ganching

Islington: The Movie

A guy I know (sortof) called David is getting together some proposals for movies and is asking really talented people to make a pitch based on a specific location.  I've been asked to do Islington.  I see this piece as a quintessentially London film which is very much grounded in Islington and reflects a lot of issues which ordinary Londoners are facing every day.  It pays homage to Richard Curtis but also nods in the direction of Europe and, of course, has more than a passing acquaintance with Hollywood.  So far only Colin Firth and Cate Blanchett are in the frame but it's early days.

Islington

Sc. 1  A woman  d'un certain age, wearing rather drab clothes, is sitting alone in a cafe in Highbury.  She is cupping a mug of cappuccino in her hands and is idly looking at the new year honours list in the Guardian. A gang of cheery Arsenal supporters walk by outside.  They are joshing with each other and waving football rattles.  The woman looks soulful.  She is surrounded by happy couples who are either laughing, holding hands or kissing.

Sc. 2    Ganache (for that is the woman's name -her mother was very fond of baking)  is at her desk at work in her office which is on the top floor of the Gherkin.  Next to her, standing by a drawing board, is her boss who is distractedly poking a pencil in his ear. 

"God, Ganache, this practice is going down the tubes if we don't get a big design commission soon."

"What? We're getting a London Underground job" quips Tarquin, the young assistant.

Jack glowers and Ganache looks anxious.

Sc. 3      Ganache is walking down Chapel Market, clutching a bunch of daffodils and is flanked by her best friends, Don and Con.  Don is a leading barrister and Con is a lorry driver.  Happy market traders are laughing and trading jokes.  Con and Don are slightly overweight and both men are wearing frocks.

"Daahling we're going to get you some new togs and a really lovely surprise to cheer you up!" cries Don.

Sc. 4    Ganache is curled up in a Mies Van Der Rohe leather armchair in her attic flat in Canonbury Square.  She is wearing a rather daringly, low cut top and is cuddling a really lovely kitten.  She looks optimistic.

Sc. 5    Ganache is walking down Liverpool Road, under the flowering cherry trees, towards her office.  She is dressed in a floating, floral dress and is wearing lipstick.  Jack is walking towards her and as he comes near, cries,

"Splendid news, Ganache, we've won the commission to design all of the Olympic buildings - even the stadia!  It looks like you, me and Tarquin are going to be burning the midnight oil. Let's celebrate!"

CUT TO THE INTERIOR OF THE IVY.  Jack is reaching across the bottles of sparkling wine and glasses of sparkling water and is looking into Ganache's sparkling eyes.

"Y'know Ganache, there's something rather different about you tonight.  You have a certain sparkle.  Here, have some more to drink."

Sc. 6      Jack and Ganache are walking past Kenwood House in Hampstead Heath.  They are holding hands.  A light rain begins to fall.  They stop by the statue of Peter Pan and kiss.

Sc. 7    It is a hot, sunny day. Ganache is standing outside a conference hall in Edinburgh beside a poster which says,  "Royal Institute of British Architects  Annual Conference sponsored by ODPM, CABE and RICS".  Jack and Tarquin appear round the corner.

  "Golly" says Tarquin, "Everyone who is everyone is here."

CUT TO HOTEL IN MIDDLE OF NIGHT. Jack is scuttling down a corridor in his striped pjs.  He knocks softly on a door which is opened by Ganache who is wearing a floor length, white cotton nightdress.  As Jack slips through the door Rogers, Foster and Alsop come round the corner.  They are laughing expansively and smoking cigars.

"Well, well." snarls Foster, "Little jumped-up-Jack is being a naughty boy - stealing the bigger boys toys and playing away from home."

"Let's make the most of this" drawls Alsop.

"And get the design commission for the Olympics back where it belongs!" cries Rogers.

Sc. 8    Jack is outside his house in Notting Hill, packing the boot of his SUV while being nagged by his wife and 3 teenage children.  CUT TO Ganache who is packing a small bag with a few blouses and skirts and a copy of "1,000 English Churches To See Before You Die".  Ganache looks wistful.

Sc. 9    Ganache, Don and Con are sitting in a cafe in Upper Street.  Outside small children, in new uniforms, are being walked to school by their nannies. One working-class Cockney boy is dressed in the new Arsenal strip.

"Daahling, are you sure you're doing the right thing?  A married man?" says Con, while adjusting the straps of his petticoat.  Ganache looks worried.

