Happy New Year, Dear Reader

You wait ages for a Majella Bracebridge chapter (or maybe you don’t – I wouldn’t wish to generalise), and now two come along at once.

For some bizarre reason, the setup of WordPress means it has illogically stuck Chapters 10 and 11 underneath Chapter 1 in the list on the left, so here are 2 quick linkies to save you searching:



I hope you enjoy the slightly darker tone I’ve attempted in these new episodes in Majella’s on- and off-stage life.

Chapter 12 is well under way.  I have, as I said, criminally neglected my writing of late, but am determined to keep my new year’s resolution to stick at it.  It is so important to me that I nurture my creative side.  Without it I’d be a machine that goes to work, goes to the gym and goes to sleep.

Chapter 11

Shiny Happy People

As reunions went, it was unusual.

Who knew that a day I began in character as my feminist loom worker – suffragette stripes and all – in an incongruously modern meeting room, would become such a watershed?

I’d tried pointing out, tongue in cheek, that ‘team briefings’ in rooms containing whiteboards were an anachronism in the period we were supposed to inhabit, but was informed that so were lunch hours, during which we could avail ourselves of the distinctly non-historical canteen and vending machine.

Today our PR officer (we were one of the first museums in the region to have one), Anton, commandeered the floor.

‘Now we’ve got a visitor to BLHM this morning.  A film director.’  Twenty bewigged heads shot up with interest.  Anton did little jazz hands, to underline just how thrillingly showbiz this all was.  ‘He’s making a new period drama, for which our streets could become the set.  Hence he’s here on a recce – or reconnaissance – visit.  That’s when a director checks out a location’s suitability for filming.’

A few eye rolls greeted this; most of us were already familiar with the terminology.  It was good-natured irritation, though.  The promised presence of a filmmaker generated an undeniable buzz among us latent performers, notwithstanding any pretence at nonchalance.

‘He’s going to be with us all day, visiting each area of the site.  Now I know I can count on you all to roll out the red carpet, and when your time comes welcome him to your particular domain.’  Anton should have gone on the stage.  He was loving this.  ‘Without further ado, please welcooome…Sean Spendlove!’

Sean Spendlove!  The director of my Arrowsmith & Broom commercial, about three-hundred years ago.  The man responsible for unleashing ‘It’s a bostin’ pint’ – or ‘point’ – on the nation.  That memorably attractive young man who had never quite left my thoughts, despite our paths never crossing in the interim.

Sean bounded in, Anton having actually made him wait outside the door so he could make a grand introduction and announce him into the room, like he was Leslie Crowther on Stars in their Eyes.

With his keen smile and smile and endearingly sticky-up hair, Sean hadn’t aged a day.  The cynical world of showbusiness appeared to have sapped none of his contagious enthusiasm.  He should have come over as horribly cheesy, but didn’t because nothing about him was forced.  I doubted his body possessed a cynical bone.

By contrast, years of depression had dispirited me; shrunk me.  For too long I had adopted a defeatist slouch, but now an invisible string puppeteer appeared to be pulling my head and shoulders upwards.  It was as though the Posture Police were saying, ‘Enough now.’  Something about Sean made you sit up straight.

The movement caught his attention as his gaze wove along the rows of absurdly bewigged staff, but he betrayed no sign of having recognised me.

I instantly clocked – not that I was checking, of course – that his left hand was devoid of a wedding ring.

‘Hello everyone, and thank you for hosting me today.  Yes, as Anton explained, my job here today is to assess the suitability of the museum site for a new historical drama called The Lunar Society.  It’s going to be set around Birmingham, of course, so I’ve high hopes that this place should prove an ideal backdrop, to bring lots of Brum flavour.’  When he said ‘flavour,’ his eyes seemed to subconsciously drift to me, as though making a word association.  Flavour – food – drink – beer commercial.

‘We’ll be needing extras too, when it comes to filming scenes, so if anybody’s interested in a background part do make yourselves known.’

I have to admit what resonated that morning was not Sean’s words but how horribly self-conscious I was in my sweaty wig – halfway between Princess Leia and Emmeline Pankhurst – dumped on my head, and my stupid prickly blouse and apron.  I had never felt more unattractive (and that was saying something).


It was after twelve by the time Sean made his way to what Anton termed my ‘domain.’  I’d kept an oh-so-casual eye on the door throughout a torturous morning educating a mob of bored GCSE students on early twentieth century factory conditions, and role-playing arguments that involved lots of hand-wringing with Bob who took the part of my callous boss.

A forbidden lipstick was thumping up and down in my apron pocket, and periodically I surreptitiously applied it in defiance of the no make-up rule.  Just in case, you know.

I’d just finished a heated scene in which I stormed out on strike in defiance of Bob when I espied Sean, with a gigantic grin on his face.  As ever, he gave the appearance of a person who was continually enchanted by the world and everything in it.

He bounced over to me as soon as Bob was outside earshot.  ‘It’s a bostin’ point,’ he said by way of greeting.

A pathetic little gurgle escaped me.  ‘You remembered?’

‘How could I forget?  Recognised you straight away.  That advert made me.’  I was so absurdly flattered, I could have cried.  ‘So what brings you here, Majella?’

‘A long story.’  Not one I wished to share while on duty, with straggles of West Midlands history buffs milling about.  His question wasn’t unkind; not mocking, in a ‘Why has your career not flourished?’ way.  He actually seemed interested.  I suddenly felt wretchedly emotional.

He tapped my arm.  ‘What time you on lunch?’

‘Now, theoretically.’

‘Do they let you out this place for good behaviour?  I could just go a Pukka pie if you know any good chippies round here.  My treat.’

‘There’s Sole Mates, round the corner.’

‘Sole Mates?’ he grimaced.  I couldn’t help but giggle.

‘The grub’s better than the name.  Come on.’

Calling back to Bob that I was going on lunch, I led this film director through the cobbled streets of the mock-up village, out of the site to the car park.  My feet propelled me independently of my body; unbidden by brain commands.

It never occurred to me to detour via the staff room to retrieve my coat and handbag.  Taking him in there would have meant sharing him somehow; spoiling some sort of illusion.  I’d waited all morning for my ‘turn’ with Sean.  For some reason, the need to escape the museum premises with him and avoid being stopped or bumping into a colleague became an urgent game; like bunking off school and trying to make it to the other end of the playground without being clocked by the headmaster.

‘I’m supposed to be showing you round the mill,’ I said unconvincingly.

‘No need.  I’m sold already.  The museum’s perfect – a readymade village with no TV aerials, cars, street markings or whatever to remove.  Some of the buildings pre-date the period we’re going for, but most of it’s perfect.  We can hide any anachronisms with a handy fog.  You can do wonders with a bit of dry ice.’

‘What’s this TV series about then?’

‘The Lunar Society was a group of Birmingham industrialists and inventors that included Matthew Boulton, Josiah Wedgwood and James Watt.  They used to meet during a full moon because the extra light made the journey home safer.  This was back in the days before street lighting.’

‘Sounds thrilling.  How often do full moons occur?’  Why was I asking this?  I didn’t give a fuck; I was only trying to keep him talking.

‘About once a month.’

‘This way.’  I took him along a shortcut to the car park, and as I pulled my pass card from my pocket and flashed it at the sensor on the gate, I wanted to jig with relief.  Mission complete.  We were safely in the twentieth century.

‘I’ll drive,’ said Sean, jingling his keys.  That was fortunate, since my own car keys were in the aforementioned staff room.

As we walked across, I untied my (authentically grubby) apron, hastily folded it up, yanked off my stupid wig and hairnet, and shook my hair down.

‘Better,’ approved Sean.  He smiled, as though acknowledging I was making the effort for his benefit, rather than because he’d been shallow enough to be repulsed by the matted syrup.  He was used to wig-clad actresses, after all.

He had a beige Morris Minor van, ‘as previously driven by Corporal Jones from Dad’s Army,’ he joked.  The whole vehicle was so Sean, it made me smile.  A Comic Relief red nose was strapped to the grille, while inside a tiny rubber clapperboard dangled from the rear-view mirror.

‘Makes a change from furry dice,’ I commented, swinging it.  He flicked it playfully back towards me.

‘Where to then, Maj?’  I liked his instant, chummy use of the shortened name.

‘Turn left out the car park, then right at the lights.’

As Sean cranked the archaic van to life, I surreptitiously checked myself out in his wing mirror and grimaced.  I fluffed out my clammy hair with my fingers.  There were no shampoo commercials on my CV, but right now I wished I was in one and could unpin a bun to achieve instant sex goddess hair, letting it swoosh elegantly into place.  Hmm, I’d do, I supposed.  Not a lot could be done about the blouse and skirt.  Good job it was Sean going in for the chips.

We located Sole Mates, and I guided him to the rough car park behind it.

‘What’ll it be then?’  He unsnapped his seatbelt.

‘Cod and chips, please.’

‘Salt and vinegar?’


‘Mushy peas?’

‘No, thanks.  Can’t stand them.’

‘Be back in a jiff.  I’ll leave the radio on for you.’

