Tag: Rohan Candappa

An Authentic Tale Of New York, Virtual Threadmash Performance Piece, 13 May 2020

The challenge, set by Rohan Candappa, the doyen of Threadmash, was to write a piece inspired by one of three pieces of music Rohan sent to us.

I, along with most of the Threadmashers, chose New Amsterdam by Moondog. Here’s my piece.

I first came across Moondog’s music in the late 1970s, when I was buying up second hand albums at Record & Tape Exchange.  I talked in my first ThreadMash piece about my misadventure-ful date at R&TE with a young woman named Fuzz…

The Rohan Thing, My Short Performance Piece As Part Of Rohan Candappa’s Inaugural Threadmash, Gladstone Arms, 5 February 2019

…whose real first and second names are lost to posterity. I believe it was on that fateful day with Fuzz that I bought the sampler album, Fill Your Head With Rock, which included my first Moondog track, Stamping Ground.

In truth I paid Moondog’s music only occasional heed until 10-12 years ago, when Janie and I began exploring Jazz. But Moondog’s story has long fascinated me and I have always associated him and his music with New York.

Rohan’s choice of piece, New Amsterdam, is a case in point. New Amsterdam was her name, Before she was New York; New Amsterdam is a dame, The heart and soul of Big Apple city.

To my mind, Moondog’s music is the second most quintessential New York music.

So I was surprised, when I started researching this piece, to learn that Moondog was not a native New Yorker. Louis Thomas Hardin, known as Moondog, haled from Kansas. He moved to New York City at the age of 27 and lived there for only 30 of his 83 years. Moondog moved to Germany in the early 1970s, where he lived out his remaining decades. 

Of course this doesn’t take away from the fact that Moondog was known as The Viking Of 6th Avenue. Nor from the fact that Moondog’s music is unquestionably inspired by a glorious mixture of  New York City’s ethnic sounds. But authentic New Yorker, he wasn’t.

So, if Moondog is merely the second most quintessential New York sound ever, what, to my mind, is THE most quintessential?  Ah, well, that comes down to my own New York experience.

My first ever visit to New York was in November 1989 at the age of 27, the same age as Moondog when he moved to New York. Coincidence strongly links my New York timeline with Moondog’s; he made a rare visit to New York, for his last major gig there. that very month.

But my soundtrack of my first New York visit was not Moondog’s music; it was Pump Up The Jam. By Technotronic, featuring Felly.

It seemed to be played everywhere, all the time, while I was in New York. It is said to be the first hip-house hit and has been described as a dance masterpiece. Just listen to those amazing accents; New York, African-American Vernacular. That’s authentic, no?

No. When I returned to the UK with my copy of Pump Up The Jam proudly in hand and played it to my half-Belgian friend, Daniel Scordel, suggesting that it was THE New York sound, Daniel told me that his kid sister reliably informed him that Technotronic was a Belgian act.

Googling now informs me that Felly, the “featured artiste” was in fact a Congolese model who lip-synced on the video and posed for the cover of the Belgian record as a marketing ploy. The actual singer with the “authentic” New York accent was Ya Kid K, an androgynous-looking Congolese-Belgian woman, who was also a co-author of the song. Worse yet, the hip-house genre is said to cross-fertilise Chicago & London styles. Not New York.

In truth, the late 1980’s was not exactly a golden age for authentic popular music.  Consider the Eurodance chart topper just before I set off for New York, Ride On Time, Italian in this case; an even messier mix of lip-synching models in the vid…

and samples “liberated” from uncredited artistes.

https://youtu.be/BKmw9UrX99s

Walk right in, soul diva Loleatta Holloway; unsung hero, yet one of the most sampled singers of all time.

But now I must move on to my authentic tale of New York.

On the Sunday before I set off for New York, I went to the Barbican Hall.  The story of my chance encounter there with Rita Frank, our bizarre drive in the densest London fog I have ever seen and the coincidence that Rita turned out to live just a few blocks from the Manhattan apartment where I was about to stay, would be worth the price of admission to the Virtual Glad alone.

An Unexpected Evening At The Barbican During Which I Heard Sibelius, Met Rita Frank & Experienced Driving In Dense London Fog, 12 November 1989

When I got to New York, Rita insisted that I allow her 20 year-old daughter, Mara, known as Moose, to be my guide. My adventures with Moose (and with other people) in New York are well documented on Ogblog and would also be worth the price of admission to the Virtual Glad alone.

My First Visit To The USA Part One: New York, c19 to 22 November 1989

I did have a holiday romance on that trip, but not with Moose – you need to read between the lines of that write up to find it. Instead, Moose was a superb guide; a charming & fun companion in New York.  We became firm friends. I resolved to return the guiding favour when Moose was due to come to London the following year.

But that favour was not to be returned. In June 1990, I was felled by a serious back injury; multiple prolapses in my lower back. Don’t talk to me about lockdown. This was a solo lockdown; my world got smaller for many months. Everyone else was out there having a good time while I was in excruciating pain, alone in my flat, rehabilitating.

It’s at times like those when you find out who your friends are. Many of my long-standing friends turned out to be true friends. So did Moose. Moose still wanted to see me. Moose would bring in shopping for me. Moose spent happy times with me in my confined world. Moose turned out to be an authentic friend.

Now I know what some of you are thinking. You recall the story of Fuzz, whose real first and second names remain a mystery.  Is Moose similarly obscure? Is this Harris bloke a specialist in befriending young women with monosyllabic nicknames, enabling them conveniently to vanish without trace?

In Moose’s case, we did lose touch with each other after she returned to the States, but I did know her real names and I knew where she lived.

So in late 2019, while writing up my New York adventures, Mr Google helped me find her. It took me about three minutes. Not bad, considering she now goes by her married name and has moved to California.

She has 24 children…Meet:

Felly Kilingi, former Congolese model…no no no…Meet:
…Loleatta Holloway, the late great unsung samples singer…no, no, no… Meet:

Mara Holtz.

Teaching is perfect career for Vallemar newcomer

Mara has 24 different children every year. Mara is a primary school teacher.

The next few lines are dialogue.

MARA: “I am so glad that you contacted me. I’ve thought about you over the years and wondered how you were doing…I’m amazed that you found me…It’s so nice to hear from you.”

ME: “I’m so pleased that you are glad to hear from me…Are you still known as Moose?

MOOSE: “…very few friends still call me Moose. However…I seemed to have accidentally developed a Moose themed classroom, so I usually end up with students calling me Professor Moose.”

MOONDOG: “No matter what name she goes under, I dig her deeply and no wonder, For she’s been lovely to me, And I’m the better for having met her”.

