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


My mum recently lent me Mahlangeni by Kobie Kruger, a book that was in turn a souvenir gift from her cousin Barry who lives in South Africa. The author is the wife of Kobus Kruger, former game ranger in the Mahlangeni region of the Kruger National Park, and she writes of her family’s experiences living in this wilderness.

This isn’t my typical reading matter, to be fair, but I gave it a go and greatly enjoyed it. I enjoy reading about unfamiliar cultures and lifestyles.

I certainly don’t envy Kobie, her husband and their three daughters: having to row a boat across a churning river to reach the nearest road; being attacked by territorial hippos whilst rowing said boat; waking up to find snakes slithering out of their toilet bowl; living in trepidation of the resident neighbourhood leopard.

She writes so evocatively, I can feel the claustrophobically stifling sun on my skin, smell the hammering rain of the monsoon season, hear the frogs ribbit and elephants trumpet, itch with maddening insect bites, feel her panic and frustration when her car breaks down along a remote mud track miles from home and with the utterly black (and wild animal-filled) African night rapidly descending.

Mahlangeni certainly makes me appreciate my life of uneventful urban civilisation. Elephants and leopards, it has to be said, are scarce in the West Midlands.

40 Things…revisited

For those who are interested in keeping abreast of these things, I have updated my 40 Things To Do At 40 list:

Recent events have taught me the importance of goals, and that life is painfully short. So sod it, I shall learn to administer first aid, whilst giving bone marrow, mending a puncture and watching George Formby films back to back, on the beach in Mauritius.

A new chapter

Things have been quiet on here for a while, but here is another chapter for your delectation:

Chapter 8 of Majella Bracebridge is, as you will see, told from the point of view of Majella’s best friend Mel. I really enjoyed writing this and could have gone on and on, and in fact probably will add more detail when I go back over the manuscript at a later date. I must say I loved writing from the point of view of the camp Melvyn Corns, AKA Melba Most, who after all was the main character in the first short story I ever had published, so I do harbour rather a soft spot for him!

In fact this was probably my favourite chapter to write so far. Ah, I love the 80s! I found the language flowed very easily. Hope you derive at least some pleasure out of reading it. You’ll see I am starting to explore a few darker themes in this instalment.

Chapter 8

Mel’s View of the BAPA Reunion

Why was I at the reunion? I hear you cry. As you’ve been following Majella’s saga, you’ll know I was never a student of Birmingham Academy of Performing Arts. I received no formal training at all. My ‘training’ came via hawking my arse around the clubs and holiday camps; my muses were my dear mother’s coffee morning cronies.

In fact the reason for my presence was that, having quit the Lee Longlands furniture emporium prior to my 1984 summer season, which failed to set North Devon alight, I’d been obliged to take a succession of menial occupations to get by, amongst them janitor-cum-dogsbody at BAPA. Despite sponging urinals for a living now, I hadn’t abandoned my nightclub alter egos. In fact the cleaning ladies’ filthy gossip inspired me anew, with fresh material for Heidi and Poppy.

My job encompassed such responsibilities as arranging tables for events like reunions. However, on this particular occasion I had also been permitted to remain on a semi-guest basis to represent Majella. Quite why I felt the need to provide representation for her I couldn’t tell you, but hey ho.

I’d tried to coax her to attend. ‘She won’t be there, chick. She’ll be ranting about tampons to the lucky citizens of Shanklin on the Isle of Wight. I checked her tour schedule.’

Linda, our former flatmate and pal, self-styled ‘slut feminist,’ had become ‘she’ to us. ‘She’ who must not be named. Even my allusion to her now made Majella shudder. Linda Dyson. She sucked like a Dyson too, from what I heard. Pity I couldn’t use that joke back then, but Mr Dyson didn’t invent his super duper vacuum cleaner for a good few years. ‘Oh, please come. Nelson’s just back from his cruise. He’ll be disappointed not to see you.’

‘They’ll all be sniggering,’ she bleated. ‘It’ll be all “Oh, did you see Lock & Quay? Wasn’t Linda terrific?” and then “Oh Majella, you were very good in the, er…Monthlicare commercial. You ice skate like a pro…and those white trousers fit you like a glove!” Why do I want to spend a night listening to that?’

