Wednesday 28 January 2009

MEN IN TROUSERS ( part 1 )

Having just return to London from a month away in the French countryside consequently I have found that I now possess the most curious powers of observation that allow me to idle away my time at traffic lights in my borrowed rather old red colt observing snap shot glimpses of other peoples’ movements and their imaginary lives.

The more I write the more apparent it is that my most creative amblings take place in my car, the upside of London’s traffic is that it allows me to do this. Normally on an everyday A –B journey from west to south London my powers of observation usually draw me to random faces in the street whom by some mysterious universal power unbeknown to me manage to connect eyes with me even perhaps when I’m travelling at 30. My other usual tendencies are to twist my head so far around whilst driving that one would think I’m trying to emulate an owl, all for the interesting display of antiques in a shop window in particular one shop on the corner of Wandsworth bridge road. Perhaps I might also find myself gazing with a mixture of admiration, regret and wisdom at some young girl who has tooth pick legs poking out of a ra ra skirt resting on a peachy bottom with everything that youth has to offer on her side. Whilst staring at her I also observe about 3 other men staring in her direction too.

Oh the powers of observation and imagination can make for a far more interesting time alone. On this particular day though such is the feeling of abnormality at doing my A-B from west to south after a month away, that my eye is caught by a mature gentleman on a back street in Chelsea who is filling his meter next to his rather old and inconspicuous silver estate. I noticed that he was balding but was the owner of a faded tan that had turned his crown golden. He had a friendly face that carried laughter lines and deep inset eyes that had soften at the edges through time flanked by crowsfeet all of which gave him an air of gentle sophistication and perhaps a man who had known wealth in his time. Then my eyes lowered and before I could even take in his shirt and and jumper I was overcome by the muted red trousers he was wearing. Red trousers! Well immediately I jumped to the assumption that he was of course a Sloane ranger, bohemian, clearly had money, had a creative streak (obviously being expressed in the wrong way) and most probably a member of the Chelsea Arts Club.

Seriously though what is it with men and red trousers? To be clear I’m describing a particular type of red trouser. The one that is either a jean, cheeno or cord, a shade of red that could not qualify trendy or even euro trash which would be more of a shocking lipstick red. This red is a deeper red that could even translate as odd shade of dark pink to the foreign eye once faded by the many spins and cycles it’s endured through the washing of time.

One of my father’s friends can also from time to time be found clad in these rather unstylish and pointless pantalons that are a beacon for all to see pointing to the rather obvious flaw in his character. Who in their right mind would choose to be seen in public wearing them? It was this question that spurred me on and caused me to pose the question what do trousers say about their owners? Women spend their lives being mercilessly judged on their appearance and we are all well aware that what we put on in the morning can affect how we are received during our day. Our clothes represent our mood, our personality, our sense of identity, our femininity, our sexual awareness and our empowerment. Our clothes say soo much about us so what do men’s trousers say about them?

Monday 26 January 2009

The Radio Years

RADIO YEARS

In Radio Years, I am at the age where I have grown tired of Magic FM - if that even still exists - with its BeeGees replays and Lionel Richie Songs that can still - at the appropriate moment - really mean something and hit you right in the heart. In true Bridget Jones style you want to sing out and cry all at the same time in your car… ‘Hello .. Is it me you’re looking for?’… And for those three magical minutes the song you’ve heard over a thousand times suddenly takes on new meaning and you realise the pure genius of it’s simplicity. Blah blah… Switch over and it’s some reggae pirate station. I outgrew that a decade ago when it finally dawned on me that it was better just to say ‘hello’ than ‘wa g’wan’ or ‘w’appnin’.

In my continuing search for something to satisfy my soul I pass by the relentless grinding of the endless dance stations that seem to be playing garage music. I thought we left that fad behind back in 2000. Along with two step, speed garage and Craig David, but it seems I’m mistaken. I pause on a local radio station to listen to Tracey Sharpe from Tring and John Mooring offering their for and against arguments on the “ importance of Morris Dancing”. Mooring’s dull, monotone voice - enough to put me to sleep - is offset by Tracey Sharpe’s hearty enthusiasm for the subject. Mastermind awaits her…

I find myself almost hypnotised, but just in time the horn from the car behind snaps me back to my senses and I scan the radio again, settling on old and rather familiar territory. On a journey such as this one, with a minimum of two and half hours left to drive, you’re going to need that safe shoulder to prop you up at the wheel… to keep your eyes from sagging (we hope) and stimulate your mind until you hear the gravel of the driveway crunching under your wheels. I could only be referring to Radio 4. That’s right, Radio 4. Two words which beg more than two questions.