Sc. 10    Ganache walks past some children trick and treating and arrives at the office eating a crisp, seasonal apple.  Jack is looking grim-faced and Tarquin is clearing his drawers. 

"Wh-what's up?" stutters Ganache. Her lipstick is smudged and she is wearing a rather dreary winter coat.

"The ODPM  called me in.  The big boys at RIBA and CABE have nobbled the Olympics Committee.  They seem to think, for some inexplicable reason, that a two man practice and a technical assistant aren't up to doing the Olympics.  It's curtains for us, kids, and not curtain walling either." 

Ganache looks stricken.

Sc. 11 Jack and Ganache are standing outside Waitrose on Holloway Road next to the Lithuanian men selling illegally imported cigarettes.

"I know it's a shock" says Jack, "But Rogers needs me, the Olympics need me.  Can't you see?  I'm doing this for London!"

"Never mind London!  What about us?" cries Ganache in a piteous voice.

"Don't you see darling girl - there is no us."

A single tear rolls down Ganache's cheek. Jack brushes it away, turns and walks quickly into the night.

Sc. 12    It is snowing.  On Upper Street small red-scarved children are pressing their noses against toy shop windows.  Grandfathers are carrying home turkeys and happy groups of work colleagues are spilling out of bars on to the frosty streets. CUT TO CANONBURY SQUARE.  Don and Con are tottering up the street in their fur coats and high heels.  Outside Ganache's house they see a green box filled with used tissues and empty Jameson whiskey bottles.  They ring the door bell and shout through the letter box.  Suddenly from out of the cat flap shoots the kitten, now grown into a very large cat, a very large cat indeed with a strangely distended stomach.  The cat looks at Don and Con.  Don looks at Con.  Con looks at Don.  Con and Don look at the cat.

The End (unless you live in the US)

Alternative Sc. 12   It is snowing. On Upper Street small..... blah, blah,....shout through the letter box.  Con puts his well developed lorry driver shoulder to the door.  They both rush upstairs, as quickly as their pencil skirts will allow them, and burst into Ganache's flat.  She is alone and crying.

"Daahling everything will be fine" cries Don.

All three have a group hug.

FLASH FORWARD TO NEXT SUMMER  Ganache is walking up the aisle followed by her two bridesmen, Don and Con.  Standing at the altar is Tarquin.  Jack is in a seat four rows down, smiling ruefully.  Outside the church hover a group of  judges,  who are impatiently waiting to announce that Tarquin, with the help of Ganache, has won this year's Stirling Prize for his project on the Islington Cockney Sparrow Community Rest Home (sponsored by Arsenal) for retired market traders.

The End

(Ok I know I was only supposed to do three lines but I got carried away.)    

 

In Which My Plans Are Changed

I was supposed to be going to a black tie dinner at the Hilton tonight.  I was going to wear lipstick and a frock and everything.  Instead I am dealing with the aftermath of a break-in.  This involves a sick lurching feeling in my stomach every time I think of something they might have taken,  much sweeping up of a shattered door jamb and the washing away of finger print powder.  The forensic team did get a very good impression of an ear though which will be useful for DNA testing.  At least they will be able to prove that the robber is not related to me. Feck, feck and double feck.

I didn't really want to go to the dinner anyway.

I Wish I Was Dead Or Somewhere In England: Part 2

Dear Mr Bolan

I have been puzzling about your dilemma and not just because your letter is a little incoherent.  The gist of your problem seems to be that you have moved away from home and are now worried that your friends and family may think badly of you and/or may believe that you are responsible for the dull lives which they are leading.

Change is exciting and is to be embraced.  It is perfectly acceptable to move away and take advantage of opportunities to be found elsewhere especially those outside of "our wee country".  So why the guilt?  Do you have a sense that somehow being from the "colonies" you have overstepped yourself?  Perhaps you have entitlement issues?  You could, of course,  attempt to persuade those left behind that you haven't really changed very much having merely exchanged the Province for a province. (Last time I checked Histon or any of the villages round about those parts, was not exactly the centre of the cultural universe (North London, since you're asking)).  Really Mr Bolan you need to catch yourself on.

More seriously I wonder if  perhaps you have meglomaniacal tendencies complicated by a wee touch of paranoia using "we" instead of "I" and believing that you are consigning people to a life of drugery?

In conclusion my advice to you is to seek medical help, preferably as soon as possible. (In future please remember to enclose cheque.)

Next, please. 