‘Why the assumption that you’ll be the focus? Most of that lot haven’t had the level of success that you have.’

‘Wow, poor things!’ She returned to flipping indolently through the Woolworths Christmas catalogue she was pretending to read.

The pair of us were still flatmates, though had relocated to threadbare quarters above a butchers in Edgbaston. We accessed our abode via a yard alongside Lycett & Sons Quality Meats. Our version of a ‘garden’ was a hanging basket drooping from a hook on the wobbly fence, containing indistinguishable husks of what had once been flowers.

I was contemplating moving on, though had yet to broach the notion with Majella. Even I was growing self-conscious of our set-up. We were known within certain circles as The Odd Couple – which, bearing in mind the company we had been known to keep, was saying something. We were like the most unorthodox married couple ever: shared bathroom; shared cat; separate bedrooms; communal make-up bag; London Boys posters on the fridge; occasional boyfriends grunting awkward greetings over the Rice Krispies. We would watch Blind Date together while preparing for Saturday nights out, take it in turns to cook the evening meal, test one another on lines (when she actually had any acting engagements), nag, bicker. I’d caught myself sniping ‘At least one of us is in regular employment’ the other day.

And the continuous stench of raw offal was starting to get on my tits.

‘You due at Rackhams today?’ I asked as I toggled my coat up.

‘Supposed to be, but I’ll call in sick.’


‘Well I am sick. You said.’

‘I know, sweetheart, but get help. See the doc. You can’t wallow.’ I was concerned about Majella’s state of mind. I found myself making a mental inventory of all the sharp objects in the flat, wondering if it would be prudent to hide them. I felt hopeless, to be quite honest. But there was little I could achieve right now, as I was on my way to work. ‘Look, we’ll talk later, OK? Give your mom a ring, or my mom.’



‘Promise.’ She was wearing a My Little Pony T-shirt, and looked about six years old. She had lost so much weight, she could fit into children’s clothes. Also, she claimed she was being ‘ironic and retro.’

‘We’ll put the tree up when I get back, if you like.’ I dropped a kiss on the top of her head. A devoted hubby off to earn a few groats. The cat came padding in from his nap. I ushered him towards Majella, slouched in the armchair. ‘Come on, Tesco, talk to Mommy.’


As it was a radiant, bracing afternoon, I shunned the bus (I was presently between cars, the Cortina having finally juddered off to the great mechanic in the sky) and walked. The nippy air was a perfect antidote to the flat’s leaden atmosphere.

The Christmas lights were draped across the streets, ready to burst forth into colour the minute darkness fell, and festive displays adorned the shop windows. The window dressing was the one aspect of working at Lee Longlands that I missed. Having been deemed ‘a bit…ahem…artistic’ by the boss, I was always assigned that responsibility.

I passed Lee Longlands en route to the college now. Ah, that tableau lacked my touch! If I say so myself, I could always work magic with a couple of footstools and a few sprigs of holly.

Birmingham was becoming a pleasanter place to walk these days. Well right now much of it was under a mass of scaffolding, as the what-would-become world-renowned Symphony Hall and National Indoor Arena were under construction. This was the start of the city centre’s vast redevelopment, from concrete 1960s hangover into the vibrant bubble we know today.
The nondescript patch in front of the college entrance had been jazzed up with a few statues and flowerbeds and named Centenary Square that year, 1989, to mark the centenary since Birmingham was granted city status.

There were changes afoot in the world at large too. The Berlin Wall – constructed in the year of my birth, so long a symbol of division and oppression – had been torn down; all over Europe, Communist states were overthrowing their authoritarian governments; new countries whose names I would never memorise were declaring independence from the former Soviet Union, Yugoslavian and Czechoslovakian states.

I used to be randomly obsessed with geography when I was a kid, and could identify all the flags of the world. Not anymore. Still, my confusion at future Olympic Games opening ceremonies was a tiny price to pay for the end of the Cold War. A new decade was dawning; it was a time of great excitement and liberation.

OK, so excited and liberated were not quite what I felt when I donned my tabard and hoisted forth the Toilet Duck, but it was a living.


The first face I recognised at the reunion, as I was mopping up someone’s spilt Martini, was Tim Bellows. He clomped in, with a simpering bimbo on each arm. I wasn’t aware he was ever in Jesus Christ Superstar, but he looked the part, with his artfully unkempt hair and beard and big shaggy sheepskin.

