NW, FV December

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Last night was the December edition of New Words, Fresh Voices hosted by The Seagull Theatre.  Unfortunately, because of the frost and the cold and the general wintery feel, it was quite empty.  However, there were a few new people, which is always good to see.  There were a couple of guitarists/singers, and they were good, and a man who wrote poems about vegetables.  Very unexpected, but very funny.  

Considering that it's coming up to Christmas, the best time of year (in my opinion, but I dare someone to argue with me on that), there was one performer who read out three extremely miserable pieces, which kind of brought a downer on the whole evening.  Good job there was a duo with a banjo, singing silly songs to lighten the mood.

And of course, there was me.  I went along with the general theme of Christmas/winter, because I love Christmas and snow gets me all excited (even though we haven't had any here ... yet) like I was a child again!

*****

Winter

Do you remember when we used to sit

by the radio listening to local

stations waiting for the news reports to

say the name of our school?  We knew this meant

school was closed and we could all enjoy

a day at home with hours of frozen

fun ahead.  The initial signs of rich

whitewashed pavements filled our thoughts with blizzards

and wonderlands.  Glistening bright diamonds

of meltable presence would tap at our

windows, beckoning us to play.  The crunch

of the first footprint on the unsullied

path sounded as satisfying as the

taste of the first flakes to fall onto our

outstretched tongues.  Running in crazy circles,

creating rushed patterns of welly-boot

ridges until the soft snow carpet looked

more like dog-chewed lino.  Our mums tightened

our scarves to the point of breathlessness – or

was that the excitement of a snow day? 

Wrapped up so only our wide eyes peeped out

above our snug woollen face protection. 

Gripping massive balls of numbness in the

tiny palms of our hand-knitted mittens,

then lobbing them at anything standing

in our way, watching in amazement as

they exploded and the fragments whizzed off,

so speedily, in every direction.

Being pulled along on home-made sledges

or in crates found strewn on ice-white sand by

our dads while our mums watched from the warmth of

the house, behind the kitchen window.  The

coldness crept its way up through the seats of

our trousers but we didn’t care.  Gazing

at beads of water glazing over, that

turned into ice on metal railings, and

being tempted by the unknown taste of

this clear confection but being told not

to lick them as our tongues would get stuck.  Each

tree looked the same as the next and we would

ping the branches so that the soft powder

bounced as if on a trampoline.  It would

fly up in the air and then float back down 

upon our faces as gracefully as

fragile, injured angels fluttering

from high, so that we could dance beneath our

own mini snowfall.  Jumping off the sea

wall onto the beach but ending up knee

deep in snowy slush that seeped over the

tops of our boots and soaked into our socks.

Slipping on ice-ridden paths and tripping

up snow-hidden kerbs in a rush to be

the first person to scrape the snow off the

car and use it for ammunition.  The

wind would send shivers through our skin, coating

our cheeks with flushed red flecks (the freckles would

hide in order to avoid the cold) and

make our noses sniffle, yet the air was

fresh and inviting, even if it was

raining.  Knife-like icicles dangling from

guttering, ready to snap, drop and stab,

at times seemed to be frozen tears when looked

at in the right light.  These prisms shimmered

with rainbow brightness against dark walls.  Wet

puddles became our own mini ice-rinks

after Jack had cast his frost spell on them.

Skating back and forth over the shiny

glass panel that was barely big enough

to fit two feet on, yet we skidded and

flailed our arms with as much elegance and

style as Torvill and Dean.  Light blue skies were

the backdrop for the escaping plumes of

pallid mist we expelled from our chapped lips;

we pretended we were smoking.  Building

odd-shaped snowmen that never looked as good

as those on the telly.  Their heads always

were a bit lopsided and our carrots

were not proper triangles, making them

appear witchlike rather than the friendly

overgrown ice-lollies that we wished would

wake up at night with a blink of their coal

eyes and take us floating high above the

rooftops.  The pure body of winter would

always turn into muddy slush before

tea-time and after tea it was always

too dark to go back outside.  Toasting our

toes in front of the open fire with Grange

Hill, Blue Peter or John Craven’s Newsround

in the background, anticipating a

steaming stew or casserole to heat our

freezing bodies.  Laying on the floor, the

fire still burning, playing Connect4 or

Spirographing to eternity by

overlapping patterns, shaping our own

indoor snowflakes from paper scraps that would

not thaw out but survive until summer. 

From the comfort of our rooms we would watch

droplets of winter float from the sky and

glimmer in the faint glow of the streetlamps

and then go to bed wishing that it would

be exactly the same in the morning.

