own response.  Do you go for –

“Well, you have one now”

or “I can’t be responsible for other customers”

or “Are you suggesting I am lying?”?

 

Could major high street stores possibly train their staff to reply, “I’m so sorry you’ve been inconvenienced.  Please allow me to apologise on behalf of the company…”?

 

*   *   *

You pay for your goods at the till, and say, “Thank you.”

The cashier replies –

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

Grrrrr… The sales person has not just done you a huge favour.  You have just paid for the item.  You thank him/her for selling you the goods.  He/she, in turn, should thank you for buying them, and thereby keeping him/her in gainful employment.

 

*   *   *

You’re browsing in a shop.  The cheerful sales assistant comes over.

 

“Are you all right?”

 

“Yes, thanks.  How kind of you to enquire after my health.  Why? Do I look pale? (the sales assistant looks perplexed) Oh, sorry, did you mean to ask me if I needed your help?”

 

Another version of the same question is

 

“Are you all right there?”

 

Why? Is there a more comfortable place to stand and browse?

 

And now, on a point of grammar.

 

The cashier hands you back you change in the form of a small, shiny copper coin.

 

“One pence change.”

 

For the love of all things aesthetic… One PENNY!!


Scribe Doll

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Pet Hates: In Restaurants

Posted on July 24, 2011 by Scribe Doll

No.1

Is everything O.K.?

Have you noticed how waiters wait for the exact moment when you have your mouth full, before they ask you that? I often try and cheat them by staging my forkfuls when they are not around but, almost as though they are watching me closely from a distance, no sooner am I munching away, that they pounce.  “Is everything O.K.?” Naturally, all I can emit is an unintelligible groan, and a nod.  I wonder if their timing is purposefully strategic.  Perhaps they are trained to schedule their question so you cannot speak.

 

No.2

The cake on top of the napkin

I do not know if this is a strictly British practice, but I have not encountered in Italy, the U.S., Germany, France, Greece or Spain.  Your order cake and it arrives  reclining on the napkin, as though it needs a something comfortable to lie on the cold, hard plate.  Surely, the point of the napkin, is to spread on your lap, and use to dab your lips and fingers – a point defeated from the start if, by the time you have slid it out from under the cake, it is covered in chocolate, cream or jam.

 

No. 3

The parmesan and black pepper rations

Once your meal is served, the waiter approaches and offers you black pepper.  Then he gives the oversized mill a couple of twists over your plate, and walks off.  I might want to add pepper halfway through my meal, but the option is not available.  Is black pepper so expensive, restaurants cannot afford to keep a small mill on the table, together with the salt shaker?

The same discourse applies to grated parmesan.  When your pasta is served, the waiter brings a bowl of parmesan, and sprinkles a spoonful on your dish.  If you say nothing, he sprinkles a second spoonful.  At that point, he marches off, unless you specifically request more.  If you do, he expresses shock, as though you are being unreasonably greedy.  Sometimes, I tell the waiter, “just leave it here, I’ll help myself” and that creates a mini panic response…

 

No. 4

Salt mills

I know this is entirely a matter of personal preference but who actually enjoys crunching large salt crystals? What is wrong with a salt shaker that dispenses fine salt powder that blends in easily with the food?

 

No. 5

Iced water

Again, a question of personal taste but what is the logic behind serving water with ice cubes in a cold country such as England? More to the point, why do they insist on bringing me iced water after I have specifically ordered it “without ice”?

 Scribe Doll

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Odds & Ends: The Neglected Sense

Posted on July 17, 2011 by Scribe Doll

On the Tube, the conductor’s announcement is so loud, the sound is fuzzy and incomprehensible.  I plug my fingers into my ears and meet the eyes of other passengers.  They are impassive; their curiosity at my reaction, unemotional.  In the street, the shriek of the ambulance lacerates my eardrums, bringing tears to my eyes.  I slam my hands over my ears.  Passers-by observe me with nonplussed incomprehension.

 

During the Overture of West End musicals I tear up a tissue, rolling each half into a ball, and ram it into my ears.  Going to the cinema has become a trying experience because the volume is simply unbearable.  I began shopping for CDs on the internet years ago, because I could not stand the volume of the music in the shops.  In fact, time and again, I walk into a clothes or shoe shop and perform an immediate U-turn, driven away by the loud music.