Last week’s TV Times had dubbed him ‘the nation’s favourite postboy,’ extolling his ‘down to earth charm and cuddly appeal.’ When I happened to glance up and establish eye contact, this cuddly postboy recoiled as though I’d spat on him. The hired help daring to behold his betters.

‘No autographs,’ he sneered. ‘Where’s your curlers, Hilda Ogden?’ The bimbos twittered. I yearned to retort that actually I’d dropped Hilda Ogden from the act years ago, and these days it was all about Liz McDonald, darling. But he’d probably have had me fired.

Bellows did a cursory lap of honour of the room, shaking hands with his fawning classmates as though anointing them. He then left, his cameo appearance at the function having lasted approximately three minutes. Believe me, nobody laughed harder than I did when he cropped up decades later flogging late-night Viagra.

Whilst anticipating the grand arrival of Nelson (he was always late), I chatted to other acquaintances of Majella’s who I remembered from those days. They all asked after her; none derided her whilst revering Linda as she’d prophesied. It strikes me that had mobile phones been in widespread usage then (and not just the yuppie bricks favoured by Del Boy), I could have rattled off a text to Majella. ‘Get your arse down here Maj,’ I could have said. ‘They’re all friendly.’

There was Finn Maynard, not a familiar face but a prolific voiceover artiste, who had lent his larynx to toilet rim block, among other products.

Lydia Goode I recognised from The Mo & Bo Show (well I was at home lunchtimes, and there was only Going for Gold on the other side). The show was filmed across the road at the Central studios in Birmingham. She was a pretty little blonde thing with plaits – the very archetype of a children’s TV presenter. She even had one of those squeaky, ‘I’ve got a hundred and one uses for a toilet roll tube’ voices.

During my break I was at liberty to avail myself of a plateful from the buffet. I was pushing a chicken drumstick around my plate when I encountered Dale Burfoot. Mmm, I remembered him. Swarthy, serious (sadly heterosexual), once played Hamlet. I recalled an evening in an old Birmingham pub, The Old Joint Stock, egging Majella on to make a play for him, but she was still too fixated at the time on Gareth bloody Rushcliff to admire any other man.

‘Hello Dale!’ I greeted him now, pathetically enthusiastically. Bewilderment shadowed his handsome face. I introduced myself. He was clearly none the wiser but flashed me a polite, stern smile. ‘You most likely don’t remember me. As soon as I walk away, you’ll be thinking, Who the hell was that crazy fool who thinks he knows me?’ I laughed woodenly. Why on earth was I gabbling away like a ninny? ‘So, er, what are you up to these days, Dale?’

‘Just finished a season with the RSC.’

‘Oh, super!’

He didn’t enquire what I was ‘up to these days’ – though it was possible he’d just seen me remove my apron, which may well have rendered such a question unnecessary.

My plate felt leadenly heavy in my hand. I jabbed my charred chicken leg into a pool of salad cream, toying with it, not enjoying it. In doing so, I dislodged a crisp, which fluttered to the floor and splintered. Flushing, I retrieved it and tucked it crossly behind an empty prawn shell so I would remember not to eat it – although I liked to boast that my floors were clean enough to consume one’s dinner off.

Victim of Love by Erasure was playing, and I started nodding my head in time, as if to say ‘I’m quite happy listening to the music and enjoying this cardboard food, you really don’t need to keep me company politely, this is not at all awkward.’ What was I like! It was an actual relief when I could dive away from this divine man to mop a floor.

Later, I spotted the aforementioned Lydia Goode sobbing on the shoulder of Kelly Boardman, who was now a dancer with the Brian Rogers Connection. It’s a cleaner’s cliché that you never mean to eavesdrop; it’s just sometimes you can be mopping up a clandestine corner, and details simply filter through.

Mo & Bo’s fluffy arses, I gathered, were not the only places where Rod Rudge was fond of sliding his hands. I caught the words ‘I see why he’s known as Rudge the Sludge…in my knickers…likes it in the Wendy house…I need the job…threatened me…he’s got friends in high places…all started with Jimmy Savile…’

I became conscious that I was mopping fiercely, as though I could scrub away my revulsion at what went on behind the Wendy house flaps on that studio set across the street.