*****

Blue Peter Christmas

Mr. Weatherly was the best headmaster

you could ever wish for.

He was a classroom celebrity,

a man of credibility

famed for gliding through assembly

on a birthday boy’s skateboard

and not falling off.

Famed for knowing the names

of every one of his school’s students

and their parents.

A man so vibrant, likeable, respectful, wise,

even when he was telling someone off

he had kindness in his eyes.

So frightful that everyone stopped speaking

when he walked in the room; even the teacher.

So benign that no-one minded him being there,

so involved and inspiring and always had time

for everyone in the building

Famed for not only being the best headmaster

you could ever get,

he also worked as a Blue Peter vet

taking care of George the Tortoise,

sitting inside our telly, giving pet advice.

And because of this he got to take

the year fours onto the Christmas show

to sing carols, huddled in the BBC studio,

wearing scarves and hats

beneath the flowing fake snow

as the presenters took turns

to light the advent candle crown

made of tangled bits of coat hanger metal

covered in tin foil and tinsel.

I was so excited at this awesome prospect

of being on television

with all of my school friends,

to get signed photos to stick on the fridge

and of course the Blue Peter badge

that we’d wear with pride,

that would give us free entry

to museums and galleries

and loads of theme park rides.

It was the key that every child craved

to unlock local attractions,

this excellent invention,

it was what we lived for

this blue and white treasure

that we’d cherish forever,

that would turn into retro attire

after a handful of years.

Our mums would tape us

with fingers poised over the record

and play buttons on the remote control

waiting for Andy Crane or Andi Peters

to introduce Blue Peter at 5pm.

Once five thirty came

they’d eject the cassette

and stick tape over the holes in the VHS

so that the moment would never be lost

and accidentally erased

to be replaced by an episode of

Hale and Pace or Anneka Rice.

And we’d play back the event

for years to come,

everyone convening in the living room,

inventing a game of “Where’s our kid?”

Watching wide eyed

as the cameras panned from child to child;

There she is, a finger would point,

There she is again,

That’s her back,

That’s her arm,

That would be my taste of fame.

I couldn’t wait to be 8

and for this time to come.

When I was in year 1, I’d hurry home

after a long day of learning to watch

Mark Curry, Yvette Fielding and Caren Keating

fighting with sticky back plastic

to make homemade Christmas decorations

look fantastic.

The children would sing their hymns

and force their grins

and not stare directly into camera,

and I would join in

in my living room

but in three years I would be there.

When I was in year 2, I’d rush out of school

into the dark evening to watch

Mark Curry, Yvette Fielding and Caren Keating

showing us something they’d made earlier

from under the counter

looking better than anything I ever created

with scrunched up tissue paper

and reams of sticky tape.

The children would stand in lines

and sway in time

to the music from the Salvation Army,

and in only two years

I’d be one of those

gladly clapping around the Christmas tree.

When I was in year 3, I’d walk home quickly

to be greeted by Caron Keating, Yvette Fielding and John Leslie

baking cakes or making cards

and presenting the nativity

getting us ready

for the Christmas holidays.

The children would grip their lanterns

in hands hidden in mittens,

holding back their nervous laughter,

hoping they don’t forget the words,

and in twelve months

that would be me on Blue Peter.

When I was in year 4, we sat on the floor

of the hall for morning assembly

in the first week of September

eagerly waiting together

for Mr Weatherly to enter.

But he didn’t.

In his place was Mrs something or other,

even now I can’t remember her name,

shows just how much of an impression she made.

Mr Weatherly had moved.

He’d changed schools.

He’d left us,

Bereft.

So in December, through the icy weather

I’d reluctantly turn on the television

and watch, with great  jealousy and feigned boredom,

as Yvette Fielding, John Leslie and Diane-Louise Jordon

welcome the pounding brass band

and accompanying them, the school children

from across the nation

crooning in unity,

chanting in harmony,

alongside Mr Weatherly,

without me.

Mr Weatherly will always be

the best headmaster you could ever have

but I will never forgive him

for leaving before my year 4

Blue Peter outing.

A coach ride to London,

an escape from the humdrum,

a day of sun in the middle of winter,

something that rivalled the arrival of Santa.

Ten years later,

speaking to a friend at High School

I mentioned Mr Weatherly.

She told me she knew him.

I asked her how,

and her answer:

he was her headmaster

when she was in year 4

and he took her class on Blue Peter.

*****

The next event is Sunday 20th January 2013.  I won't be there as I'll be in sunnier climes, but if you fancy performing some of your creativity, or you just want a bit more information, get in touch with Ian Fosten, the MC for the evening.