I Wish I Was Dead Or Somewhere In England: Part 1

For the purposes of decency, clarity and brevity,  the correspondence below has been edited.

Dear Gaunching (sic)

In our hour of need we turn to our betters for advice.  Having left the colonies behind, I am having trouble making those unfortunates left there see that I haven't changed.  Just because they miss out on the finer arts on offer, and the greater opportunities for self-advancement, I am not consigning them to a life of drudgery, just showing them the potential there is elsewhere.  Why won't they listen?  Why do they shun?

Yours,

Mr Bolan, Fenland

I will get back to you shortly.

In Which A Joke Is Not Told

Left work in an impenetrable fog of despair having spent the afternoon and early evening in a meeting with the Other Side.  Walked outside and was amazed to discover that a freezing mist had descended over the whole of north London as if the very weather was conspiring with them against us.  Immediately I had this thought I thought it's no wonder I am a such a good writer when I am capable of such interesting and original ideas.

We had a pre-meeting before the meeting to discuss tactics.  I suggested that my boss could start by telling a joke.

    What's the difference between the Other Side and the IRA?
    You can negotiate with the IRA.   

My boss did not tell the joke.

           *            *            *            *            *

I have had my first email requesting advice.  This is quite a responsibility for me so I may have to spend some time thinking about it.  The young man has requested anonymity which I will, of course,  respect. For this reason I am giving him a pseudonym.  Mr Bolan from Fenland you will be hearing from me soon.

 

Breaking the Bottle Habit

When Traybake was living with me (came for a month, stayed for a year) he used to shame me every Tuesday night in front of the neighbours.  And why?  Because Wednesday morning was recycling day.

Each Tuesday evening I'd pull up my sleeves, take a deep breath, hoist up the green box and its clanking contents, and carry it out the front door and down the steps for collection the next morning.  Up and down the street there would be other green boxes filled with neatly folded copies of the Guardian,  the occasional edition of the LRB, UNISON newsletters and at most, 3 or 4 empty wine bottles.  And our green box?  Overflowing with scrunched up newspapers, old copies of Hello magazine and clattering piles of bottles.  Now I'll concede that I like the odd glass of wine myself but my bottle production was nothing compared to Traybake's output.  And it wasn't wine that he liked. Oh no.  Traybake's tipple was olive oil.

I like olive oil too and I use it every day but at most,  I'd only have to buy a litre bottle every 6 weeks or so.  When Traybake stayed here there was no keeping up with him.

"I'm just nipping out to the shop - do we need anything?"

"Um don't think so.  No, wait, get some olive oil"

"Sure I'm only after getting some in Tescos this morning"

"This morning?  For God's sake that was 6 hours ago.  It's long gone"

The cost was crippling.  When challenged Traybake put it down to the fact that he had lived in Europe and everyone does it there and anyway it wasn't a problem for him so I should just mind my own business.

When Traybake moved into his own flat I had to give him advice on a whole load of different things and one of them was how to use olive oil.

Olive Oil

Olive oil is a really useful product which is both tasty and nutritious.

Some good places to put olive oil:

On your salad
In the bottom of a pan
In your ear

Some less good places to put olive oil:

On your corn flakes
In the bottom of your bed
In your eye

I don't like to talk to Traybake anymore about his consumption.  I am though setting up a branch of huile anon.

For more helpful information on olive oil have a look at the oliveblog.

What's For The Best?

Traybake and Soda Farl are always asking me for advice. It must  be because of my sophisticated and urbane approach to life coupled with my pragmatic "can do" attitude, all grounded in a rich layer of Co Antrim basalt that makes people seek me out for help.  In other words I'm acutely intelligent yet practical and as solid as a rock.  I also have a way with words, both verbal and in writing, heaps of empathy and absolutely masses of self-awareness.  This makes me an excellent person to provide guidance to more needy types.

"ganching" whines Soda Farl "what do you think I should do about blah?"

Brrr, brrh goes the phone.

"ganching?  Thank God you're in! I need emergency life-coaching." cries Traybake.

I have been thinking that it seems rather a shame that more people don't benefit from my words of wisdom.  Why only this week I have provided advice on a whole range of topics which would be of enormous value to a wider audience.  I have been solicited on:

Olive oil and how to use it
Brown shoes, black slacks; an acceptable combination?
Is it ever OK to "drop the hand" on a first date?
Can cleaning an oven kill you?

I need to consider the best course of action and will revert to you shortly.