It was BRMB, the popular Birmingham station.  Shiny Happy People by REM, a huge hit from the previous summer, came on.  A clappy, bouncy, spirit-lifting track.  I sensed it would become one of ‘our songs.’  The first of many.  The ‘Majella waits for Sean to return from the chip shop’ song.

I was still tapping my toes along when he swiftly returned, clutching the two tantalising white paper parcels.  Incidentally, when and why was the old-fashioned practice of wrapping fish and chips in newspaper outlawed?  I am not aware of anybody ever dying from newsprint poisoning (though do correct me if I’m wrong), and batter has never tasted quite so much fun without the Express & Star property section striped across it.

Anyway, Sean handed me one of the hot bundles and a little wooden fork.

‘Perfect timing, that was.  They’d just done a fresh batch.’

‘Ooh, thanks Sean.’

Instantly the car smelt divine.  That tormenting, vinegary tang which transmits a message right to your belly saying, ‘I’m ravenous.’  I unravelled the paper hastily and began to dig in.

Sean winched his window down (because obviously the lingering whiff of vinegar in an unventilated Morris Minor would not be quite so divine after a couple of days).

‘Swap you a bit, if you like?’  He sawed me a dollop of his chicken and mushroom pie – a fiddly task with the blunt fork – and I snapped off a chunk of cod and plonked it in the foil carton, giggling all the while because this was so terribly naughty schoolgirl-ish.

So that was how we bonded.  Over exquisite white fish encased in golden batter, and thick, hot chips, zingy with vinegar and those large salt crystals that twinkled all over it.  We were instant friends.  We chatted about everything, from the industry, to the current unlovely view through Sean’s windscreen (the back of a scrap metal yard, where a man in a vest was wiping his nose on his arm), to Sophie’s pregnancy in Home & Away, to the night-time ghost walks we had recently started conducting at the museum.

‘Our first one was a bit of a joke.  The guy playing the headless monk, you could see his jeans and trainers beneath the habit.  It spoiled the scary illusion somewhat!  I play a factory girl who was buried under rubble when the place burnt down!’

For a second it actually crossed my mind that Sean might be gay, because I had only ever felt this pally and comfortable with one man before, and that was a certain Melvyn Corns.  I entertained a ludicrous vision of Sean and Mel marrying in a camp ceremony, with me as their gracious bridesmaid, sporting a silly poodle hairdo and staring disconsolately into my bouquet, and Tesco with a corsage round his fluffy neck, loyally poised to scratch their eyes out.

‘Well thanks for the recommendation, Majella.  That was yum.’  Sean produced a Safeway bag into which he deposited his scrunched-up greasy paper, before proffering it to me.

‘That’s very organised of you.’

‘Habit.  There’s hardly any bins when you’re out on location.  I must say I’ve never seen an actress enjoy her food so much as you.’

‘I’m a pig!’

‘You’re no such thing.  It’s refreshing.  Now I suppose I’d best be getting you back.’

‘Yeah,’ I agreed, with no enthusiasm.  Sean made no attempt to start the car.  My knees were all warm where the chips had been balancing.  I liked the sensation; the lingering trace of the lunch.  A continuing sensual experience.

‘Look, I’d like to take you out,’ he said suddenly.

Bingo!  My thought bubble containing Sean and Mel’s unlikely gay nuptials popped.

I beamed at him.  ‘You free tonight?’  Hey, because life’s too short to play hard to get.

‘I am.  Have to make it an early drink, though.  Got to leave for Dorset at some unearthly hour in the morning.  Filming a thing with Anneka Rice.  I’ll pick you up about seven, say?  You want to jot your address down for me?’  He magicked a notebook and biro from the door pocket, further testament to his organised nature.  ‘You’re not far from me then,’ he observed as I noted down the flat address, and my number for good measure.  ‘I’m in Harborne.’

‘Seven o’clock then,’ I beamed at him, popping the pen back in its lid and handing it and the notebook back.

‘Seven it is, and we’ll take it from there.’  I liked the sound of that.  ‘Now let’s get you back to your loom, wench!’


I scooted out of work promptly that evening.  Sean and I had not crossed paths for the rest of the afternoon, and if any of my colleagues witnessed our lunchtime flit to the chip shop, they made no mention of it.

I abandoned my bag on the floor, fed Tesco, and then a shower was a must, to wash my hideously sweaty hair.  I wrenched the rusty dial, and undressed while the water considered whether it was going to reach a bearable temperature for me tonight.  I had become very accustomed to the quirks and jerks of the flat’s prehistoric shower, but right now they frustrated me.  I needed a full date-night scrub, not a sporadic dribble that by turns scalded and chilled me.  I cursed as I danced under the water, trying to catch the intermittent jets, and scoured ferociously at my skin with my seldom-used loofah.

My everyday soap – from the ‘five for a quid’ shelf at Brian’s corner shop – sat sad and unlathered in its dish; this was an occasion that demanded Body Shop shower gel and cleanser.  I inhaled the gloriously fruity scents, and shivered – due partly to excitement and partly to the sticky, cold suds of shampoo on my head lowering my body temperature even further.

After drying off, I reapplied make-up, blow-dried my hair and zapped myself with Dewberry, another Body Shop product.  It was my favourite perfume; a very popular perfume of the day.  In fact, in my mind, the whole early 1990s smell of Dewberry.

The outfit I opted for was so 90s it hurt.  A black strappy linen dress splodged with daisies, black floppy hat and black velvet choker adorned with a silver dolphin pendant.  A pair of sneakers and a denim jacket would complete the cliché.  I was even sporting a spiral perm in those days.

Sean had seen me at my worst today, in character as an Edwardian drudge.  He would have to concede that I scrubbed up respectably.

Punctually at seven, the doorbell bleeped.  I tried not to look uncoolly keen by galloping down the steep stairs – but Sean outside would have heard my giveaway speedier footsteps as I approached the door.

There he stood, in a white shirt with black collar and cuffs, and a black waistcoat (what a trendy pair we made), holding a splendid multicoloured tulip bouquet.

‘Sorry to be cheesy.’  He half hid behind the flowers, in mock embarrassment at what I might perceive as an unimaginative gesture.

‘Don’t be daft,’ I said.  ‘They’re lovely.’

He kissed me on the cheek.  He had this divine, mossy aftershave on.  ‘Not as lovely as you look tonight.  Eek, that was corny as well, but in this case true.’

‘Thank you, Sean.  Come on up, I’ll introduce you to the cat.’

‘You’ve still got Tesco?’

‘You’ve got a good memory.’

‘He’s a little star, that one.’

Of course Sean had been a major catalyst for Tesco’s stardom, having passed my pert pet’s picture to Glenn Clinton, the director of his first Buster commercial.

It never occurred to me to feel embarrassment about ushering this film director into my flat.  I saw no need to be guarded, or anticipate a supercilious reaction.  There were no cheesy ‘Welcome to my, ha, ha, humble abode’ comments.  Sean certainly didn’t turn his nose up.  At least, on account of my OCD propensities, the place was clean.

That flat, while no palace, had functioned as a comfortable enough home for Tesco and me.  Bill Lycett was a decent landlord, and once you got past the permanent eau de raw pork, it was adequately snug, and convenient for town.

When we got upstairs, the cat was curled in his basket, his long tail forming a cosy C shape around his body.  Not for long, though, as Sean fussed him and the little charmer was instantly all over him – another promising sign.

‘I think he approves of you,’ I commented as Tesco wove around Sean’s legs, purring like a diesel engine and gazing up dotingly at his new buddy.

I lifted my jacket off the back off the chair.  Sean chivalrously took it from me and held it while I plunged my arms into the sleeves.  It had been so long since a man had made even that simple gesture towards me, I felt piteously grateful and shy as I fanned out my hair which was caught in the collar.

‘You eaten?’ Sean asked.

I shook my head.  ‘Still a bit full from the fish and chips.’  Not to mention that my tummy was all whisked up at the thought of where tonight might lead.

‘Me too, to be honest.  Drink, then?’


He brushed the stripes of cat hairs off his black jeans, and off we went.

Back in the Morris Minor van – no longer reeking of chips – it was a brief ride to Cadell’s, a dark bar with mismatched chairs and antique brass ceiling lights, that served cocktails and played discreet jazz.  It was an unpretentious place; relaxed, and conducive to unreserved chatter which was absorbed by the music.

I found I had an uncharacteristic lack of desire for alcohol.  I’d been watchful of my intake since starting on the antidepressants, which had a tendency to be a volatile combination with booze, and although I was far from depressed now, tonight was a night for remaining sober and controlled.  That way nothing could be regretted in the morning, or blamed on the booze.

I ordered a virgin mimosa, Sean a Vermouth and soda.  We wedged into what appeared to be an old church pew, and gassed the night away.  Some of his anecdotes made me laugh in a way I hadn’t done for years.  Not the polite, dutiful chortle of a disengaged listener, but a genuine, unstoppable belly laugh borne of total joy.