Laughter, Joy, Be Wakeful & Deep Thoughts On The Bus, Lockdown Videos Viewed Before Breakfast, 28 April 2020

I woke up this morning to find two video links in my e-mail inbox, which conjured up very different emotions.

Ian Pittaway, my early music teacher, having seen so many examples of video-conference-based music making in the past few weeks, was amused to find a seeming spoof of the genre…except that the following video was made years before Zoom and lockdown:

I laughed a lot.

In truth, some of the examples I have seen of lockdown music making have been very good indeed, while others have been unintentionally laughable.

Actually the best example of multi-part lockdown music-making I have seen so far came out quite early in the lockdown. Especially impressive because the supremely talented Peter Whelan, whom Janie and I saw at The Wig at the end of last year, really can play several instruments and sing in more than one register…

…so he performs this beautiful Bach Cantata all by himself, with his tongue only slightly in his cheek:

But the really thought-provoking video this morning came from Rohan Candappa. Rohan has now decided to vent his spleen at the UK Government’s mendacious attempt to claim success so far in the coronavirus pandemic, where all the evidence suggests that we have a great deal to learn in the UK if we are to emerge eventually from this crisis without additional self-inflicted damage. It includes a touching tribute to transport workers, who are among the forgotten heroes of the crisis.

Rohan’s short, beautifully-crafted monologue is entitled “Bus”:

This last piece won’t cheer you up, so you might want to go back to The Muppets and/or Peter Whelan after watching Rohan’s piece, to make yourself feel a bit better again.

That’s what I did.

The Night Of Charlotte Thomas, My Piece For ThreadMash Six, 31 March 2020

Is it really only a few weeks ago that we were still gathering in a crowded room above a pub to eat, drink, socialise and deliver our ThreadMash Five pieces to an eager audience of ourselves and others?

Threadmash 5, Rohan Candappa’s Thing Has A Birthday Bash, Gladstone Arms, 5 February 2020

Yup.

But in these unprecedented times (oh boy am I becoming sick of hearing that phrase, “unprecedented times”) the only way we can ThreadMash is remotely.

So that’s what we did.

The brief for TheadMash 6 was set at ThreadMash 5. Rohan waved a leather-bound notebook emblazoned with the name “Charlotte Thomas” at us. Rohan had bought that notebook cheap in Paperchase on the Strand. Someone had ordered it before Christmas but had not turned up to collect it. “Who was Charlotte Thomas?”, Rohan wondered. The brief was simply to write a short story that addressed that question.

Eight of us have written Charlotte Thomas pieces. Four of us addressed the mystery of Charlotte’s leather-bound notebook in our stories.

Here is my story, steeped in the experience Janie and I had volunteering for Crisis At Christmas. The character, Sharla, is based on several of the vibrant characters we met at Crisis. As far as we know, none of them were actually named Charlotte Thomas in real life, but then again, you never know!

THE NIGHT OF CHARLOTTE THOMAS

The karaoke was in full swing. Not the best karaoke we’d ever heard, frankly. But also not the worst.  This was not your semi-professional karaoke of regular singers hoping to be spotted. This was impromptu karaoke. Informal, party, Christmas night, karaoke.

We heard one of the guests belt out Delilah, rather well, in a strong Middle-Eastern accent. Then we heard another guest belt out My Way…badly. Daisy and I couldn’t see the karaoke. We were in earshot, well within earshot, but we were on duty and had to remain at our post.

Then we heard Sharla sing. We didn’t know that she was called Sharla at that juncture, of course, nor did we yet know what she looked like, but we did know that the quality of the singing had gone up several notches, above and beyond the Delilah guy.

“…I should have changed that stupid lock, I should have made you leave your key, If I’d known…”

Daisy gave me one of her “I’m impressed” looks. I responded with my “too right” nod.  I wished that I could go and have a look over the balcony to see this singer, but that would have meant breaking the rules and leaving my post. I wasn’t about to do that.

About five minutes after I Will Survive had finished, a pint-sized, super-confident-seeming female guest came up to our station and engaged me and Daisy in conversation.  Sharla was only one or two words into her husky, deep-voiced opening gambit with us and we both knew we were being visited by that singer.

In truth, Sharla had taken a shine to Daisy, not really to me, although she seemed interested in both of us once she learnt that we were not just a duty pair, but an actual couple in real life. At this stage, Sharla pretty much asked all the questions and Daisy provided most of the answers.

Soon after Sharla moved on, Daisy and I were reallocated to a different station; ground floor. It was getting late by then, perhaps midnight, but quite a few guests were still milling about.

We chatted with several interesting people down there, before hearing the unmistakable sound of Sharla singing. The karaoke had long since finished. These were snatches of songs, mixed in with chatter. 

“Pull up to my bumper baby, In your…every time we say goodbye, I wonder why a little…”

Daisy complimented Sharla’s singing again and asked her if she’d ever considered singing for a living. Sharla told Daisy that she wasn’t the first person to have asked her that question.

Later, Daisy and I were advised to wrap up warm for front door duty.  Now about 2.00 or 3.00 a.m., Boxing Day morning, gosh it was cold out there. A few guests still hanging out, some having a smoke, others just having a chat. Sharla appeared around the corner, a large mango in each hand. She told anyone who’d listen that a local 24 hour shop had given them to her. She vehemently denied the suggestion that she might have “liberated” them without the shopkeeper’s consent.

Sharla seemed in her element outside; indeed she told us that she was so used to rough sleeping, that she felt more in her element outside than inside at that hour. 

Sharla must have spotted that I was feeling cold – at least Daisy had been given a padded hi-vis jacket to wear, I just had one of the flimsy ones…

…Sharla darted inside and badgered one of the indoor volunteers, who was wearing a fleecy hi-vis, to swap with me.

“Thank you, that was very thoughtful of you, Sharla”, I said, wondering why I hadn’t thought to take that action myself.

“I’m very grateful to you volunteers”, said Sharla, “unlike some of the fucking dickheads around here. I’ve seen some of ‘em being so fucking rude, it’s a fucking disgrace. I was in a bad mood last night, but I’m never that fucking rude to volunteers. I’m ‘avin’ the best night ever tonight”.

Outside, Sharla opened up to Daisy more than before. Sharla talked about her disorganised upbringing and the similarly chaotic upbringing to which she had subjected her own children. She talked about the drugs and the prostitution and the rough sleeping. She talked about her family in Jamaica and her desire to visit them. Not all of Sharla’s stories quite stacked up, nor were they all entirely consistent with each other. But all her stories were eye-opening.