 

Cars zoom past with a violent metallic beat blaring out of the rolled down windows.  Is the driver deaf? Or asserting his/her supremacy? He/she is exercising his his/her freedom and thereby curtailing mine.  I have no right not to share his/her taste in music.

 

Moreover, electronic warning tones, such as mobile ringtones, laser scanning beeps at supermarket tills and doors closing on buses, are becoming increasingly penetrating.  Like long, iced needles stabbing your ears, plunging into the centre of your head.

 

Every time I complain, my fellow-humans’ expression suggests they are not quite sure where to place me.  I do not look like an alien, yet…

 

Is it possible that I am the only person in this city whose ears are under constant assault? With the concept of human rights being brandied about so liberally, don’t my ears have some rights not to be battered? My freedom of choice is being taken away by a dictatorship that forces me to hear and takes away my right to listen.

 

It is a well-known biological fact that organs develop with increased use and, if left unused, eventually become redundant, shrivel, and disappear.  We live in a society where, with all the modern conveniences obtainable with the least possible effort on our part, it seems old-fashioned and too much hard work to strain your hearing just little bit to focus your attention on a sound.  The sound must blast to save you any kind of effort.  Are we heading for a hearing impaired generation?

 

Hard as I try to understand the logic or motivation behind this vogue, my mind fails to fathom it.  I have no opportunity to try and fathom it.  I am too busy warding off the constant battery on my ears.

 

I used to frequent a gym where the music (if you can call it that – I guess you have to, otherwise somebody will stand up for its rights to be called music), complete with overwhelming bass thumping was so loud, I could not hear the music on my personal stereo earphones.  Consequently, I kept turning out down.  Finally, one glistening, rippling muscles specimen of male humanoid came up to me and said we had to have the music on loud.  “Otherwise, I can’t work out – I keep hearing my heartbeat, and it’s distracting.”

 

(?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!)

 

We live in a society where, of all six senses, Sight is king.  Not just a king but a jealous oppressor who tolerates no rivals.  Everything, from entertainment to judgments, to learning, has to go through the censorship of Sight.  Everything must be subservient to Sight, to make Sight look good.  Woe to anyone who dares undermine the almighty power of Sight, or even hint at its fallibility.  And yet fallible it is.

 

More people watch television that listen to the radio.  With films, you are fed entertainment with no effort required on your part, whatsoever.  With a radio play, the relationship is more interactive.  You actually have to do a little work and create the images, smells, sensations yourself by flexing your imagination.

 

After meeting a new person, we tell our friends what he/she looked like and was dressed like.  How often do we report on what he/she sounded like? How often do we even remember someone’s voice, its character, its colour, or its effect on us?  We forget that anyone can dress up and even mould his/her body language to fit the occasion but hardly anyone can control their voice (not even actors).  The accent can be transmuted but not the essence of the individual voice.  Does this person’s voice modulate? Does it rise in pitch? Does the inflexion drop? Is the voice earthy? Metallic? Warm? Hard? Velvety?

 

I cherish my hearing because it grants me access to what is, in my (very personal) opinion, the purest among art forms – Music.

 

It is the most emotional of arts.  No paintings, sculptures or even words, can capture and convey feelings with the accuracy of music.  It was his gift for music that helped Orpheus return, unscathed, from the depth of Hades.  It was through song that the Sirens bewitched Ulysses’ sailors.  In The Merchant of Venice, Lorenzo tells Jessica the stars emit precious music but, alas, we cannot hear it whilst trapped in our coarse bodies.  Our senses are yet too blunt for such refined sounds.  It is said that in Heaven, the angels sing.  Renaissance paintings and Christmas cards depict them holding lutes, harps and fifes – not easels, palettes and brushes.  You play sad dirges when you bury the dead and, when you rejoice, your heart sings.  Music guides you to the very depths of  your imagination.

 

Plato maintained that music can be mathematical perfection in all its glory.  All you need, is to hear in action the pure physics of trebles and counter-tenors that rise up from the wooden pews of King’s College Chapel, fly up to the fan-vaulting, linger above the stained glass windows, quiver in the cold air up above, then dissolve into the stone, and yet live on forever – to know that Plato was right.

 

Speaking for myself, when everything around me looks overwhelmingly ugly, squalid and meaningless, it is Johann Sebastian Bach who takes me by the hand and, on our way, points out all the pockets of mathematical perfection in the world, all the hidden but undeniable instances of logic, and the eternal patterns that lead back to hope.  “You see,” he says in his Leipzig accent, “life makes sense.”  Then he hands me over to George Gershwin, who takes me for a ride where I am glad – in fact, I am overjoyed – to be a part of this wonderful life and world.