It was a flirty conversation too, following all the phases of a first date: the ‘let’s see how long we can maintain eye contact,’ ‘let me see how much bodily contact we can work up to, ‘let me nudge you and keep my hand on your knee.’  We progressed quite unconsciously to holding hands.

We pondered why, bearing in mind we had clicked so successfully now, we had never got together at the time we collaborated to advertise Arrowsmith & Broom beers.

‘Perhaps it would have been weird,’ I contemplated, for want of a meatier explanation, ‘like a pupil and teacher trying to date.  Though I’m sure that happens often enough.’  As do relationships between actors and directors.  I’d had no idea whether he had a girlfriend while we were filming the ad.  Whatever and whoever we’d been back then, our respective life experiences since had shaped us into two people who made a compatible couple.  I was already envisioning us in those terms.  A couple.  An item.

I made reference at one stage to the recent passing of my close friend.  This wasn’t a ploy for sympathy; the conversation simply evoked a memory of Nelson, which it seemed only natural to share.

There is a reading that is very popular at funerals which talks about how one can shed tears because the departed person has gone or smile because they have lived.  It rang so true now.  I could certainly smile fondly over recollections of Nelson.

Grief and loss are as much part of life as love, friendship and fun.  While I inhabited an unusual world in many ways, with many of my friends and colleagues over the years being well-known, as I’d learned of late, in other respects my experiences were not exceptional.  We were all people at the end of the day, and I was no more a victim of bad fortune or circumstance than anybody else.  I wasn’t poor Majella with depression and a friend dead from AIDS.  Could it be that, finally, in my thirties, I was starting to feel grown-up and rational?


‘One of the clichés about getting on a bit, isn’t it, when songs you remember from your youth feature in the Golden Oldies slot?  This is one I haven’t heard in yonks.’

We were in the car returning home.  Our continuing chatter had drowned the radio out at first, but now Sean turned it up.  And then the song filtered through my consciousness.  Sean knew as yet nothing of my connection to Gareth Rushcliff, and here he was, blithely drumming the steering wheel to Wistful, an early number one hit by Glinda Spitfire.

Gareth bloody Rushcliff!  I realised he’d been absent from my thoughts for a hearteningly long time; in fact the longest spell since we’d parted.  Of course there had been other boyfriends since my New Romantic heartbreaker, but his presence had always lurked in the background.  Only, it dawned now, because I’d allowed it to lurk.

By Pavlovian instinct I’d always snapped the radio off the second I heard his voice ooze out of it, so it was years since I’d heard more than a bar of a Glinda Spitfire hit.  I’d been unhealthily, childishly, nurturing his memory; feeding nostalgic pain I hadn’t recognised I had long since ceased to feel.

Our final fuck-off shag at Zena’s funeral in 1986 was supposed to empower me, but in reality had tethered me to the memory of a man who no doubt never honoured me with a second thought.  My sister Sophie, four years my junior, was engaged, whereas I’d failed to move on from my first love.

I braced myself for heart-piercing pain now, but there was nothing.  Heartening, serene, glorious nothing.  The song was just a song.

All that engulfed me was a surge of love for this man beside me, manoeuvring his vintage van into a gap outside my flat.  I hadn’t planned a big seduction scene for tonight, but the thought of Sean driving away now was unbearable.

‘Do you want to stop over?’ I blurted out.

‘I’ve got to be up early.’  I knew this wasn’t a brush-off; on the contrary, a warning he might disturb me when vacating my bed.  The implication of that thrilled me.

‘I’d rather be woken up early than not spend any part of the night with you at all.’

He kissed me goodbye as he departed at dawn.


I did what one did in these situations.  I phoned my best friend.

‘I’m in love,’ I announced to Mel with no preamble.  Good job I knew I wouldn’t be waking him up.  ‘I’m finally over Gareth.’

‘’Bout time!’

‘Right.  And you know what, it feels bloody fabulous.  I’ve been released from prison, metaphorically.’

‘Come round for a bacon butty, chick.  If you’re not over the limit.’

‘Haven’t had a drink all night.’

‘Drunk on lurve, I bet.  Perry’s here.  We’ll have a nice chat.’

I knew a bacon sandwich was a dawn ritual after a show.  Under his new stage name, Melba Most, he was busier than ever, gracing more salubrious venues, in increasingly extravagant costumes.  ‘Perry’ was a friend of Mel’s who I knew and liked, a ‘spoof lounge singer,’ who under the pseudonym Perry Common performed camp parodies of famous crooners, wearing polyester suits and a deliberately awful toupee.

‘Get the red sauce out for us.’  I clonked the phone down, and rapidly dressed.  I couldn’t bear to stay in a bed that was still tormentingly warm from Sean’s body.

I tap danced across the lino, scooped my car keys off the kitchen table into the air and caught them with a cocky little flourish.  From his basket, Tesco slid open one sardonic eye, decided there was nothing to see here, and promptly closed it again.  He was accustomed to actors, dahling.

The streets of Birmingham at that ludicrous hour seemed eerily magical in a way they certainly never did by brutal daylight.  Hey, the mood I was in, the streets of Beirut would have seemed enchanted.  The butcher’s van, the all-night McDonald’s, the tower blocks, the tramp slumped in the bus shelter, the smashed up telephone boxes standing in moats of their own glass, the milk float, the upended supermarket trolleys, were washed in a serene mauve glow on that five-minute drive.

Mel, defrocked but with his face still bearing the faint residue of make-up, kissed me on the cheek.

‘We’re all ears,’ he urged, presenting me with one of his specials: a pile of bacon pressed between two breezeblocks of white bread.  Perry, bald sans the toupee, was at the table devouring a scrambled egg sandwich.

‘Fish and chips and a bacon sarnie in twenty-four hours!’  I sat down gleefully.  I was now starving, the fish and chip lunch having been my last meal.

I managed to hoover up my sandwich without any hiatus in my narrative.

‘And to think,’ I concluded, wiping an unladylike finger through the spatters of ketchup on my plate, ‘twenty-four hours ago, he was just another director I’d worked for in the past, who I never imagined seeing again.’

Mel was watching me with the oddest mixture of pride and confusion.  Perry shot Mel an ‘I thought you said she was intelligent’ look.

‘What is it?’  I was baffled.

Mel drummed on his Frank the Tortoise mug.  ‘Well whilst this is wonderful news, and I’m really pleased for you and everything, isn’t there one thing you’ve forgotten, in this giddy flush of love?’

Just as it was beginning to dawn on me what a numpty I’d been, he clarified, ‘You’ve just booked to go round the world for three months.’

Ah yes, my long-awaited trek along the clichéd backpackers’ route: Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia, Hong Kong.  Obliterated from my memory by one day spent in love with Sean Spendlove.  I dropped my stupid head into my hands.

It was Perry who said simply, ‘Hey, if he feels the same way about you, he’ll wait.’

Did Sean wait?  Now there’s the question.


Chapter 10

Goodbye to Love

It was a funeral like no other.

It was my first since Zena’s to be attended by so many people; some folks had to stand in the rain outside the crem and hear the celebration of Nelson Maurice Love’s life relayed via speakers.

It was my first experience of a dress code, specifying ‘bright colours please, no black.’  Of course such a convention is common nowadays.

It was the first time I’d seen a red ribbon, the universal symbol of AIDS awareness, which is also ubiquitous now but had then just been launched.  They were dished out at the door, along with envelopes in which to drop donations to the Terrence Higgins Trust.  I was more accustomed to passing a church collecting tin along a pew.

Rather than sport a traditional black armband, I’d made myself one in the purple, green and white colours of the suffragette movement.  I wore it for work – in the fictitious world populated by our characters, mine had taken up the cause of women’s emancipation – and it seemed appropriate somehow.

I felt Linda’s presence before I saw her.  I was pinning my ribbon on my green jacket (they say red and green should never be seen, but on this occasion I forgave Nelson for engendering the eye-watering clash), when I felt an eerie draught on the back of my neck.

I oh so nonchalantly turned, to see her bustling into a seat at the back with a very tall man who had a thatch of dark hair and wore glasses on a gold chain.  I’d only ever seen Larry Grayson model such an accoutrement, but this man didn’t look camp.

The ribbon slithered out of my quavering fingers.  Mel retrieved it and fastened it on me.

‘He’s her lover, apparently,’ he whispered.  ‘Some Tory toff.  Owns half of Derbyshire, by all accounts.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘She’s had death threats – ’

‘I didn’t send them, honest!’  I held my hands up in mock surrender.

‘No!  From her old Socialist Worker crowd, who say she’s sold out.  He funded her last tour, apparently.  Which was a disaster.’

Interesting.  It was the first time I’d seen Linda in seven years – in the flesh, at least – and I watched her in grim fascination.  Posh boyfriend or not, she was still evidently cultivating a ‘scruffbag’ image off-screen as well as on.  She wore a cherry crushed velvet top, with a matching bandana knotted around her scarecrow blonde hair, and a jumble of beads clonking round her neck.