Strix Aluco

I normally do all my business with the Post Office in Upper Street.  I go first thing on Saturday and then spend the rest of the morning mooching around the shops and drinking coffee in Tinderbox.  The customers in Upper Street either seem to be sending copies of their manuscripts to their editors in NY,  posting birthday presents to their grandchildren in New Zealand or buying Euros for their last minute trip to Tuscany.  It is all hopelessly civilised.

This morning, for reasons too boring to go into, I had to go to the local P.O. to pick up a parcel and transfer some money.  Most of the other people there were getting their invalidity benefit and/or pensions apart from the woman in front of me who was posting a rucksack to Swansea.

"Oh it's going to cost you a big lot of money"

"How much?"

"Nine-teen-pounds-sixty-five."

"I'll pay it.  I have to.  I picked up someone's bag by mistake and I need to get it back to them by 9 o'clock tomorrow morning."

"Nine-o-clock?  Tomorrow?  Oooohhhh-dear. If you want nine-o-clock it's going to cost a lot more money.  You really need to get it back for nine o'clock?"

"Yes I really do"

"What about one o'clock?"

Eventually he gave in and allowed her to stump up the cash.

Next up was me.

The parcel bit was quite easy and he handed it over without too much trouble.  I then tried to transfer the money.

"I want to pay £500"

"How MUCH?"

"£500"

"Five-pounds-sixty?

"No - £500.

"FIVE HUNDRED?"

"Yes"

"You want to pay five-hundred-pound?"

(Yes, you big stupid gype, I do and I want to do it now, not this afternoon - NOW)

He had one last go when I  was entering my pin number.

"Are you sure? Last chance.  FIVE HUNDRED?"

(Outside our office building this evening, between the mainline railway track and the multi-storey car park,  I heard a tawny owl going "tu-whit, to-whoo" and it really cheered me up.)

Pick, Pick, Pick

Something happened at work on Thursday which is making me have a really strong on sunday night I get a fright feeling.

The incident involved a colleague misconstruing something I said, a flash of anger on their part and a major sulking fit on mine.  For someone who is so sharp tongued and careless in what I say I'm actually quite frightended of confrontation.  I have been picking away at this all weekend.

I always forget how those of us blessed with strong Co. Antrim accents can sometimes sound just a tiny bit more forceful than we intend to - think of a cross between Ian Paisley and James Nesbitt and you'll have an idea of what I mean    

Also I sound way too emphatic a lot of the time.  This can lead to misunderstandings.

Because most people here can't classify you by your accent they don't know how to respond and it confuses them. 

Work would be so much easier if you didn't have to interact with other people.

I've had a busy weekend.  On Friday night I went to a classical music concert and then on Saturday I had lunch in Brighton with the delightful Miss R. who is 17 and excellent company. The rest of the day and evening I spent with S and K and their daughters, the misses dolittle and dolots.  I promised that next time I came to stay I'd do something with miss dolots on her own.  She suggested we could go to church together.  She will soon be six.

I came home at lunch time and cleaned the kitchen.

Friday Night is my delight
And so is Saturday morning
But on Sunday night
I get a fright
When I think of Monday morning

Ach Isn't That Lovely

When I was at home last weekend my mother and sister were talking about a neighbour who is renowned for her acquisitive nature.  The neighbour's mother was just the same.  They liked to help out at weddings and wakes and as a consequence always had a big supply of tea and sugar stored in the house which they had helped themselves to as "payment".

My mother said that when she herself was first married and came to live in this part of the country, the pair of them were the talk of the townland.  A local girl was getting married and had been given two home made quilts as wedding presents.  After the wedding breakfast was over the mother purloined one of the quilts and brought it home.  Apparently she was quite bare-faced about it which was what shocked people most.

According to my mother the daughter is always being given things.

"But how does she get people to give her stuff" I asked.

"Ach she just admires it that much, over and over again, that eventually the person just gives in and hands it over."

Once, famously, the daughter happened to visit the home of a local young person where she spotted a couple of healthy, carefully cultivated house plants.

"Sure wouldn't one of those look lovely on the altar?" she said

"And you've got two so you could easily spare one."

(As this is not my story to tell I can't confirm whether or not the people at Mass the next Sunday were forced to look on as the drug squad removed the evidence and arrested the priest.)

My sister has acquired a beautiful handmade quilt.  I admired it over and over again and even took a photograph of it but it didn't work.  I couldn't break her a-tall.