 

Next weekend, I am pampering my bat ears and treating them to a perfect example of music as a faithful conveyor of images, smells and physical sensations.  They are performing Manuel de Falla’s Nights in the Gardens of Spain at the Proms.  The first chords are full of peremptory pride that warns you against all doubt.  This is a story worth listening to.  Then the Arabic semi-tones flirt with you, lure you deeper into the gardens of the Alhambra;  a night breeze of cellos whooshes past you.  The piano is the voice of the fountain that trills in the middle of the Patio de los leones.  The violins lament the death of princes slaughtered by the Moors, their blood stains still on the stone of the fountain.  The strings section rises to the top of the old minaret above which presides the crescent of a new moon, quicksilver against the black sky, then swoops back down through the Moorish arches, where the oboes tempt you to run your fingers on the white alabaster, like sensuous semi-tones.  The clarinet carries the scent of jasmine and roses that line pools of limpid water whose still surface is rippled by goldfish.  The brass section vibrates like the dry heat that caresses your skin.  You allow yourself to fall into the Alhambra’s embrace.

 

Anyone care to join me at the Royal Albert Hall?

 

Scribe Doll

 

 

 

 

 

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Odds & Ends: An Actor’s Perception of Age

Posted on July 3, 2011 by Scribe Doll

I used to be a theatrical agent.  A few of my ex-clients, I now have the pleasure and privilege of calling my friends.  Perhaps one of them will be able to solve this particular puzzle.  Or did this happen only to me?

 

An actress is sitting opposite me in my office, discussing the possibility of representation.  She is talking about herself while I occasionally glance down at her CV in my lap.  She is describing her stage background, her screen aspirations and her experiences with invariably either predatory or invertebrate agents.  I listen attentively.  Then she says, “I’m fifty but I look forty.  In fact, people have told me I can play down to mid-thirties.”

 

At that point, I assume a ponderous expression and let my eyes drift to one of the prints on my walls.  Above all, I am taken aback by the statement-like assurance of her sentence.  She is not asking me if I think she looks younger than her age.  She is telling me, as though presenting an indisputable proven fact.

 

The truth is, I estimated her real age accurately – give or take a year – the moment I met her.  However, this possibility has evidently not crossed her field of thought.  Her certainty makes it impossible for me to venture my opinion without appearing either argumentative, or impolite, or insensitive to that well of insecurity and vulnerability actors believe they have patented.

 

So, I am left with the following – sadly unanswered questions: What makes her think she looks a whole decade younger? Am I the only optically proven long-sighted, as opposed to myopic, professional in this industry? Who are the individuals who have been telling her that she can even get away with playing  a whole fifteen years younger? Can they be legally muzzled?

 

I can honestly say that 99% of actors I’ve met have this perception discrepancy about their playing age.  Interestingly, they always believe that they look younger than they are.  This notion is equally widespread among male actors, as well as female.  It also covers every age group.  Forty-somethings inform me they look at least ten years younger.  Twenty-somethings assure me they can play pre-pubescents. I suspect (although have not had personal experience) there are teenagers out there who are convinced they can interpret toddler characters.

 

I dream, someday, of meeting an actor who will look at me straight in the eye and say, “Although I am X years old, I can easily play up five or ten years.”

 

Then I wake up.

 

Scribe Doll

Posted in Odds & Ends | Tagged , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Odds & Ends: Crows

Posted on June 26, 2011 by Scribe Doll

To listen to my Sound Sculpture feature on crows on the BBC Radio 4 programme Saturday Live, broadcast on 14 January 2012 please click here. 

It’s the weekend.  I go for a walk in my local park, which flanks the river.  In my rucksack, I have a book, a notepad, and fountain pens.  In my hand, I have a paper bag full of bread left over from the week.  I have sliced it, then cut each slice into small, bite size cubes.  I have scooped the whole mound, including the crumbs, into the paper bag.  The crumbs I will shake onto the ground, once the rest of the bag is empty, for the pigeons.  The larger chunks, I will give to whoever happens to be around.  If the tide is high, I drop a few pieces into the water for the ducks.  They crowd around the floating bits, pushing and shoving, snatching from each-other.  The mob.  The swans keep their distance.  It would be distasteful to compete with the rabble.  I serve them separately, and they lunge their long necks towards the food with elegance.