I averted my gaze only at the last second, when she sat down and eye contact was threatened.  I saw Glasses On Chain Man shoot me a stern look, but I didn’t much care about him.  A funeral was an inappropriate backdrop for a scene.  I had to rise above my own issues and pay my respects to Nelson.  Anyway, the service was starting.

‘Welcome,’ declared the officiant, a stout lady with a kind face and a Wolverhampton accent.  ‘What a spectacular turnout we have here on this drab, wet morning.  It’s a real honour and privilege for me to be here today in front of you all, and I would like to personally thank Nelson’s family for their encouragement and support in allowing me to perform this last task for a very special person.’

And that was me in bits straight away.  I clamped a hanky over my nose and mouth, to stifle any embarrassing teary snorts.  I practically stifled breath too.

‘I know that most of you will be more familiar with a very different form of service, but I hope we can agree that the human values we all share are of far more lasting importance than those matters which may divide us in this respect.

‘We are here this morning to pay our last respects and bid a sad but fond farewell to Nelson, also to honour and pay tribute to his far too short life, and in our own way to express our love and admiration for him.  We have all been profoundly affected by Nelson’s passing, and though he was taken from the bosom of his family and friends far too early we will try in the short time we have here this morning to make this occasion a celebration of his life and to express our thanks for having known him.

‘We have come together from different places, and we are all at different stages on our journey through life, our paths are varied and we look at life in different ways.  But there is one thing we all have in common: at one point or another, and to some degree or other, our lives have touched the life of Nelson.

‘I sincerely hope that at the end of this farewell ceremony for him you will also feel glad that you took the opportunity to do some of your grieving in the presence of others who have known and loved him.’

Nelson’s parents and sister Aurelia remained stoic, almost detached, throughout, but there were plenty of tears in that crammed room.

One of his fellow dancers, a lithe wisp of a girl called Ruby, delivered the eulogy.  It appalled me how much I was learning about Nelson’s recent life, and thus the inference therein of how out of touch with him I’d become.  I felt selfish and sad that I’d been engrossed in my own issues.  I made a mental note to make more time for the friends I had remaining.

As a video of Nelson performing an exuberant dance routine to Holding Out for a Hero by Bonnie Tyler was projected on to a huge screen, a pre-chosen troupe of dancers filed up to place rainbow roses on the coffin.  I later speculated to Mel whether the flowers were real or synthetic; he enlightened me that they were real roses artificially coloured by the means of drawing dyed water up through the stems (he knew stuff, did Mel).

I wondered which, if any, of the girls was the one who’d betrayed Nelson’s confidence and snitched to their cruise ship employers, resulting in his dismissal from the Princess of the Aegean.  I wondered whether, alternatively, she’d stayed away, possibly scared she’d be infected.  My one-time desire to rip her face off had abated.  What purpose would it serve?  Nelson was still dead, after all.  Nothing could amend that sad state of affairs.

Watching Nelson power his way across the stage, so robust and graceful, I was struck anew by the unfairness and tragedy of the situation.  Dancers have always fascinated me.  The manoeuvres and lifts they execute so effortlessly seem like magic.  Nelson was born for the stage.  I simply could not relate him to the multicoloured rose-festooned box positioned in the corner.

‘Let’s remind ourselves,’ summarised the officiant, unwittingly paralleling my thoughts, ‘that the departed reside not in the grave or an urn but in the hearts and minds of the living.’

My tears were pouring unimpeded and unselfconsciously as the curtain slid around the coffin to the strains to Nelson’s favourite song, This is My Life by Eartha Kitt.  I always hate that moment in a cremation.  It feels so final.  I have this desperate, irrational urge to reach out and yell, ‘Please don’t go!’

The heavy grey curtain snagged on one of the wreath arrangements on the floor, so until the funeral director tactfully rescued it Nelson and the roses were momentarily visible through the gap.  It seemed so fitting; Nelson’s cheeky encore before his final curtain call.

The Condom Fairy, a six-foot transvestite in glitter lipstick, doled out condoms as we exited the ceremony.  Johnnies appeared to be omnipresent then; dispensed like sweets, so to speak.  With AIDS panic at its height, they had evolved from ‘something for the weekend,’ rubbery devices to be sniggered at, into vital lifesavers.

Our service overran somewhat – Nelson always was late – and as we emerged, the next party were already waiting to go in.  A very small party.  Consisting of five people, to be precise.  In traditional black, grief etched across their craggy faces, staring openly curiously at the Condom Fairy.  Their jet black suits contrasted sharply with our jazzy attire.

My mind reeled back to the other funeral I’d been to in recent months, that of Alice Cooper.  Only Gloria, Mel, one of the nurses from Russells Hall Hospital and I had been present at Gornal Wood Crematorium that day.

An idea I’d previously entertained started to brew anew.


We filed outside, through a line of floral tributes beneath a long archway that shielded us from the hammering rain.  Each recently departed person was allotted a slot, designated by a name handwritten on a sign that looked as though it belonged on a fruit and veg stall.

Linda and Glasses On Chain Man were some way ahead, he with his arm round her.

‘You hang on there, Linny,’ he boomed, his voice predictably commanding and posh, ‘I’ll bring the car round.’

‘OK, Guy.’


I lingered and studied the flowers to avoid catching up with ‘Linny’ while Guy fetched his vehicle (probably a Bentley or Range Rover).  I speculated about the lives of these people, commemorated by flamboyant ‘NAN’ or ‘DAD’ displays as well as more understated sprays.

There was even a display shaped like a TV: a photograph of the late Harry Hooper in close-up grimace from Part & Parcel, framed by chrysanthemums, and even a little remote control alongside it fashioned out of petals.  Well, it was different.


We drove to a huge banqueting hall on the main road out of Wolverhampton for the wake.

This event was very much a modern memorial, entirely appropriate for a young person.  I’d never been to a funeral for someone so youthful before.  Nelson was thirty.  So was I – which always gave me quite a jolt.  Too young for death, yet too old to be coasting through life as an aimless actress.  When I was eighteen, the age I met Nelson, thirty had seemed so remote and mature.  I didn’t feel particularly mature now (remote at times, yes).  I was still playing at life.  Perhaps that was the mere nature of my profession.

From nowhere, the thought struck me that I ought to travel.  I had never travelled extensively.  A cousin of mine had recently backpacked around Australia, and I’d shown a shameful lack of interest in her infinite photographs of Outback scenery, only pumping her for information about what was happening in Neighbours and Home and Away (their storylines being a good six months ahead of the UK transmission dates at the time).

I needed to expand my horizons.  I had a narrow knot of allies in my life, which following Nelson’s passing had shrunk even further.  Outside my family, there was Mel, Gloria, my fellow Victorian re-enactors from the museum, a few college friends.  Hey, even Roger the counsellor counted – at least we had a conversation once a week.

Back to the funeral: the massive room was bedecked with flags in the rainbow colours of Gay Pride.  There were pinboards dotted around the room, covered with collages of photos of Nelson in various costumes, striking poses on and off-stage, intercut with clippings of his favourite performers.  Liza Minnelli, Wayne Sleep, Eartha Kitt, Andy Bell, that girl from Flashdance and, prominently, Kylie.

Poignantly, there was just one photograph depicting Nelson with Mel, Linda and me, in our carefree flatmate days.  It was an extremely early ‘selfie,’ our quartet squished into the frame, Mel’s right arm stretching out of the shot at an odd angle denoting that he was the photographer.  Like Ruby’s eulogy, this lone shot was sadly symbolic of what a tiny role I had played in his life.

It’s sobering how your illusion that you figured as significantly in someone’s life as they did in yours can be shattered.  Merely carrying memories is not enough; people move on.

People outnumbered chairs at the event, but Mel managed to bag a couple on the end of a trestle table.  I reserved them – my bum forming an inelegant bridge across the two – while he got us some drinks, then it was his turn to do likewise while I nipped to the loo (funerals are an endurance test for the bladder).

Actually ‘nipping’ to the loo proved easier said than done, as there was a queue longer than at the IKEA sale.

At last I dived into a cubicle.  The lock was wobbly, and there were holes in the wood around it, plugged up with soggy loo roll.  I wedged my handbag against the door as an extra blockade.  I heard a woman outside simper, ‘I’m surprised you’re queuing with the rest of us – I thought you VIPs had your own gold plated toilets.’  It was hard to tell if she was being sarcastic or genuinely obsequious – probably the latter.

An ominously familiar Derbyshire voice rasped, ‘Ah, bless ya.  Nah, I need to wet me lettuce same as everybody else.’

Oh, how down to earth she was – reducing a toilet queue to gales of laughter with her delicate turn of phrase.  Presumably Linda’s fawning, full-bladdered fan wasn’t one of those penning the death threats.  Well at least I was poised over a convenient receptacle should I wish to vomit.  I held my breath.

The conversation outside the door had somehow progressed to the recent rejuvenation of Birmingham.

‘I tell ya, I hardly recognised the city last time I were there,’ Linda reflected.  ‘That Symphony Hall’s dead ace, and down by the canal used to be dead scuzzy but now it’s all wine bars and that.  Even Lewis’s has gone – you know, the big department store.  We used to use that expression: “If so-and-so fell off Lewis’s, they’d land in a brand new suit,” another way of saying they were a jammy bastard.’