“You have led a fascinating life”, said Daisy, “you should write your stories down and get them published.”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that”, said Sharla.  “In fact, just last week, down by the Strand, I was talking to a nice gentleman and he said just that. He said he’d buy me a leather-bound writing book with my name on the front as a Christmas present. He even wrote down my full name and made me spell it out for him. Charlotte Thomas”.

“Ah, Sharla stands for Charlotte”, said Daisy, “our niece is called Charlotte.”

“Nice,” said Sharla, “anyway, that nice gentleman never showed up with my present.”

“Maybe he’ll show up with your present after Christmas,” said Daisy.

“Nah,” said Sharla. I knew he wouldn’t and I know he won’t. People make promises like that all the time, but they don’t really mean ‘em.”

We didn’t see Sharla again for the next few hours. We were on various dormitory floor duties and Charlotte Thomas was clearly not one for using the Crisis beds.

The last time we saw Sharla was at about 7:00 in the morning on our last duty; near the entrance, making sure that incoming daytime volunteers and wandering guests all went in the right directions. We replaced another pair who very quietly pointed to a sleeping Sharla, sitting in a chair, her upper body sprawled out across the table, fast asleep. “She pretty much fell asleep mid-sentence while talking to us”, a grinning volunteer told us, in a whisper.

And there slept Sharla…Charlotte Thomas, for the rest of our shift. The arms of Morpheus had finally got her, just when most of the other guests were getting up and starting to mill around again. What was Charlotte Thomas dreaming about, I wondered? Such a life she leads, so many stories she has. She really could do with that writing book. Maybe that nice gentleman really will turn up on the Strand with her gift after Christmas.

And You Are? by Rohan Candappa, Lockdown Theatre Company, 24 March 2020

I have known Rohan Candappa since Noah was a nipper…

…OK, not quite that long, but we did meet on the first day of our first year of secondary school. We were in the same class…

…but subsequently, Rohan has proved himself to be in a class of his own, with tremendous ideas such as The Lockdown Theatre Company.

Rohan will be livid that I am focussing my preamble on him, rather than the highly-talented actress, Katrina Kleve, who performs the first Lockdown Theatre Company piece.

But the reality is, Rohan has come up with this highly creative and generous idea to help acting folk who are currently pretty much all out of work and finding these difficult times especially challenging.

As I understand it, Lockdown Theatre will publish a short piece each week, normally on a Wednesday, for the next 10 weeks at least.

Here is the very first Lockdown Theatre piece:

As Rohan says on the YouTube blurb (you find that if you click the link to watch, rather than watch the embedded video), this is an abridged version of a longer live performance piece.

I was honoured to attend the preview of that longer piece in November 2018 …

One Starts in a Barber’s. One Starts in a Bar by Rohan Candappa, Preview, Gladstone Arms, 21 November 2018

…and once again found myself honoured with an opportunity to preview “And You Are?” on the Tuesday evening, a few hours before it went live to the world.

Janie joined me at the preview, which we streamed onto the living room telly. Perhaps not quite as dramatic as the Prime Minister’s lockdown address to the nation the night before…

…but frankly I prefer seeing Kat Kleve act and I prefer Rohan Candappa’s well-crafted and thought-provoking words.

So there you have it. Rohan was, at one time, an ad man, so I am sure he will want to extract the essence of what I have just said as a promotional quote:

Better than watching Boris Johnson telling you what to do and what not to do – Ian Harris, Ogblog.

Seriously, Janie and I both very much enjoyed the piece and are looking forward to the next one. It is “appointment to view” stuff. You can make your own appointment to view by subscribing to the YouTube channel here.

Virtually The New Normal: Lockdown Theatre Launch, Sri Lanka v England Day One Simulation On King Cricket, NewsRevue Web-Streamed, 19 March 2020

Until this week, Ogblog has been entirely free of Covid-19. Of course, the pandemic, which began in Wuhan in late 2019, has been well underway across the world for weeks now.

Increasing social distancing restrictions, some recommended, some enforced, have been rolled out in the UK in the past few days. I needed to do one or two things at the office yesterday; I doubt if I shall visit the City again for a while.

So, 19 March, I woke up to the new normal. Virtually normal.

The Lockdown Theatre Company

Want to know more? Click the redundancy bunny

My old mate Rohan Candappa has come up with a cracking idea to help his friends in the performing arts. The above picture link takes you to the Facebook site for the Lockdown Theatre – this link takes you to Rohan’s initiating statement.

Basically Rohan is going to produce a short performance piece each week, for several weeks, for which he is paying performers a modest but much-needed fee. initially at least this will be free to view.

Rohan does good stuff, so I commend this to Ogblog readers for artistic reasons but I also commend the communitarian and “new normal” thinking behind the idea.

So, I spent some time promoting the idea through my personal channels and writing to Rohan.

Where it will lead I don’t know. Rohan doesn’t know. None of us know where the Covid-19 pandemic will lead society either. We have to get used to “don’t know where this is going”. Don’t know but let’s give this a try is part of the new normal.

Good luck and good speed, Rohan. If I can help with this initiative, I shall.

Then I spent several hours doing actual work from home, much as I have done, remotely, most of the time in the past 25+ years. Just more video conferences and Skypes than previously. New normal.

King Cricket’s Sim Series: Sri Lanka v England Day One

King Cricket is using a rather more recent version of the International Cricket captain simulation game – click the above pic. to see the Day One report

At lunchtime, I took a break from work and checked in eagerly to King Cricket.

King Cricket’s response to the new normal, which in part means that there is no actual live cricket when there should have been, has been to try something a bit silly. He has picked an “all time greats” Sri Lanka side to play an “all time greats” England side in a simulation of the cancelled test matches in Sri Lanka.

He is going to run his simulation of each day of the two cancelled tests on the requisite day and write some humorous end of day reports for each day. The King Cricket community chime in with comments.

I showed Janie the Day Three report (a few hours before writing this Ogblog piece). I had to explain cricket simulation games to her…

…did Janie not know that I had the 1999 version? She and I were long since together back then, although I suppose the game never travelled from my place to hers during my brief infatuation with it…

…and I also had to explain King Cricket’s match reporting idea and the fact that many readers seemed to be enjoying the idea.

You have all gone completely mad, she said.

Then I did some more work (including those extra Skypes and video conferences) until I was done with work.

Then I had some dinner before hunkering down to a virtual show.

NewsRevue Last Performance Before Covid-19 Closure, Web-Streamed

Just in case anyone doesn’t know about my past involvement with and long-standing love for the 40-year-old comedy show NewsRevue…

NewsRevue 40th Anniversary Party, Show & Smoker, Canal Cafe Theatre, 18 August 2019

…I suggest you click one or both of the above links.