What does that say about me? The first time you listen to radio 4 and take pleasure from it can only be described as a rebirth, a losing of virginity. You are so filled with this new found intellectual adrenaline that you can’t understand how or why you didn’t come to it sooner. What’s more, you can now proudly count yourself part of the Radio 4 listeners club. This enables you casually to drop into conversation some fact or titbit… something along the lines of ‘Green papaya helps to reduce cancer’ … giving you immediate Radio 4 status. But hang on. As it turns out you don’t really want this status do you, because in Radio years, you’re not Radio 4 are you? You’re not in your forties or fifties. Nor are you a stiff, intelligent, perhaps frustrated type in your mid-twenties either. It’s not until you tune in a second time that this occurs to you.

This time around it’s a program on the Australian yellow spotted frog. Professor Jack Jones from the Georgia Shwartz Institute of Biological Research, who recently won a Nobel prize for his works on the Australian yellow spotted frog and his finding that it could prove a cure for cancer by 2020, is being interviewed for at least an hour. An hour of your not so precious time, where you find yourself still listening to Jack Jones, trying to be interested, trying to wean another Radio 4ism… Just in case you ever find yourself discussing the varied habits of frogs. Perhaps you might be able to sway a conversation in that direction in order to impress upon your listener or – even better - listeners this life-changing information.

This of course is the awful moment you remember that you don’t want to be a part of the Radio 4 club after all, you’ve outgrown Magic, there’s a time and place for Heart FM (and now isn’t it) and Radio 1 has just become noise (a tell tell sign of age and proof that you are in fact heading towards the Radio 4 club). Radio 2 is acceptable, but let’s face it, pretty unpredictable in its output which changes with the time of day. And anyway, how many times can you listen to Five million bicycles in Beijing really? And Eva Cassidy hasn’t been dead long enough to justify the number of plays. And although you recognise that you too have fallen in love with her voice, her music just has not been out in the ether long enough for you to have your Lionel Richie epiphany moment.

Where do you go? Which wave can you ride? You’re lost. What do you do when you’re lost in your part time radio 4 listener thirties with no A-Z on radio routes? Well, you ponder this whilst driving comatose along the M3 in your car. You think about your life, where you are at, and you carry on getting lost, lost in your dreams and aspirations about all that you could be and could do. All the things you have not done too. And you start to compile a mental list. On that list is this one very important thing. Something that could reawaken something inside of you, that could get your brain ticking over faster than any Radio 4 scientific discovery ever could… what is it? It is of course to write a book! It goes without saying that the whole world is definitely going to want to know all about your life. Because you are so different, clever, witty, funny, why not?

In truth, the reason why you, reader, find yourself reading this is because I, the part time radio 4 listener, a woman almost mid thirties, found myself driving one day on my long distance journey pondering all I could be and thought to myself that very thought… light bulb moment… “I could write a book”… What type of book though? A novel would be too hard… Perhaps some short children’s books? No, the celebs have all done that…Perhaps some well researched book on the area where I live, Notting Hill. Nope, that’s been done… But I must write a book…. What can I write about, I’m not an author, am I ? Could I be?... Yes, of course I could!

As I ponder my new potential I’m drawn back to another Radio 4 interview. And what does the comedian being interviewed say? He says that when you hit 30 you suddenly feel the urge to write a book. It’s absolutely imperative. It’s urgent that we must at this juncture in our lives express our intellect through words. Not stop at contented ramblings in our diaries - if indeed we are sensible enough still to keep one. I’ve been trying to start a diary for about three months now. I even went to the largest Paper Chase in Tottenham Court Road and bought some fancy pink velvet book. I was tempted by the official teenage girl diary with its fluffy pom-pom pen attached and padlock that could be picked with your teeth, not to say a tooth pick. Back to the comedian’s thoughts on the subject of a book though. This desire suddenly to expose your great insights to the world apparently stems from the outgrowing of the teenage diary and a belief that you are now someone serious to be reckoned with in the world. You have status. A book would confirm this, wouldn’t it?

Before I can decide on a title though, the comedian is gone and the sound of gravel drowns out the radio.