I admit to experiencing a pang at this.  Birmingham was changing, and for the better – even Bert’s Burgers had been shut down, following a listeria outbreak – but I cherished my memories of the grotty old city of our blithe student days.  When we were friends.  I didn’t end up having to tear off any of the scratchy bog roll to wipe my eyes, but it was close.

I stayed hunched in that cubicle for as long as feasibly possible – thinking I could perhaps invent a heavy period or gastroenteritis, should I be asked to justify taking up residence in the lav – hoping enough of the others would empty to absorb the ladies in the queue, including Linda.

‘Are this lot gunna hurry up or what?  I’m spillin’ over.’

Bloody hell!

I was a schoolgirl all over again, evading PE.  I had read and reread the graffiti on the side of the sanitary towel bin proclaiming that ‘Chantelle’ was a slag.  Finally I could endure it no longer.  Someone flushed, and a gust of shite whacked me right in the nostrils.  I feared I really would heave up my breakfast.  I tugged the hefty chain, and marched out of there, head held as high as possible.  Linda, still queuing, looked unusually taken aback.  Her gaze landed upon my armband.  ‘Good to see your feminist stripes.’  I couldn’t gauge if she was being sarcastic, or was simply at a loss for something to say.  She sounded rather absent.

‘I’ve earned my feminist stripes, Linda.’  As she barrelled into the cubicle I’d just vacated, and shut the door, I added nonchalantly to the mirror, ‘And that toilet won’t flush.’  Let her think she was sharing a confined space with my stagnant piss.  I ran a jet of blistering water over my hands and shook them triumphantly over the sink.


Over the Caribbean buffet – another queuing/seat-reserving relay – I finally confided in Mel about my new career brainwave.

‘The funeral industry fascinates me,’ I began.

Majella –

He shot me a dubious look as he heaped jerk chicken on to his baked sweet potato.  I could hardly blame him.  He’d pulled me out of the path of a car just over a year ago.  It was natural he’d worry if my mind appeared to be straying into morbid areas it should be avoiding.

‘There’s nothing macabre in it,’ I reassured him.  He looked unconvinced.  ‘Honestly.  I mean, there’s a wonderful turnout here today, but what about all those people who have no family or friends?  Who have even fewer folks to grieve for them than dear Alice did?  Who is there for them when they pass away?’

‘Well, I suppose – ’

‘Hi Mel, Majella.’

No, not Linda – the interjector was in fact Trevor Lilley, of Glinda Spitfire keyboard and ‘GAY HELL’ fame.

He was dressed informally, in a beige roll neck and matching slacks.  The quiet one of the group, who’d always been the least comfortable with fame and scrutiny, he now looked fit and calm.  Chilled, I suppose you’d say nowadays.  We chatted awhile.

‘I don’t see the guys anymore,’ Trevor said, with what I thought was a pointed glance in my direction, as if to preclude me from enquiring after Gareth, who I believed had by now entered rehab.  I was long over him anyhow.  ‘I’ve retrained as a tai chi instructor.’

The last Glinda Spitfire album, which had flopped spectacularly, was named Wudang Mountain, which was supposedly the birthplace of tai chi in China and had also given its name to a sequence of exercises in the ancient Chinese art form.

He eventually departed, bound for the buffet.  There was such a huge gathering, we queued up in batches, and the trays of chicken goujons and ackee and saltfish were replenished as quickly as they were emptied.

‘So I’ve had this idea,’ I continued to Mel.  ‘It’s a chance to use my acting skills, to a degree, but also perform a final deed for these poor folks who would otherwise be buried by the council with no fanfare.  Homeless people, those who have no relatives, or are estranged from their relatives.’

Mel’s expression was still perplexed.  ‘So what do you propose doing?’

I speared a kidney bean with my fork and wagged it in front of me, a prop to hide behind.  Over Mel’s shoulder, I spotted Linda and Guy leaving.  The odd couple, who looked weirdly comfortable together; Glasses On Chain Guy to all appearances fond and protective over this messy girl.  As they departed, relief washed over me, yet also a curious sadness.  I realised I’d been keeping my voice down, subconsciously afraid of them overhearing and scoffing at my little ideas.

‘To set myself up as a sort of rent-a-mourner, to put it very crudely.  To be a presence at their funerals; show that somebody is thinking about them, even though I never knew them personally.’

‘Pretend to sob?’

‘Nothing so vulgar.  I could do a little reading, say a few words, just give them a dignified send-off.  I could even do readings where there are relatives present, but they’re just too emotional, or too shy, to deliver eulogies.’

‘So how would you get to know about the deaths?  Hang out in graveyards; become a freelance grief groupie?’

‘I’m hoping I’d get referrals from councils, or funeral directors.  You know, I read in the Evening Mail about this poor old man who lay undiscovered in his flat for three months.  Imagine that – to be missed by nobody?  How does someone, who must have been wanted at some point in their life – at birth, at least, you’d imagine – become reduced to that?’

I popped the congealing kidney bean into my mouth, to fill the poignant silence, not because the image of a decaying Birmingham pensioner was one I wished to dwell on whilst eating.

‘You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?’

The first time you give voice to a pipe dream is always momentous.  I recall when I first announced to my parents my intention to become a professional actress.  You get that little buzz inside that makes you feel grown-up and decisive; a sense that it – whatever ‘it’ might be – is becoming real.

‘I’ve never felt more motivated by an idea in my life.  But there’s something I’d like to do before that.  Would you be able to look after Tesco for a few weeks?’



Reflections on 2015

And so here we are again, at the close of yet another year.  One in which I have been somewhat less than prolific on here (what’s new, eh?).

2015 has been an interesting, up and down year. I’ve managed to lose 1.5 stone and gain a new job along the way, and also fit in a fab holiday to Crete and a couple of spa breaks in between.

Another highlight was meeting the wonderful Black Country actress Gill Jordan and her “lazy cow” alter ego, the legendary Doreen Tipton (click on this link: https://leighmathers.wordpress.com/2013/12/14/doreens-story/ for an explanation about Doreen) at a showing of her hilarious movie.  The Black Country accent and humour are woefully underrepresented in the media.  I belly laughed at that film like I hadn’t done in years.

Here is a pic of me and my hubby with “Doreen” in character:

Us with Dor

(The Lazy Cow is the one in the middle, by the way.)

I promise that in 2016 I will devote more time to writing.  I promise I will share more chapters of the never-ending Majella Bracebridge saga with you on here.  I have been unforgivably lax with my writing this year.  I have made too many excuses, citing too much stress at work or too much to do in the house as reasons for not sitting down and being creative.  I know I need to make the effort to do things I enjoy in my spare time; to appreciate and enjoy my free time.

I am also edging dangerously towards my 40th birthday, and the “40 things to do at 40” bucket-ish list here: https://leighmathers.wordpress.com/40-things-to-do-at-40/ continues to evolve and grow.

Happy New Year, one and all!! xxx

Gill Pharaoh

It’s rare for me to write a blog on the subject of someone else’s blog, but I was recently sent a link to this brave lady’s website:


Essentially Gill Pharaoh, a 75-year-old retired nurse who had worked for many years with elderly people and witnessed first hand their end-of-life suffering and pain, took the decision to end her own life in a Swiss clinic. She was not terminally ill – though her health had naturally declined of late – but she took the assisted suicide route to avoid being a future burden to her family or our beleaguered NHS.

I didn’t know Gill – there is a semi-connection there, in that her widower is a friend of a friend – but her story really struck a chord with me. I recently started a new job within the health service, providing services to patients, mainly elderly, in care homes.

Gill’s story has been reported extensively in the press over the last few days, and attracted some nasty comments.

Would it have been, say, less “selfish” of Gill (to use an accusation levelled at her), if she’d allowed her family to watch her wither away from cancer, for example? Having lost a parent to a particularly cruel strain of cancer myself, I think not.

Euthanasia will forever be an immensely controversial subject. Of course a system such as there is in Switzerland and a handful of other countries lays itself open to accusations of doctors “playing God” (though as a staunch atheist that argument does not sit particularly well with me), or the possibility of Harold Shipmans murdering vulnerable patients while using the “euthanasia” defence.

I am personally 100% in favour of patients of sound mind who can prove they were not unduly influenced (by aforementioned evil doctors, say, or even grasping relatives eager for early inheritances) exercising the right to die.

I only hope euthanasia is legal in the UK by the time I reach a stage in my life where I am in too much pain to live. I do not wish to be kept artificially alive just to be propped upright for a jolly photo in the Evening Mail of me vacantly clutching a telegram from the Queen.

We speak of putting animals “out of their misery” if they are incurably ill or wounded, so why not human beings? Why, as a nation, are we often kinder to animals than to humans?

Though I am never realistically going to emigrate, it struck me, while on a winter mini break to Montreux last year, what a pleasant country Switzerland would be to live in. Its clean, fresh air, attractive Victorian architecture and arty atmosphere appealed to me. I’m certain it would be a pleasant place to die in as well.