Anyway, social distancing means no live shows and stuff for the foreseeable future, as well as no live sport, so the NewsRevue team decided to perform the last show before closure behind closed doors and upload the video for people to watch, from scheduled show time onwards.

I watched the show around about showtime – actually about 22:00 – sat in bed after eating a supersized plate of yummy pasta left over from earlier in the week – thank you Janie.

If you want to see the show, it is embedded below.

Highlights for me were the toilet roll song, “I Love Toilet Roll” at 8:15 and also a wonderful Nicola Sturgeon song at 11:45; a very impressive singing impersonation I thought.

Perhaps not the strongest run ever, but it is quintessentially NewsRevue.

Note to self – do not make a habit of sitting in bed watching a streamed video on the TV while you are digesting your food – the food does not digest well in that posture – especially if you nod off in said posture before straightening yourself out. No need to explain in detail to the readers what can go wrong in these circumstances.

Yes, the end of such a novel day, the virtual new normal, is a time for reflection…and in my case, refluxion.

Threadmash 5, Rohan Candappa’s Thing Has A Birthday Bash, Gladstone Arms, 5 February 2020

How does one describe Threadmash? It is sort-of a writing club, where people write and recite pieces, often being encouraged outside their safe places, by ringmaster Rohan Candappa.

But it is not so much about what we do as it is about how it makes those of us who participate in it feel. I probably described that for the first time at the end of the Ogblog piece in which I set out my second threadmash piece:

In Search Of Lost Time and Found Memories, A Performance Piece For The Second Theadmash, Gladstone Arms, 28 March 2019

But the very first threadmash was exactly a year ago. The piece I produced for that inaugural event is set out here and below:

The Rohan Thing, My Short Performance Piece As Part Of Rohan Candappa’s Inaugural Threadmash, Gladstone Arms, 5 February 2019

Rohan is not one to let a birthday or anniversary go unmarked…

…nor is he one to miss an opportunity for a party of sorts.

So Threadmash 5 was cunningly scheduled for the first anniversary of Threadmash. Well played, Rohan.

There were several new faces this time, observing the readings and whole-heartedly participating in the party atmosphere. Several of them had “Sh” names, such as Shirani, Shivangi, Shazia and Rowan.

Eight of us wrote pieces to Rohan’s brief this time. Mine is published here:

Dear William, My Peformance Piece For Threadmash 5, Gladstone Arms, 5 February 2020

Terry went first. He wrote a job application letter, to become a taster for Mr Kipling cakes. He used the application as a mechanism to tell us all about is “work experience” as a youngster. It was very amusing and touching in parts.

Jan then read us a letter to a plate of food that she was forced to “study” outside the headmistresses office for the whole afternoon, when five years old, because she had the audacity to abstain from eating the ghastly gunk that was her school dinner. This too was a very funny and touching piece.

Jan’s piece reminded me of a lovely piece of writing I published recently on Ogblog as a guest piece, by cousin Garry Steel, about a similar incident and the “truth and reconciliation” events that occurred decades later:

Truth And Reconciliation 55 Years After A Dastardly Custardy Battle: Guest Piece By Garry Steel

This was the first of several unexpected, surprising and in some cases downright weird coincidences in the evening’s pieces.

I went next…

…followed by Chris who wrote a letter to his own testosterone, explaining how their relationship had changed and was likely to continue changing over the decades. Not only funny and engaging, this piece was also moving and quite risky in the level and nature of its confessional humour.

Flo’s piece was the fifth one. A letter, decades later, to a youth with whom she had enjoyed extended correspondence and an unfulfilled dalliance “back in the day”, probably because she was less ready for romance at that time than the young man. As with all of the pieces, there was a mixture of drama and humour; this one especially bittersweet because the mismatch was one of those timing things that so many of us probably, if we put our minds to it, experienced one way or another when we were in the early stages of romance. I probably wasn’t the only man in the room thinking, “crickey, I never, ever put THAT much effort into wooing a girl. Poor chap.”

The strange coincidence in Flo’s piece was that she described the young man, on reflection, as “her troubadour”, which seemed a strange, coincidental echo of my references to William of Aquitaine and his reputation as the first troubadour.

Next up was David Wellbrook, who wrote a very moving letter in the part of a soldier on the front line in WW1, writing home having just killed a man in hand-to-hand combat. David is a very versatile writer. To a greater extent than most of us, he is able to pick up on Rohan’s entreaties to stretch ourselves beyond our safe zones and make that stretch comprehensively.

Strangely, Kay’s letter was to her late Grandfather and talked a great deal about his active service in WW1.This seemed like a particularly coincidental echo, coming immediately after David’s WW1 story and also in relation to mine, which was also a letter to a dead relative of the grandfather generation, albeit “grandfather-in-law” in my case. Kay’s piece was very touching, not least because clearly her grandfather had been unable to communicate feelings very much when Kay knew him and also because it is clear from the letter that Kay feels she might not have communicated with him sufficiently either.

Geraldine’s letter was directed by Rohan to be a letter of resignation, but Geraldine cleverly and delightfully twisted the idea to make it a letter of resignation to her former husband, explaining why she felt she simply had to escape the drudgery of the “American dream, American housewife” role in which she found herself cast as his wife. It was a beautiful piece of writing, full of love combined with a steely determination to explain herself and not to apologise. As with all of the pieces, the letter was probably the right length for such a performance piece but (and because) it said so much while leaving me wanting to know more.

After a short interlude, Rohan took us through a 10 point agenda. Is this is all getting a bit business-like?

…not as business-like as it looks, once you read the items

The brief for Threadmash Six is to write about an unknown woman named Charlotte Thomas. All we know of her is that Rohan managed to acquire a cheap moleskin-like notebook that had been customised with her name but never collected from the shop. Our job is to write about whosoever this person might be.

It did cross my mind to recycle my Theadmash One story, which is about a youthful dalliance with a young woman who I only ever knew as Fuzz, thus not even knowing her real first name, let alone her second name. She might very well be (or have been) Charlotte Thomas…

…but that would be cheating – I won’t do that. I think I have already decided on my Charlotte Thomas idea – it will be a bit of a stretch but I guess it is meant to be.

There was an awards ceremony, during which Rohan’s Edinburgh nemesis Rowan presented Adrian (in absentia) and Julie “Croissanita” with awards which, given their origins from the same stable as the Charlotte Thomas moleskin-type thing, I suggested should henceforward be known as “Charleys”.

It was a birthday party so of course there was cake…

…and goody bags.

Even the awkward silence was superb.