I beetled off, back to the thick of the party, straight into Stephanie Southwick. She hadn’t been in Majella’s year, but was there in her capacity as the girlfriend of Matthew Pardoe, a lecturer.

She’d recently delivered a single, hammy line in a sitcom. I can’t even recall its title, but it was of a type that was becoming ubiquitous, featuring characters called Caroline or Justin who had overacted arguments on pastel Habitat sofas situated opposite the camera. The women were typically advertising executives or graphic designers, with huge hair, gold earrings and shoulder pads you could land a helicopter on. Gaudy, bold colours were in back then. When I see repeats on ITV3 now, my retinas blaze.

‘I played her secretary,’ Stephanie was slurring again (she’d consumed a few Babychams). She burbled on like she’d had the lead in Dynasty, while Matthew looked as though he wanted to merge into the wallpaper. Yes, if texting was invented I could have discreetly typed ‘Steph Southwick – what a f-ing airhead!!’ to Majella, instead of zoning out and wearing a glazed expression.

Unfathomably, Stephanie took to me. She was all over me like I was an exhibit. I detest bigots, of course, but fag hags can be a pain too.

‘Ooh, Matt, he’s all cute and camp,’ she crooned later in the evening, scrabbling at me. ‘Can we keep him as a pet?’ Matt shot me an apologetic grimace. Then again, he was boss-eyed, so I couldn’t actually be entirely positive he was looking at me.

He was practically carrying Stephanie out as Nelson slithered in.

He no longer used the doorway as a life-sized picture frame, executing a pirouette and posing against the frame until all attention was on him, but my old friend still made an impact on a room. He moved with lithe dancer’s grace, robed in a long synthetic brown fur coat.

‘Melly!’ His beautiful face lit up when he saw me. When I hugged him, the enormous coat initially camouflaged how pitifully skinny he was. I just assumed he was exceptionally toned, fresh from his dancing stint on the Princess of the Aegean. ‘No beasts were harmed in the making of this,’ he trilled, indicating the enormous coat, ‘although Basil Brush got a bit anxious at one point!’

He tellingly refused to remove it, despite my mumsy warnings about not feeling the benefit.

‘Come here then, Princess of the Aegean,’ I swathed my arm round his furry little shoulders, ‘let’s fix you up with a drink.’


‘So that’s how Linda got the part in Lock & Quay then,’ reflected Nelson, as he drained another Malibu and coke. I’d filled him in on the origins of our former flatmates’ hissy feud. ‘I did wonder. It’s hardly surprising poor Maj is depressed. Still, after all this time…’

‘She’s stuck in a rut, Nelse.’

‘Who’s to say she’d have got the part herself anyway?’

‘I’ve tried applying that logic with her, but…’ I made a forlorn hand gesture. ‘She’s got depression, I’m sure of it. Been trying to get her to see a doctor, or go for some counselling even. They were brilliant with my cousin last year. Her Arrowsmith & Broom advert’s being shown again as part of the centenary celebrations. I thought that would cheer her up. Ah, I feel hopeless.’

I sighed, suddenly feeling dreadfully jaded and old. Nelson patted my shoulder, and we sat in pensive silence for a few moments. Then he got up.

‘Time for another drink, Melly Moo?’

‘Best make it a soft one, as I’m still technically on duty.’

‘As the drag queen said to the bishop.’

When Nelson returned with his round, we deviated to lighter subjects. He had found a new heroine in the bubble-haired Kylie Minogue. It’s funny to think I’ve met Kyles numerous times over the years since then. Like many English fans of the well-liked soap operas Neighbours and Home and Away, Nelson had unconsciously adopted a faint Australian twang, for instance pronouncing ‘No’ as an elongated nasal ‘Nouw,’ and dropping Aussie phrases like ‘daggy’ and ‘dobbing in’ into conversation.

‘I’m addicted to Neighbours, darling,’ Nelson enthused. ‘She’s such a doll. I even forgive her for marrying Scott. I wanted to do a tribute to her in the show. I Should Be So Ducky, I’d have called it. Tried to pitch it to the cruise people before they sacked me but they weren’t going for it. Incidentally, why is everyone in Home and Away fostered? Australia must be a haven for long-lost relatives and orphans.’