The blog to which I have linked above, entitled My Last Word, is incredibly moving and written with such dignity. Not a comfortable read, but a worthwhile one.

RIP Gill Pharaoh.

New beginnings

Well hello to you (I feel like Miranda here) – and a very belated Happy New Year to you, dear reader(s)!!

I can’t believe my last blog was in celebration of the return of Strictly Come Dancing, and I rejoin you now at a stage where the most recent series is long finished and I have already been to see the live show on tour.

2014 was an odd year in many ways, but 2015 shall be a year of new beginnings. I am filled with a new determination.

I have, for the first time in my life, joined a gym. I am thus far enjoying my healthier lifestyle. It’s marked a change in routine for me. I never thought I would be able to fit regular body attack classes, treadmill runs and abdominal crunches into my life, but here I am! This shall be the year of “thinking outside the box,” which is one of those dreadful buzz phrases I usually detest but seems somehow apt in this scenario.

This afternoon I have had a long overdue reread of Majella Bracebridge. It’s been so criminally long since I did any writing, I needed to refresh my memory so that I know whence my resumed narrative needs to leave off. Reading my own output is always such a personal, emotional experience.

I really, really need to get back into writing. I do love it, but feel so very out of practice. I need to just do it; exercise my writing muscle. I read and read too, for research purposes; enjoy and absorb authors who possess a wonderful way with words.

Why do I just sit there pathetically with a pen in my hand, not daring to make a mark on the paper? I long for the freedom where I can just take my pen for a walk across the page, with my eyes shut even, almost as if I am drunk. I need to be creative. Even if there is nobody there to read what I produce, I need to just churn out language. Even if I never get published, even if I never become the next Marian Keyes, I have my own unique voice and I deserve to express myself.

We all need our hobbies and interests. What are mine? Writing, working out in the gym, tai chi, walking, cooking, eating, drinking, going to the theatre, concerts, history, gardening, visiting places of interest, entering competitions. I need to focus on those; explore my passions. Life is for living to the full, after all.

Striiictlyyyyy!!! It’s back!

And so series 12 of my gorgeous Strictly began last night. Oh, it’s like putting on an old pair of slippers. It’s like right, that’s it, my Saturday nights are complete now until Christmas.

It feels so cosy, like reuniting with a dear old friend. It’s what I used to call when I was little “a nice friendly programme” (I had some wonderfully inventive expressions when I was a kid, if I say so myself); it stretches out its big soft sequinned arms and envelopes you in a massive hug. I just love it.

With the first six contestants dancing last night and the remaining nine tonight, my early favourites are Jake, Alison (so good to see a Brummie on the show), Simon and Pixie. And Gregg Wallace took dad dancing to a whole new level.

Just park me on the sofa for the next three months, occasionally refill my wine glass, and I’m happy.

Majella’s latest drama

Chapter 9 of Majella Bracebridge is ready for your perusal:


Chapter 9

Spring Cleaning My Life


Cleaning. You could say it was cleaning that saved me during my spell of depression. My ‘blue period,’ as I came to delicately term it.

Cleaning became my way of attaining control. I equated it to anorexics’ relationships with food. To sweepingly oversimplify, they attempt to assert control over what they perceive as chaotic lives by counting calories and severely curtailing their food intake. My way of doing so was to zealously dust and mop. Just as an anorexic might stand before a mirror and visualise a fat person, I would survey our immaculate flat and see acres of dust.

Mel cleaned for a living at that time, but at home I was the one wielding the Mr Sheen can. I was happy (relatively so, at least) when I was cleaning; I had a purpose, a mission. My time was not wasting away. I was achieving. The simple concept that one minute dust was there and then the next, because of me and my mighty duster (typically a pair of Mel’s old underpants), it wasn’t, boosted my meagre self-esteem; gave me a slender sense of power. Tiny goals can feel like monstrous achievements when you have depression.

I had a specified ‘cleaning day,’ Wednesday, partly because in my precarious profession I craved a semblance of routine, of regularity. On cleaning day I was galvanised. I became OCD. Still am, to a certain extent. Petty inconsistencies leap out at me. Drawers that are not fully closed, flecks of fluff on the carpet, CDs adrift from their cases. I itch until I can rectify them. I can’t unsee them. I know they are there. To this day, Wednesday remains my cleaning day, as if in homage to that period.

The days when I wasn’t cleaning, I wasn’t galvanised. Simple as. I worked the shifts at Rackhams I’d had the foresight to retain. I visited my family. I ate little and unenthusiastically, I lost weight, wore children’s clothes and saved the VAT (though inexplicably bemoaned my inability to ensnare a boyfriend with these unsexy outfits). I goggled numbly at soap operas and game shows even though I knew I should be fulfilling my time with more useful pursuits. I could feel my very brain cells rotting, yet my arse was suckered to the comfortable settee and I was powerless to break the cycle of monotony. I washed my hair, I ironed, I slept, I did the shopping. I drove Tesco to his little casting calls.

I did occasional acting myself (it hadn’t entirely dried up). There was my stint in Crossroads (I felt I invested my line, ‘Which way to the gym?’ with all the beauty it merited), a Little Chef advert, a sketch with Bobby Davro, a health and safety corporate video in which I had to pretend to topple off a ladder in impractically high heels. No starring roles in sitcoms set on canal barges, though.

So I was far from idle. Yet through it all I felt a sense of nothingness; a sense I was viewing the world through a window. A sense of ennui. I liked that French word. It sounded rather elegant and Jane Austen heroine-ish. Everything was an anticlimax. I longed to feel anger, emotion, something. Anything would have been preferable to this detached listlessness.

My self-expression and assurance dissolved. I seldom went out; socialising became an ordeal because I would fret about every phase of the evening, from leaving the flat on time to whether I had a ladder in my tights. When I wasn’t acting – and thus wasn’t tethered to a script and had to articulate my own thoughts – I could barely construct a sentence. I was an undoubted disappointment to companions who expected an actress to be ‘on,’ to be droll, gregarious company.


The rare spells between 1984 and 1989 (I could actually count them) when I did break down and howl came as such tremendous relief. The emotion felt healthy and natural; it demonstrated I was alive.

One of those moments came when I learned about Nelson’s illness.

The evening of the BAPA reunion, I had sagged into bed after watching Catchphrase, though not without experiencing a rare blast of energy and scrawling a note for Mel directing him to my unfinished dinner in the oven. Despite being entirely averse to the idea of attending the reunion myself, as I flipped the TV off I’d started to half-heartedly wonder how Mel’s night was going. Poor Mel. He didn’t deserve my dramas. I loved him, and tomorrow we were going to deck the Christmas tree together. I girlishly appended a string of kisses to my scribbly note, and headed to bed.

I awoke relatively energised by the childlike promise of putting up our wiry tree and decorating it with the paltry baubles and bald tinsel we possessed. Mel had an eye for that kind of thing – he was used to decorating himself like a Christmas tree on a regular basis, after all.

The flat was filled with an uncharacteristic fug, and I couldn’t hear Going Live on the television, which was a discouraging sign (we both had devoted crushes on Phillip Schofield). I found Mel slouched at the kitchen table, looking about fifty and drawing on a Marlboro. He had given up smoking six years earlier. When he lapsed, I knew things were not good.

Then he delivered Nelson’s news, and something within me snapped. I felt as though I could physically see it; in my mind it was embodied as an inflexible object like a ruler, bent to shattering point.

I am ashamed to say I experienced a nanosecond of foot-stamping disappointment that we had been going to put the tree up, and now those plans were all spoilt. Then I immediately mentally bashed myself for being so childishly selfish.

An illogical urge to escape overwhelmed me. To escape my own embarrassment as much as anything. I was clad in my pyjamas and slippers, with no money or keys about my person, yet all I knew was that I wanted to – had to – be out of this stifling flat which reeked of raw pork and stale smoke, where my best friend was telling me another of my best friends was dying of AIDS, and I was acting like a twat, putting my own trivial needs first.

I have a grainy memory of the next few moments. Pelting down the sparse stairway, hauling open the door, taking a voracious gulp of the sharp December air as though it were my first breath, whooshing along the entry, past the parched hanging basket, out of the gate, behind the butcher’s van and into the road, to a cacophony of car horns and expletives as a car whose arrival had been obscured by the van shrieked to an emergency stop to avoid me. And then a pair of arms around me, tugging me away as though out of a canal in which I had almost drowned, and Mel sobbing ‘You stupid cow,’ over and over at me.

Mel was supremely in control that day: apologising to the poor driver who’d nearly had to scrape my Kermit-pyjama’d form off his front bumper, pushing me up the stairs, making me tea, calling Dr Dolphin, who came out despite it being a Saturday (those were the days) and him surely having a plethora of elderly hypothermia victims to attend to. I cried for those frozen pensioners who I pictured dying due to lack of medical attention because Dr Dolphin was ministering to stupid Majella Bracebridge who ran in front of a Maxi. I was patently sick too, though, according to his diagnosis, as he prescribed me antidepressants.