Then Rohan performed a new piece of his own, a very evocative piece which the agenda claims to be a collaboration with a top musician. But Rohan actually confessed that Brian Eno is…was unaware of the collaboration. I’m hoping Rohan will tell me which ambient piece he used to back up his words, at which point I shall update this piece with the information and possibly (with Rohan’s permission) let Brian Eno know how well he did.

Update: Rohan reports that the piece used was Neroli. You may hear Neroli on-line by clicking here or the embedded thingie below:

Rohan’s new work, about 15 minutes long, is a lyrical, poetic piece named Park.

Rohan was so pumped for his recital that he even felt the need to change for his performance:

Not only was Park a very charming and thought-provoking piece, it was, in a way, the third coincidence on the topic of troubadours. Of course, we will never know whenether the troubadour tradition was one of singing the lyrical poems to tunes or the dramatic recitation of lyrical poems with musical backing…almost certainly a bit of both depending on the piece and the troubadour. In any case it occurred to me that Rohan’s piece was very much of that 800+ years old troubadour tradition.

As always, the very act of gathering and spending an evening with such super people is a huge part of the Threadmash thing. I have known several of the people for just shy of 50 years now, whereas some of us have just met in the last year and about half the people at this anniversary evening were new to the thing. All were great company.

I’ve written too much already. It was a cracking evening. Thanks as always, Rohan.

Dear William, My Peformance Piece For Threadmash 5, Gladstone Arms, 5 February 2020

The event that was Threadmash 5 is written up as an ogblog piece here and the link below

Threadmash 5, Rohan Candappa’s Thing Has A Birthday Bash, Gladstone Arms, 5 February 2020

The brief was simply to write a letter, although Rohan Candappa gave me some additional guidance suggesting that I try fiction this time. Here is the piece I performed for that event.

Dear William

Hi. It’s Prince Harry here.  The sun is streaming in through my window here in France. It’s late morning; 1152 to be precise and you should know…indeed I want everybody to know, that I’m in love, William, I am in love!

Look, I know it isn’t going to be easy. She’s several years older than me, she’s a divorcee and she’s from across the pond. She might not be accepted by the great British public as “one of their own”.

She’s also a bit of a crusader. One tough cookie who doesn’t mind putting up a fight for the stuff she believes in. I like that about her.

William; she is SO beautiful. Not just how she looks in the pictures – those media types can make any old minger look special – but she really is a stunner. Real hotty totty, eh what?

But I’m not marrying her just for my own selfish reasons. Hell no. I’m getting married for the good of my country. We are in such a political mess at the moment. Near anarchy, I’d call it. Britain needs a royal wedding right now.

But, William, I would really like to know what you think. I know you can’t really give me answers, but you really know your pussy. Heaven knows you’ve played the field more than I have, more than most people. Droit du seigneur and all that.

So I wonder if you think my proposed marriage will work? I really could do with some familial advice and frankly I have no-one else credible to turn to in matters of the heart…

…just a second, all hell seems to have kicked off outside the Château. Bloody French, what the hell’s it about this time? They’re always revolting about something or another. Got to go, I’ll finish off this letter later on.

LATER ON

Hello again, William. It was 1152 when I started this letter; it’s 1173 now. Crumbs – when I said that I’d finish this letter later, I didn’t have “21 years later” in mind. Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun? Heck, how should I know; I’m not having much fun. Frankly, things haven’t gone swimmingly well since I wrote the first part of this letter.

It’s not all bad news. I’ve been King of England now for 19 years, which makes me a pretty important bloke, especially when you also take into account all my Dukedoms and Counties in France, including your old Dukedom of Aquitaine. Nice place. Decent weather.

So I did marry your grand-daughter, Eleanor. Wow, she really is a goer. Boof. We’ve had loads of kids. But therein lies the rub. It is nigh on impossible to keep all the kids happy with lands and castles and stuff. Eleanor doesn’t help because she insists on interfering – you know what women are like.

To be honest with you, I have fallen out with rather a lot of people lately, including Eleanor…and all of our kids…and my former best mate (now late mate) Thomas Becket… the Scots, the Irish, the Bretons, the Flemish, most of the French nobles, many of the English Barons…and the Pope.

But you know what, William? I know it might be hard for you to believe, but NONE of this revolting business is my fault. None of it. Heck, I’m just trying to do my job, establishing some sort of order out of the political mayhem I inherited.  

You of all people will understand what I’m going through. You too fell out with your wife and had a ruction with the church. At least I haven’t been excommunicated; twice. But history will look kindly on you, William. It already does. You’ve not even been dead for 50 years, but already you are remembered as a bon viveur, a great lover and especially as the first troubadour.  Heaven only knows how I’m going to be remembered.

How did you get away with all that stuff, William? Your behaviour…and the language you used in your songs – I’ve never seen the “F” word and the “C” word used so much in all my life.

Times have changed, though, William. The younger generation are prudes and snowflakes.   

In truth, I don’t see much of Eleanor these days.  Heck, I’m a busy fellow with loads of revolts to quell and I cannot bear being nagged. Anyway, Eleanor permanently stays indoors at the moment; I have security see to that. But I do still love her, in a way. A chivalric way.  You of all people will understand that.

In fact, it occurred to me that, as you were the very first troubadour; the chap who established the tradition of secular performance song which will endure for centuries if not millennia…

…I thought I should end this letter with a song that explains exactly how I feel about your granddaughter Eleanor.

Sincerely yours,

Your devoted grandson-in-law

Henry Plantagenet

ELEANOR

VERSE ONE

You’ve got a thing about you; Grandpa was a troubadou, I really want you, Eleanor legally;

Your power intoxicates me, though all the French folk hate me;

There’s no-one like you, Eleanor, regally.

CHORUS ONE

Eleanor, you of Aquitaine, as they speak in Northern Spain, Southern France and parts of Italy;

Eleanor, can you be more kind, I want you to change your mind, try to reign beside me prettily.

VERSE TWO

Sometimes I think your hassle, treating me like your vassal,

Seeking advance for you and the offspring;

Don’t suppose you envisioned, that I’d have you imprisoned,

When your coup failed with Henry The Young King

CHORUS TWO

Eleanor, you of Aquitaine, you’re a right chivalric pain, all our sons will not forgive me;

Eleanor, can you be more kind, I want you to change your mind, at this rate you’ll way outlive me.

OUTRO

Eleanor, gee I think you’re hell, ah-hah; Eleanor, gee I think you’re hell, ah-hah…ha-ah.

Not that they had chords in the 12th century, but for those who might be interested in the chords I used, the image below will help you. Aficionados might note the devils intervals I used to conclude the “musical piece”.