He babbled on, but I honed in on a single word, which boomed in my head, ominous and loud.


He bit his lip, seeming to realise he’d said too much. And then I knew. The weight loss, you see. He wasn’t just toned, he was gaunt. I should have cottoned on sooner. There was pain etched in his deep black eyes as they met mine.

It was one of those moments where I was in a hideous daze at the time yet now can recall every detail as distinctly as if I’d videoed it. The rest of the room seemed to recede as though down a tunnel, but ridiculously, I remember what song was playing in the background – Labour of Love by Hue and Cry – when Nelson divulged to me that he had ‘the big disease with the little name, as Prince sang.’

A cruel acronym for gay was ‘got AIDS yet?’ and I knew of far too many who were succumbing, both within my personal sphere and of course the celebrity world. Rock Hudson, Liberace, and in due course we would lose Freddie Mercury and Kenny Everett, amongst others.

‘They don’t admit that’s the reason, of course. My bosses. They’re far too careful. Apparently they’ve got “too many male dancers so they’ll have to let me go.” I can’t prove discrimination.’

‘How did they find out?’

‘I made the mistake of confiding in someone I considered a friend. Bitch! Blabbing bitch, as it turned out. She dobbed me in. The rest of them are paranoid the passengers will catch it off cabin door handles.’

‘Do your parents know?’

‘They’re in denial. They still – despite knowing everything about me – entertained hopes of me waltzing home with a nice Antiguan girl and giving them a legion of grandbabies. Their hopes are dying now. Like me. But hey ho, what can you do?’

He sipped his drink, the little finger protruding; always refined. I could have been taking tea with an old lady facing no more vexatious a setback than her iron breaking down. It was very humbling.

I touched his arm. The gesture was entirely inadequate, but I remember seeming incapable of removing my hand, as though if I did so he would dissolve, I wouldn’t have saved him, and I would be left with nothing to cling to. I remember staring trancelike for ages at my right hand glued to his furry brown coat sleeve. The withered arm inside it was barely discernible.

I was tumbling off a cliff. Majella had depression, Nelson was dying. Was this really the same evening I’d thought the worst that could happen was dropping a crisp in front of Dale Burfoot?

‘Melvyn! Melvyn!’ It was Pat, another cleaner, whose clamorous voice summoned me to reality from along the tunnel. ‘Sorry to disturb you, flower, but we need more bog rolls in the gents’ disabled!’


There was a horrible urgency as Nelson and I hugged goodbye. When we said ‘We must meet up again, soon,’ it wasn’t, couldn’t be, a cliché; we had to follow through on the promise. We could no longer take for granted that we had limitless opportunities to reconvene.

I floated home. The lights, the riotous work dos sprawling out on to Broad Street, were a fuzz, eddying around me.

There was a note from Majella taped to the fridge.

Gone to bed. Couldn’t finish my dinner, so left half for you in oven – it’s a Menu Master lasagne, but I’m trying! Hope it went well tonight. Sorry I’m grumpy. We’ll do the tree tomorrow.

It seemed an aeon since I’d mentioned the Christmas tree. At least I was spared having to tell her about Nelson tonight.

A rubbery ready meal was the last thing I relished right then, but I reheated it nonetheless, in recognition of Majella’s efforts. Hauling herself off her arse to insert a frozen lasagne in the oven qualified as ‘efforts’ these days.

While my supper warmed through, I sagged into an armchair. I didn’t bother putting a light on; the street light flooding through the fraying curtains afforded all the illumination I desired, and lent the room an eerily soothing quality.

The evening, and particularly Nelson’s news, had left me feeling sapped, yet with an angry urge to do something. Obviously I was powerless to reverse the effects of Nelson’s illness, but there was one wrong I could attempt to right.

I picked up the phone from its home on the carpet and cradled it in my lap. It was one of those old style ones, with a dial, so the laborious process of ringing the number afforded me plenty of time to mentally rehearse the call.

Let’s just say Rod Rudge was not the only one with well-connected associates.

‘Oh good evening.’ My voice sounded surprisingly sure and unemotional. ‘Is it possible to speak to Inspector Parrott, please?’

Yes, I had a friend in the West Midlands Police Force (don’t ask), and he was most appreciative of my tip-off on his night shift. Rudge the Sludge’s days at liberty to assault women were numbered.

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