Mel and I talked and talked that day. I well and truly unburdened. The effect was exhausting. I barely halted for breath in my chaotic monologue, about Nelson, Gareth, my career, Linda, even Andrea Clamp’s clandestine bullying of me at school. Cups of tea materialised in front of me, without any apparent interruption in the flood of conversation. For once I had justification to cry, and the tears jetted forth without restraint.

I don’t think we ever put that bloody tree up.

Depression can be a very self-absorbing condition, and I had been sorely lacking in perspective for far too long. The simple revelation that I was not the only person in the world with problems set me off in a cycle of pitiful guilt and melancholy, until I made the decision that such self-reproach was counter-productive.

That day was the last time I let anybody be in control of me. My last day of being this passive clod I’d been for far too long.

The prospect of entering a co-dependent relationship with antidepressant pills was unnerving. I was fairly ignorant about their effects – they were just not talked about then, and of course the internet was a yet-to-be-invented research tool – but knew they were not sweets to be consumed nonchalantly. I envisaged these ‘happy pills’ achieving the absolute opposite effect to the depression itself, thus transforming me into a giddy, manic monster, grinning and cackling uncontrollably like some horror movie dummy that comes to life and murders the ventriloquist.

It was days until I gathered the courage to hand my prescription in at Boots; further days before I swallowed my first tablet. They intimidated me, but in fat had a calming, kind of softening impact. They engendered a long-absent sense that I could cope; that my life was not hurtling out of control.


Over Christmas, Mel and I met up with Nelson. He wouldn’t let us go to his house – he told Mel on the phone that he disliked the implication this held of ‘being visited, like a patient,’ but insisted on meeting at the Greyhound in Wolverhampton.

Even despite Mel’s warning, I was shocked by his dramatic weight loss. We were not to talk about ‘it,’ the pink elephant in the room. Nelson’s friendly eyes were poignantly hollow now, though shone with the same light of old. We talked about Kylie, Neighbours (I shared his obsession, since my settee/daytime TV addiction had me in its grip), the collapse of the Ceausescu dictatorship in Romania, Tiananmen Square, Judy Finnigan’s new hairdo.

There was a gang of football fans in the pub, bundled up in cagoules and Wolves scarves and vast cagoules. I had no interest in football, but there was something oddly comforting about the way these lads were enjoying their weekend routine; about the way normal life was going on, even while others were experiencing personal turmoil.


When the royalties for the Arrowsmith & Broom advert repeats came through, I donated them to the Terrence Higgins Trust. Mel actually said I’d have been better served saving them towards the rent, as in 1990 he declared his intention to move out, thus ending our eight-year non-sexual cohabital relationship. We’d lived together longer than many married couples.

He inherited a small legacy from Alice Cooper, not the mascara-clad rock star (who had ironically made a recent comeback), of course, but his mother’s recently deceased spinster neighbour, and decided to, as he put it, venture a stiletto on to the property ladder. He purchased a small terrace in Selly Oak, thus leaving Tesco and me the sole occupants of the flat where no amount of pot pourri could mask the whiff of raw offal. My modest wages and savings met the rent, and I at least got the odd discount cut of meat, and free liver for the cat.

I helped Mel move. Unpacking box after box of frock after frock, then scoffing fish and chips on upturned tea chests, carried larky echoes of that carefree day when we moved into our first student flat.

That first night was odd. When I hugged Mel goodbye, I made a He-Man effort not to cry. We maintained constant contact by telephone, an almost running commentary, as though connected by walkie talkies. I’m sure he thought if he broke the link I’d relapse and drift into loneliness. Poor Mel. I put him through hell.

Those first few days of living totally solo for the first time, I was as restless as a flea. I couldn’t sleep, so I cleaned, then went to bed in the early hours, convinced I would slumber until teatime, but of course hungry Tesco had other ideas and nudged me awake with his damp little nose. I couldn’t return to sleep once I’d opened his tin of Buster (which we still got for free). So I cleaned again, inside the cupboards this time.

I was, to employ a modern phrase, now ‘thinking outside the box,’ and cleaning on days other than Wednesdays. I could never sit still. I was too restless to be passive.

I’d unwittingly become a hoarder – another common symptom of depression – and this was a process that had to be reversed. The last thing I needed was to become one of those people who lives with eighteen cats and hasn’t got into bed for three years because her route to it is blockaded by old Argos catalogues.

I purged the cupboards, filling four binbags with moth-eaten clothes, ancient bank statements, concert ticket stubs, bus ticket stubs, single earrings I’d clung on to in the vain hope their lost twins might magically resurface, globs of Blu-Tack with shards of Smash Hits posters stuck to them, a sock, Biros whose nibs oozed congealed ink, a broken fondue set, carrier bags.

A Polaroid of Gareth. Ah! My heart flipped despite myself. He was a ludicrously good-looking man, after all. It was one of the first I’d taken of him, outside the old Bull Ring in Birmingham, denim blue sky behind him lending a romantic quality to the urban scene. ‘I’m in a band,’ he’d told me that day. I dangled it over the bin, but consigned the tattered snap to a photo album, feeling mature for not ripping it but acknowledging him as part of my history.

A brochure for Birmingham Living History Museum. I’d visited there once on an O-Level History trip. I hung on to that one.

An A4 notepad containing, oh my word, the first scene and fanciful cast list of Crisp Notes: The Musical (Based upon the Novel of the Same Name), which Mel, Linda, Nelson and I bashed together over several ciders years ago in our old flat. It was to tell the story of the staff from the Super Crunch Crisp Factory winning an unspecified fortune on a TV quiz show and making far-reaching changes to their lives. Hey, we loved crisps and we loved game shows – what better way to fuse our interests!

Cecil (Factory Owner)…………………………………………………………….Mel Corns
Cecily (His Twin Sister)………………………………………………………Heidi Sausage
Verna (Their Mother)………………………………………………………..Noele Gordon
Blanche (Factory Forewoman)……………………………………………..Linda Dyson
Tarquin (Chief Crisp Packer)…………………………………………………Nelson Love
George (His Boyfriend)……………………………………George Michael/Boy George
Zara (Chief Potato Peeler)……………………………………………Majella Bracebridge
Maxwell (Her Lover)…………………………………………………….Gareth Rushcliff
Game Show Host………………………………………………………………Ted Rogers
The Bank Manager……………………………………………………………Lenny Henry
The Office Cat………………………………………………………………………Tesco
Chorus………………………………………………………….The Brian Rogers Dancers

I wondered if any of us possessed the clout nowadays to assemble a cast like that.

We’d planned to pen both the libretto and the novel ‘upon which it was based,’ and envisaged scores of our fellow students would be queuing up for roles in this epic show.

I remembered specifically wanting my character to be called Zara.
‘It’s a beautiful name,’ I’d said. I still think it is.

I sat cross-legged on the carpet leafing through our green-inked screenplay, until my limbs went to sleep. It was fascinating stuff. A preposterous tale, yet this raw script demonstrated a youthful chutzpah that was startling yet also heartening to my jaded psyche.


Killer by Adamski topped the charts that spring and was constantly on the radio. It became the soundtrack to my extended spring clean.

Mel moving out was the catalyst I needed to pull my proverbial socks up. I finally took driving lessons, passed my test and bought a Renault 5 with 100,000 miles on the clock and a leaking sunroof. I loved that car as one might love an ugly but affectionate puppy.

I developed a thirst for new hobbies to fill my solitary evenings. Enjoying them for their own sake was not enough, though; I had to push myself to ridiculous levels to excel at them.

I took up running, but without a competition to train for, a means to an end, I had no incentive. So I enrolled for the Birmingham Fun Run and completed it in a respectable time. Once the competition was over, my incentive was removed and my enthusiasm spent, and I never pulled on another pair of running shorts.

Then, having burned many a saucepan to annihilation in ill-fated kitchen exploits over the years, I took up with cooking, with surprisingly edible results. I bought Julian Crowfoot’s book and attempted every recipe in it (the Wispa rum cake remained a dinner party staple for years).

I was frequently guilty of starting things but never finishing them. For a phase, I decided I could be the next Jackie Collins. I had a crack at Crisp Notes: The Novel (I lacked both the inclination and the musicality to remodel it into a musical). I was serious and all – I even went to WH Smith (and incidentally, it can’t be just me who thought as a kid it was pronounced ‘Wuh Smith’?) and purchased a notebook with a fabric cover bearing a picture of a peacock, experiencing a childlike glee at the pretty stationery.

I fell into a frustrating yet elating routine of living and breathing a story, consulting my trusty pocket thesaurus, and falling asleep dreaming of troublesome sentences and paragraphs. Ideas, scenarios, sentences, singular lines of dialogue would form in my head, like flashes of genius, though sadly without the strong storyline to prop them up. The idea of taking my pen for a walk across the paper was intimidating. I felt too shy. The whole concept died a death.