Performed on my Roosebeck baroq-ulele, tuned DGBE. Thus A4th is fret 2 on the G&B strings, D4th is open D and F# on the E string. Not very 12th century but a bit medieval…or just evil.

The Gift, Fourth Threadmash, Gladstone Arms, 6 November 2019

It’s been a while since the last actual Threadmash, although we have had a gathering of the clan at The Glad since the previous Threadmash in May:

(Where Do I Begin?) Love Story – A Performance Piece For TheadMash 3, 7 May 2019

Anyway, this time the brief was “The Gift”, with additional instructions to stick to just one page. I took that to mean “one side of a sheet of A4”, but some took it to mean two sides. No matter. I can write something War & Peace epic length next time to get my own back.

I sensed that Rohan Candappa had mischief in mind when he asked us to bring two copies of our text with us.

Once we started Threadmashing, after several of us had dined on goat pie (or whatevs) and made a start on the libations, I also sensed that there might be a mini riot when Rohan announced that we would each be reading someone else’s work rather than our own. But we soon settled down and knuckled down to the additional challenge.

40 years on, Chris Grant still gets head boy privileges.

Chris Grant, a first time Threadmash writer (although not first time attendee) was excused the additional challenge and thus read his own piece as an opener for the evening. It was a charming short piece.

We had each been given a few minutes to read the piece we had inherited.

Quite early in the evening, David Wellbrook read out my piece, which follows below.

David Wellbrook soldiering through my piece

Coincidentally, I was given David’s piece to read; a somewhat Dahlesque horror story, as Rohan had encouraged David to try fiction this time. I did enjoy reading David’s piece I must say. Rohan has strongly encouraged me to try writing fiction for the next one.

He doesn’t look dictatorial, does he? It’s a deceptively gentle form of throat shaking, Rohan’s dictatorial style – sttrong guidance followed by, “but it’s up to you, of course…only if you want to…”

Anyway, here’s my piece which was so capably read by David:

The word “gift” has two distinct meanings as a noun. A gift means something given freely, a present. But it also means a natural ability or talent, such as, “a gift for writing”. When Rohan suggested “The Gift” as his subject for Threadmash Four, I was drawn to the second of these definitions.

These past few years, I have been spending increasing amounts of my time on activities for which I am not naturally gifted, but they are nevertheless activities that I love doing and pursuing. Specifically, I mean sports, such as cricket, plus music.
My mother came from a supremely musical family. One branch of her family yielded several notable professional musicians, especially violinists. Even my barber grandfather could, by all accounts, instantly play on the piano any tune you might choose to hum at him.

When I started secondary school, my mother gave me every encouragement to take up and play the violin. But quite quickly, the sound of me practicing, which resembled cats being tortured in a pitch-distorting dungeon, led mum to encourage me to give up violin and try something else. Anything else.

Actually I was growing quite fond of sport. Cricket, tennis and fives mostly. I wasn’t very good at sports either, but I wasn’t going to let an absence of giftedness stop me from trying. Nor was I going to let my own shortcomings stop me from becoming a fascinated follower of my favourite sports. And indeed also a devotee of many varied genres of music.

In truth, although I didn’t inherit the family gift for performing music, I certainly did inherit “a love of music”. And it has occurred to me characteristics such as “a love of music” truly are gifts to be cherished and celebrated.

Where I got my gift for loving sports such as cricket is more of a mystery. Neither of my parents had any interest in sport whatsoever. Not professional sport and certainly not my participation in sport; I don’t think either of my parents ever saw me play sport, other than me mucking about at some nonsense game at home.

Yet, my father’s very last birthday treat included a sporting revelation. The only way to treat my dad towards the end of his life…actually for most of his life…was to take him out for a good meal. As it happened, in 2006, dad’s 87th birthday, fell on a day that Middlesex were playing at Lord’s. I booked at table with a view in the Warner Restaurant, which followed an informal pavilion tour before lunch. They loved it. As dad said, “there aren’t many places I can go now and see people of my own age…apart from old age homes”. The England & Wales Cricket Board marketing folk may use that quote for nothing.

At one point that day, dad mentioned that he and his kid brother Michael had been given a set of cricket equipment by their parents as a gift, when the family moved to Clapham Common in the early 1930s and the boys started a new school there. Neither dad nor Michael had shown any interest in cricket before the gift, apparently, nor did that gift inspire either of them to take the slightest interest in cricket. My grandparents; Eastern European migrants with accents from central casting, were perhaps striving to turn their sons into quintessential English schoolboys through the peculiar sport that is cricket.

I wonder whether my grandparents’ intention with that cricket equipment gift somehow skipped a generation but still subconsciously fueled my love of cricket? A gift indeed.

Chris Grant remarked that he found it really weird hearing words that were so clearly mine coming out of David Wellbrook’s mouth. We have all known each other for over 45 years, so I suppose that is understandable.

All of the pieces were excellent, as usual. I also thought everyone made a good job of reading out someone else’s work, especially as most of us had not started the evening expecting to read something other than one’s own piece.

I caught myself categorising this Ogblog page as both “writing” and “friends and family events” this time. This reflects the fact that Threadmash has become, in my mind and I think those of others, a community of friends who, as it happens, like to gather to read and write together. It’s more than just “a writing thing” now. For all of it, I am grateful to Rohan for innovating and stewarding the ideas.

This time John Eltham came along to be part of the evening, as did Ben Clayson, although the latter arrived after the readings. It became, as always, a convivial gatheirng of interesting and interested people.

I took a few more pictures – all 10 pictures can be found on Flickr by clicking the picture icon below:

Is It Better With Or Without? by Rohan Candappa, The Gladstone Arms, 18 June 2019

In late May, I got this slightly strange message from Rohan Candappa:

Ian, are you around on 18 June? I’m doing a reading of a new piece of work about getting an eye test and the meaning of life at The Gladstone.

As it happened, that afternoon was the only slot I had available to go into the City to do City-based work stuff and that evening also happened to be a free evening.

Also, it was going to be a good opportunity to see old school friends, whom I had meticulously avoided seeing at the formal school 400th anniversary reunion a few days earlier, by sending a video of a mock-Jacobean musical performance rather than attending in person:

In Darkness Let Me Dwell, A Musical Setting To Honour The Founding Of Edward Alleyn’s College Of God’s Gift 400 Years Ago, 13 June 2019

As it turned out, the day became a flurry of unwanted activity (not least a hoo-ha with Axa PPP regarding Janie) and then a bit of a rush to complete my City work, but still I got to The Glad in time for a pie, drink and chat with the pre-show diners, not least Johnny Eltham and Rich “The Rock” Davis.