Suddenly, the air is filled with shrieks.  Like a battalion of Hell’s Angels, dozens of seagulls are raiding the air space, swooping to catch the bread in flight.  They hover over my head and close to me, demanding, protesting, menacing, but never once carrying out their threats.

The bread is almost all gone.  I look around but there is no sign of my friends.  I am about to throw the last handful when I hear the call.  A deep, croaky telling off.  I knew you’d forget about me! I guess you don’t think I’m entitled to any respect.  After all, I am not as pretty or as colourful as some…

 

Stop whinging, I say mentally.  I’ve kept some for you.

To prove it, I hold up a single piece of bread in my fingers, so it can be seen all the way from the rooftop chimney behind me.  Then I walk slowly away from the swarm of seagulls.  Even without looking, I know that I am being followed.  I know that the crow has spread its wings, hopped off the chimney top, and is flying from roof to roof, ready to act.  We have an understanding.  So the seagulls do not see it, I place a piece of bread on the brick parapet, and stand back.  The crow lands and picks it up.  A few paces further, I place another piece.  Another crow lands, and picks it up.  Three or four others are mounting sentinel on nearby rooftops.  One after the other, they slowly flap their large black wings and drift down, silently, to take the bread.  We know that we must operate discreetly, unnoticed by the gulls.  So, together, we work in silence, not to draw attention.  By the time the gulls catch on, the crows have had their share without any confrontation.

A pair of crows sit on the beech outside my window every day.  Jet black, glossy in the sunshine.  I wake to their raucous, rheumatic, heavy smoker voices.  At dusk, the smaller one – the female, I imagine – calls out to her mate, sometimes for half an hour at a time.  She pauses to rub her beak vigorously against the branch.  When he finally fleets in, she gives him an earful.  You think I have nothing better to do with my time than sit here and wait for you all evening, calling you for all the neighbours to hear! Where the hell have you been, anyway? You’re a good for nothing! I should have listened to my mother.  And now I’m stuck with you for life!

 

He bows his head.  He knows she is right.  Besides, arguing won’t solve anything.  Let her blow off steam.  After a bout of ranting, she falls into a silent sulk.  He moves closer.  She lets him.  They take turns to pick fleas from each-other’s necks, and groom each-other’s plumage.  All is forgiven and forgotten.  They sit still for a while, black silhouettes on the swaying branch, against the darkening sky.  Then they take off for the night, and I wonder where they sleep.

I met a woman in the park, who has written to the Council, asking them to destroy the crows’ nests.  “Why?” I asked, even though the rising anger in my belly told me what was coming.

“They’re nasty.  They steal other birds’ eggs.”

There she was, a perfect specimen of bird brains; except that some birds are far more intelligent – notably crows.

My voice shook with anger.  “If they don’t then there will be too many other birds, and you’ll be the first to complain.  Why don’t we cull all cats, while we’re at it?  They kill birds, too.”

Bird brains walked away, looking smaller.  I just hope the Council have enough sense to ignore people like that.

Crows mate for life, and are the only birds – together with ravens – capable of devising utensils.  Put food at the bottom of a tall, narrow jar.  The crow will go and find a long sharp twig and use it to spear the food onto it.

I am not the only member of the crow fan club.  In her latest book, Bird Cloud, Annie Proulx recalls her childhood pet crow, Jimmy.  In Crow Country, Mark Cocker describes the crows of East Anglia.  East Anglia would never be the same without crows.  The black figures perambulating on the vivid green lawns, their gravelly voices filling the low, lead grey sky, are as inseparable a part of the Fens as the poetry of Rupert Brooke, the music of Ralph Vaughan Williams, or the stone spires of King’s College Chapel.

Crows are not colourful enough to feature on Christmas cards, nor white enough to symbolise peace, nor graceful enough to inspire ballets.  They are not daring enough to be painted on the flags of superpowers.  They have bad press because they hang around graveyards.  Could that be because they are not wanted elsewhere? Or perhaps they are the only ones with enough insight to know there is nothing to fear in graveyards.  They are too intelligent to buy all that ghost and vampire nonsense.

As I write this, a crow is strolling on the lawn outside my window, in the late afternoon sun.  It has spread its wings in a fanning motion, probably to facilitate an even tan.

 Scribe Doll

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