At times I was paralysed with indecision; with a sense of having so much to do that the panic about filling it all in froze me. I could stand there shaking, not moving this way or that. All these ideas buzzed around like wasps with no escape route. So I obsessively made lists. Lists of lists. I would add items to lists just so I could cross them off. Even today, I do this. I detest being bored, or even sitting still. I cook constantly. I can’t be idle. I’m afraid of those still moments which afford me too much time to think. I apply constant pressure to myself to Do Something Useful.


Back then, I berated myself for not achieving; I was under constant self-imposed pressure, aware that the only person capable of changing my life was me, yet lacked the stamina and confidence to see projects through. I expended more energy telling myself what I ‘should’ be doing than actually doing. I would tell myself I was a worthless person; a waste of space.

I exhaled a mighty breath and sagged back against the patchwork cushion after relating all of this to Roger, my counsellor.
I automatically reached for a tissue from the ever-present box on his pine table. Crying was second nature to me now, though it was at least starting to take the form of an outpouring of relief rather than a torrent of woe. Today was the most cathartically talkative I’d been with Roger, following weeks of rather hesitant sessions.

Dr Dolphin, who continued to monitor my progress and administer antidepressants, had made the referral, and now I underwent therapy for an hour each Wednesday, in this tastefully furnished room in a converted terrace in Moseley.

I’d arrived for my first appointment expecting to be confronted with a clichéd mad professor type: a wild-eyed buffoon in a white coat, sporting a flaming red beard and Ronnie Barker glasses, who would order me to lie on the couch and administer electric shock treatment while asking me about my mother. In fact Roger was genial and welcoming; in fact, the first word he would greet me with at every meeting was a simple, ‘Welcome.’ He possessed a squashy, careworn dad sort of face, and a fine line in pastel jumpers. There was a Garfield poster on the wall next to his practising certificate.

During that first meeting he probed me with gentle questions about my background, family, friends, personal relationships, work, etc – setting the scene and finding out what sort of a person I was. It was very difficult at first. I was not used to talking about myself in such great detail, and felt self-conscious and defensive about giving voice to certain things which I had never told a soul before. I knew I had to be completely honest, however difficult I found it, or else there was little point undergoing this treatment at all. He needed to be in possession of the full facts.

He told me I could make as many or as few appointments as I liked, but advised me to visit him at least eight times to make the whole thing worthwhile. The format of these future sessions, he said, would involve him listening to me moan but also giving me ‘homework,’ strategies I could work on to help me relax and build up my confidence.

He never patronised or tried to blind me with science. At times I found the sessions very draining, but that was only to be expected. The very fact I was taking positive steps to improve my life gave me confidence. I was surprising myself with the things I ended up talking about, but I guessed these topics must have been relevant for them to crop up in conversation at all.

The thorny ‘Gareth’ topic had been touched upon. If Roger was surprised that a one-time famous pop star had broken my heart just as he was becoming famous, he betrayed no hint of it.

He now nodded pensively, perusing his notes – or at least pretending to while he formulated his next question.

‘Now you’ve mentioned a female flatmate a couple of times – Linda, was it? I gather there is or was some conflict between the two of you.’ He shot me a kind, encouraging smile. ‘Do you feel ready to tell me about that yet?’

Some conflict, ah yes. I’d been dreading our discourse heading in this direction. A failed affair of the heart was one thing, but – and I don’t know why this was – the betrayal of a friendship, by a member of the so-called sisterhood, seemed somehow more shameful. But the time had come to be candid.

My mind played a crazy word association game. I was currently on my period. I associated periods with Monthlicare, the product I’d advertised with that ridiculous ice skating routine, the gig I’d got because I failed to land the Lock & Quay role, with which Linda became synonymous. Therefore, according to that meandering logic, this seemed an appropriate juncture to give Linda a good old thrashing – of the verbal kind at least.

An excruciating cramp tore through my tummy, as if goading me; bringing the pain into sharp focus.

As I talked I kept my eyes pinned on the aquarium in the corner of the room. No doubt the gaudy fish were intended to have a hypnotic effect.

‘I had an audition arranged for Lock & Quay, the sitcom on Channel 4. It was for the part of Fran. I was convinced this had my name on it, you know, that it was going to make me. A troupe of actors living on a canal barge. I thought it was right up my street – or cut in this case.’ That line came so instinctively to me. ‘I crammed like mad. I had never rehearsed so hard in my life. I was in Devon with my friend Mel – I told you about him – and all the while I was down there I was in preparation for this show I thought was going to make me a household name.

‘Well, unbeknown to me, the date of this audition changed. I had this useless agent at the time – Roger, I’m talking chocolate teapot useless – and he, Barry his name was, phoned the flat where I was living at the time to let me know. He shouldn’t have rung me there at all. I’d told him I was in Devon for two months, and given him a number where he could reach me there. Linda was in at the time and she took the call. Barry asked her to pass the message on. Linda neglected to let me know the audition date had changed – she claims she forgot – and she went and bloody auditioned and got the part herself!’

Roger did a polite little double take. ‘She’s that Linda? Linda Dyson?’

I wondered if Roger might be beginning to think I was a fantasist and that these friendships and relationships with celebrities existed in my delirious imagination. His easy recognition of her name hurt me, though, and illustrated my point about having hoped the show would bring me household-name fame.

‘Yes, and Linda claims she had always intended to audition for it anyway, so we’d have been rivals whatever, but I don’t believe her. I sacked Barry after that, and decided I’d go with Linda’s agent, Kevin Light, seeing as how he was clearly getting her the best gigs. When his first words to me when I marched into his office were, “So you want to emulate Linda’s success then, eh?” I was disgusted!’

My watery gaze drifted from the fish tank to the parade of family photos on the bookcase next to it: two buck-toothed teenage girls in school blazers, and a smaller snap depicting a cocker spaniel. I addressed my next comment as if to them.

‘You know, I’ve never even told my parents all this. They just think I didn’t get the job. I never admitted to them that muggins here travelled all the way back from North Devon, only to find the audition had taken place a week earlier.’

I slumped back on the cushion again. I felt as though I’d been hollowed out, like a boiled egg. Yet also present was a sense that I was being divested of something that had been festering for far too long. I knew my recovery was beginning.


One summer morning I emerged, drained, from such a session, yearning for some light relief. I walked to my car past a signpost for the Birmingham Living History Museum, and remembered the brochure I’d exhumed from my brimming cupboard.

With no work to engage me for the rest of the day, and no desire to return to the flat, which in that heat would resemble a corned beef tin in a sauna, I suddenly craved the innocent escapism of a good old-fashioned school trip style day out.

The museum comprised a faithfully rebuilt Victorian city street scene, featuring factories, shops, a school, pub, cinema and back-to-back houses. I spent a very pleasant day, wandering along cobbles, eating ice cream and learning about Birmingham’s social history. It was years since I’d tasted such simple pleasures (or such glorious ice cream).

I was growing more confident and content in my solitude. Being alone no longer equalled loneliness or self-consciousness that imaginary passers-by might take sufficient interest in me to judge me as a sad individual living an empty life.

Outside the reconstructed pub (the Boot Inn) hung a poster, whose mock Victorian typeface and artfully torn appearance caused me to initially overlook it. However, the heading ‘CHARACTER ACTORS WANTED,’ and inclusion of a phone number, denoted this was not a Victorian relic but a contemporary sits vac. The museum were recruiting re-enactors, ‘with drama experience,’ to don period costumes, perform interactive little scenes and bring history to life for the good folk of Birmingham.

My sweet little day out at the museum had certainly awakened something in me. A dormant thirst for knowledge, an interest in nostalgia, which I wanted to impart to others.

Nothing ventured, as they say. I auditioned. And got the job.

Little did I predict the extent to which it would transform my life.


One Saturday, I came home from my stint being a Victorian loom worker for the day, my hair still in its frumpy bun, flat and clammy from the hairnet in which I’d encased it. I fed Tesco, and switched on the TV. The BBC News were still leading with yesterday’s sentencing of the children’s TV presenter Rod Rudge for assaulting fourteen women. Was there no innocence in the world anymore?

I was, quite honestly, sick of the story by now. The trial had been debated to death during lunch break, the only time of day when we were allowed to abandon the illusion that we were nineteenth century characters, and could discuss pop culture.

It was an astonishing fall from grace. I wondered how Rudge’s crimes had first come to light. According to one of my colleagues, Jackie, who played the cane-wielding schoolmarm (she relished the ‘discipline’ aspect of her role so much, I suspected her of being a part-time dominatrix), the perky puppeteer was a regular sleaze. ‘Been bonking his way round Central telly for years.’

Bonking! Now there’s a word I haven’t heard in several years. Such an 80s word; so jolly and terribly saucy.

I flicked over to ITV, who were showing Stars in Their Eyes, grabbed a cider from the fridge and sank on to the sofa, tucking my legs underneath my bum.

Almost immediately, the phone rang with an ominous peal. I didn’t have to get up to answer. Not possessing such a luxury as a ‘telephone table,’ the dog and bone lived on the floor on my side of the sofa. Even as I reached down, I knew instinctively it was Mel, with the call I had been hoping never to receive.

‘Nelson’s dead,’ he sobbed.

Retro Blog 4

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