Johnny Eltham was in especially skittish mood that evening, making some unusually disparaging remarks about my Jacobean music and mode. The Rock was his usually Rock-like self.

Others in attendance that evening included Paul Driscoll, Simon Ryan, Steve Butterworth, Dave French, Terry Bush, Jan and her friend Charmaigne, David Wellbrook and we were also blessed by the presence of The Right Reverend Sir Nigel Godfrey.

Last but not least, some minutes into Rohan’s performance, the late Nigel Boatswain arrived.

Something a bit misty-optic-like about the lighting

The setting; an Optometrist’s practice, is not exactly home turf for me, as I don’t yet need anything to adjust my eyes and have only had my eyes tested twice in that regard.

The phrase, “is it better with or without”, used many times, apparently, in the search for the optimal optical specification, provided the basis for Rohan to wander off on an existential angst-fest in which the said search might be a proxy for the meaning of life.

As is always the case with Rohan’s work, the narrative takes you into some detailed areas about which you have thought little, then makes you think about some big stuff and also at times makes you laugh a lot.

For reasons that seemed to make sense at the time but to which I cannot really back track, Rohan ended up getting the audience, led by John Eltham, to sing (or rather, “dah-da-da”) the theme to The Great Escape.

I feel bound to say that Johnny Eltham’s efforts dah-da-da-ing that particular tune ranged from poor on melody/harmony to utterly dire on rhythm. Elmer Bernstein was no doubt turning in his grave. And after all those back-handed compliments and disparaging remarks from Johnny about my Jacobean musical efforts too.

We have ways and means of making you sing…

Before his performance, Rohan made some moving impromptu remarks, not least praising our visitors from the Great Dominions, Nigel Godfrey for his sterling work raising funds for the Christchurch massacre victims and Rich “The Rock” for the success of his personal battles against cancer.

After his performance, Rohan told the assembled throng about Threadmash and asked David Wellbrook to retell his moving piece on the subject of Lost and Found from Threadmash 2 (below currently is my piece from that Threadmash – but I might at some stage persuade David to let me publish his Threadmash 2 piece as a guest piece:

In Search Of Lost Time and Found Memories, A Performance Piece For The Second Theadmash, Gladstone Arms, 28 March 2019

It was a very stimulating evening and/but I was really quite tired once the performances were over, so I made my excuses and left promptly. Terry also left at the same time as me, so we had a chance to chat pleasantly until we parted company at Bank, where east is east and west is west.

So is life better with or without evenings like this? With – no question. Thanks, Rohan.

(Where Do I Begin?) Love Story – A Performance Piece For TheadMash 3, 7 May 2019

The question “where do I begin?” in the matter of a love story is, I suggest, a rather uninteresting question. Almost all love stories start when the lovers meet. OK, the story might have a short preamble to set the scene, such as the almighty punch-up at the start of Romeo and Juliet, but basically love stories start when the lovers meet. Simples.

So before I begin the short love story I have prepared for you, I want to explore two variants of the “where do I begin?” question:

Firstly – where did “where do I begin?” begin, in the context of the film Love Story.

Secondly, I want to explore the question, where…or rather when…does love begin?”, which I think is a rather more intriguing question. My attempted answer also informs the rather regular style of love story with which I shall briefly conclude.

So, where did “where do I begin?” begin? 

Francis Lai had written a score for the movie Love Story, including the tune Theme From Love Story.

The Paramount Movie people felt that the Theme needed a lyric and commissioned Carl Sigman, a top lyricist at the time, to turn that theme tune into a song.

Sigman initially wrote a schmaltzy lyric summarizing the love story depicted in the film, with lines such as:

  • “So when Jenny came” and
  • “Suddenly was gone”…

…you get the picture. But Robert Evans, the larger than life producer of Love Story, hated Sigman’s original attempt at the lyric; in particular fretting that the “Jenny came” line was suggestive.

According to Sigman’s son, the great lyricist was furious at being asked to rewrite the lyric, throwing a bit of a hissy and threatening to withdraw from the project. But the next day, when Sigman had calmed down, he told his wife that he would try again. But, “where do I begin?”, Sigman asked. “That’ll do”, or words to that effect, replied Mrs Sigman. Thus, at least apocryphally, the famous line and song title was born.

But the question I really want to explore before I tell you my little love story is where…or rather when…does love begin?”

I believe that people tend to rewrite their personal romantic histories somewhat, often attributing a “love at first sight” narrative to, for example, the story of meeting one’s life partner. But that attribution is made with the benefit of hindsight.

Let me illustrate my point with a slightly less emotive example. Falling in love with a house.

I quite often tell the tale of my viewing our house in West Acton, at the behest of my then girlfriend, now wife, Janie, who had already seen it. I reckon I had been inside for no more than 30 to 40 seconds before I concluded that I could imagine Janie living out the rest of her life in that house, possibly with me in it too. In the vernacular, I fell in love with our house at first sight. We bought the house. Janie and I love that house. Noddyland, we call it.

San-Bin-Ista
The Noddyland Threshold

But supposing the Noddyland house story had not panned out as it did. My offer might have been rejected or the survey might have found an insurmountable problem with that house. Or we might have been guzumped by David Wellbrook or some such person who knows a fine house at a sensible price when he sees one.

Janie and I would have resumed our search for a house and we’d no doubt have found another; we might have liked or even loved that other house…

…but I would not have looked back on my initial visit to Noddyland as a “love at first sight” story. We might have mused about whether we’d have been happier “at that one we liked the look of but didn’t get”. We would not have used the term “love” about that house at all.

My point is that the love comes later. We tend to back-fill the story in hindsight and imagine the love to have come much sooner than it really did.

Returning to the question of romantic love, I wonder where or when that love genuinely begins. My view on this matter has changed as I have got older. Back in the days of my very early fumblings in the late 1970s, for example The Story Of Fuzz in my inaugural TheadMash piece…

The Rohan Thing, My Short Performance Piece As Part Of Rohan Candappa’s Inaugural Threadmash, Gladstone Arms, 5 February 2019

…I don’t think I thought of those escapades as love stories of any kind.

But soon after that, once I had started having “proper, long-term relationships”…I’m talking weeks here or even occasionally months…I considered those adventures to be “my love life.” Rollercoaster emotions would ensue; elation at the onset or when a romantic setback was overcome; heartache when things went awry, especially when the upshot was that I had been dumped. I know it’s hard to believe, folks, but one or two foolish young women made that mistake and paid the ultimate price of losing their once-in-a-lifetime opportunity with me.

But when I look back on those short-lived, early efforts now, I find it hard to recognize many if any of the characteristics of a love story in those tales. At the time, of course, I thought I was falling in and out of love. But with the benefit of a more seasoned perspective, those stories are merely a good source for comedic interludes or nostalgia-drenched asides…

…especially those stories for which I have unintentionally amusing diary entries with easily-interpreted hieroglyphics…

Abandoned By My Parents, The Only Thing For It Was To Party, 11 to 12 November 1978

…oh yes.

Those early entanglements are too fleeting and (I regret having to confess) sometimes too entangled with each other to make true romantic copy.

Contrast that sort of juvenile jumble with…

…David Wellbrook’s superb recitation at ThreadMash 2, about his good lady’s near death experience and David’s intimate account of his own reaction to it. Now that piece was not written as a love story, it was written as a piece on the theme of “lost and found”. Yet it was, I would argue, a profound and heartfelt personal love story. I wouldn’t attempt to emulate or better it as a love story.

But it did get me thinking about a couple of near-death experiences Janie and I went through, particularly the first of them.

The incident was many years ago, in the mid 1990s, when Janie and I had been together for fewer than three years.

Janie and I went over to my business partner Michael and his then girlfriend (now wife) Elisabeth’s place for a Saturday evening meal that May Bank Holiday. Both Janie and I experienced quite severe indigestion that night; a state we attributed to Elisabeth’s solidly-Germanic, Sauerbraten style of cooking, combined with perhaps a tad too much alcohol to wash down the heavy food. But whereas my biliousness passed as the Sunday progressed, Janie became increasingly poorly and doubled up with pain in her innards.

To cut a long and painful story short, by the night of Bank Holiday Monday, I was convinced that the locum doctor’s relatively casual attitude to a woman doubled up with increasing pain was insufficient and took Janie to A&E, where they immediately diagnosed (correctly) acute pancreatitis caused by a rogue gallstone.

As I left Janie in the care of the kind doctor, the youngster (yes, even when I was still a mere 33 years old, the night-duty house doctor in A&E looked like a youngster) took me aside. He warned me that, although they thought they had everything under control and that the odds were in Janie’s favour, he was duty bound to warn me how serious pancreatitis can be and that Janie might not survive the ordeal.

I drove home, alone, with that “might not survive” thought and the strains of Miserlou by Dick Dale & His Del-Tones on the radio…

…well it was 1995 when Pulp Fiction was all the rage. I can no longer hear that tune without thinking of that lonely drive home.

But the incident brought the romantic truth home to me; Janie wasn’t just the girl that I had been going out with for longer now than any of my previous girlfriends – nearly three whole years. It made me realize that I really did love Janie.

In fact it made me realize that I had recognized that fact a year earlier, when I discussed the idea of me setting up business with Michael. I had said to Janie that the venture was a big risk…

…the dangers of Michael and Elisabeth’s notorious cooking for a start…that’s an unfair joke that should not be repeated or put in print (apart from the Ogblog version of this piece 😉 )…

…the venture was a big risk because we’d be taking on indebtedness and if the business went wrong I’d have to give up my flat and have little or no money for quite a while. Janie had simply said that it wasn’t really a big risk because she still had a job and a flat and that we’d get by. It was then that I knew that she loved me and that I also loved her and that she and I were committed to help each other through life’s journey for the foreseeable future.

To me, THAT is truly the stuff of “where love begins”.

Extract From Tchaikovsky Romeo and Juliet Fantasy Overture

As for the more simple, “where do I begin?” love story; I suppose I should now tell you the story of how Janie and I met.  

We met in August 1992 at one of Kim and Micky’s parties; Kim being Janie’s best friend.

In some ways it is odd that Janie’s and my path hadn’t crossed before, through Kim & Micky. I had known Kim, through holiday jobs and stuff, since I was a youngster. In the late 1980s, when I got to know Kim & Micky socially, I would see them a few times a year at dinner or lunch parties. But I guess they saw Janie and me as part of different circles. In any case, we were both otherwise attached most of the time during those years.

Anyway, Janie and I chatted quite a lot during the party and ended up as part of a smaller group that was still around into the early evening, at which point Kim suggested that we all go across the square and play tennis.

I had just started playing tennis again, rather tentatively, following a particularly nasty back injury. Goodness only knows how useless I was after quite a few drinks at the party. But most of us had been drinking quite heavily, so I don’t suppose the quality of the tennis was very high. I do recall thinking that Janie was pretty good at tennis. It probably helped that she was the only sober person among us.

Janie had mentioned several times that she had driven to the party in her car and therefore wasn’t drinking.  After the tennis, I asked her if she could drop me at a tube station. She said that she would, but that she wasn’t prepared to go out of her way and that the only tube station she’d be passing was Hanger Lane. That was ideal for me, as Hanger Lane and Notting Hill Gate are on the same line.

Janie and I chatted some more on the fifteen minute car journey.

Janie said that she liked poetry.

When she stopped the car to drop me off, I asked Janie for her telephone number.

Janie said no.

In order to get out of the car with my dignity intact, I took from my wallet one of those sticky labels with my name, address and telephone number on it. I stuck the label on her steering wheel, saying, “in that case, you can have my address and telephone number”.

Janie thanked me and said that she would write me a poem.

I’m still waiting for the poem.

While preparing this TheadMash piece, I asked Janie if she wanted to apologise for her terse refusal that first evening and for the continued absence of my poem, some 27 years later.

“No”, said Janie, “love means never having to say you’re sorry”. Who could argue with that sentiment in the matter of love story.

In any case, Janie assures me that the poem is coming; she never set a specific date for its production. It might end up being my epitaph.

I look forward to that.

Meanwhile, if this short account has left you wondering how on earth Janie and I got it together after her initial rejection…

…well, that’s another story or two – not for ThreadMash.

But those yarns will be linked to the Ogblog version of this piece. They involve ossobuco…

Ossobuco At Janie’s Place, 16 August 1992

…and The Street of Crocodiles…

Janie and I Go On Our First Proper Date, The Street Of Crocodiles, Cottesloe Theatre, 29 August 1992

…obviously.

Postscript 1: For Those Readers Who Like Their Stories Circular/Complete

I realised after completing my first pass on this piece that Robert Evans, the producer who sent Carl Sigman back to the drawing board to write the “Where Do I Begin?” lyric, was the subject of a play Janie and I saw a couple of years ago; The Kid Stays In The Picture…

The Kid Stays In The Picture, based on the life of Robert Evans, adapted by Simon McBurney & James Yeatman, Royal Court Theatre, 11 March 2017

…which was put on by Simon McBurney/Theatre de Complicite, the same people who did The Street Of Crocodiles – Janie’s and my first proper date.