Sunday, 23 June 2013
Wimbledon? How about a smoke in the woods...?
It was a green grammar school.
Green skirt. Green jumper. Green felt hat. Yeh, ok green gym knickers.
Surrounded by glorious woodland, with tip top tennis courts. And while the stars at Wimbledon can really make the game sparkle; after four summers; I realised I never would.
I wasn`t alone. So I joined a small band of rebels whose sole intent was to skip as much tennis as possible, without landing a detention.We`d turn up with racquet, tennis skirt and a smirk.
The aim, however risky, was to slope off for a smoke, fully aware that if we were caught, it would mean immediate, non negotiable expulsion.
Today, I think smoking`s a filthy habit. But at fifteen, it seemed glamorous. And exciting. You couldn`t do it at home. It was tricky on the bus, in case your mum`s friends saw you.You could sometimes get away with it down the Wimpy if you cupped your hand round your fag the right way, kept it low and then blew the smoke back over your shoulder towards the kitchens. But it wasn`t ideal.
This was our secret solution.
To the confusion of our games mistress, the tennis lesson escape committee began to focus determinedly on improving forehand strength. Not for the good of the game, of course, but to ensure that we had the power to doublehandedly whack the balls out of court, over the high fence, and into the adjoining woods. And once enough tennis balls had been `whacked into the woods`,someone had to go and retrieve them. I mean--Slazengers didn`t come cheap. But woods, of course, could be dark and dangerous places for young girls. Nobody, apart from us, knew what might be lurking there, so our timid and trusting teacher usually allowed us to take a friend or two.
Once through the creaky school gate and down a soft, mossy path, we quickened our pace, turning into undercover jungle commandos, using our racquets to batter down the tickly, thigh- high ferns; scything through any brambles that had pinged back since our last foray. In the densest part of the wood, we`d glance over our shoulders, fall to our knees ...and lo. Game, set and matches. Just there; wrapped in a Woolworth`s carrier bag, and stuffed into the end of a large, rotting log, deep in the undergrowth, and surely worthy of any nettle sting or bloody bramble scratch : one glorious, (green) packet of More Menthol. And a box of only *slightly* damp Swan Vestas.
Their presence meant that at least four of us, in the course of double tennis, once we`d got the damn things lit, got to have a smoke--whether we liked it or not. We chose the menthol variety to hide the nicotine smell, of course, but I`m sure Miss P knew what we were up to.Especially as it was rare to see us return with any tennis balls whatsoever. If she`d reported us, we`d have been marched off the premises for good. I assumed for many years that she kept quiet because she probably smoked like a trooper herself .
But I`ve realised since then, that it`s far more likely that she let us go because we were so completely, utterly crap at tennis.
Anyway. No detentions. No expulsions. And no chance of ever making SW19 either. Thanks, Miss. And good luck Wimbledon.
Friday, 21 June 2013
And...ACTION! Life as a new film extra (the sequel!)
The Oscars: film, fame and frocks; nips, tucks and tuxes.
A glamorous, champagne fuelled celebration of success in this multi billion dollar industry.
CUT!!!!
Rewind a few thousand frames to a cold car park at dawn...somewhere in the suburbs.
Kicking their heels...waiting for the er....`action`...a dozen or so `supporting artistes`..sipping tepid coffee from a polystyrene cup.
That`s never going to be glamorous. But do you know...it *feels* it? Just to be a tiny part of a micro section of a real movie that people will pay to go and see in the cinema? Even if you end up on the cutting room floor...you`ve been there...seen the cameras, been part of the action.
I`m no expert. It only started this year really. But since then, the work`s come in pretty regularly and I`m loving it.
I`ve been to Manchester for Corrie (walking down a hospital corridor in the recent baby storyline,) and to Leeds quite a few times now, for Emmerdale. I got booked for a children`s feature film and a French movie , both in London, and `sent to Coventry` for a few days on ITV`s fabulous new drama series Love and Marriage. It was Liverpool for a children`s drama programme on Nickelodeon--and back to Manchester to be a face in the crowd in a soft drinks commercial.The crime drama `Prey`, starring John Simm was a brilliant series to be involved with--working with the same group of fellow police `detectives` for a few days at a time (in fact quite a few of them were ex coppers and had some great stories to share). And airports have been the exciting locations for two television programmes--it`s always great to have lots going on around you while you`re waiting for your `turn`. Next week? London and Oxford probably, and possibly Manchester the week after that. As you`ll have gathered, having your own transport helps--especially if it`s a 7 am call.
My 18 months of `credits` is nothing, of course, compared with the old timers, and the people who`ve been on the extras lists for years. But I`m with three agencies now, in London and the Midlands.
So because a few people have asked me how you land this kind of gig,or what happens when you get there ...here are my favourite few movie morsels from the past few months as an extras newbie. No secrets, mind. What goes on set...etc....
1) They really do say `...rolling...and....ACTION....` And directors really do stress about `losing light`.
2) Want to try? Google `film extras` ,then look at the work they do, and the areas covered.Check out if they charge for taking your pic, and how much of a `cut` they`ll take from your wages.
3) There`s time to talk. I`ve met a Russian interpreter, a bloke who plays poker for a living, and a lady who wears a face mask when her husband has a cold. There was the extra who got *that close* to Russell Crowe, the one who played the role of a prostitute...and another signed up to sit with a duck on her knee. Top of my list is still Pauline Obi, who mixes extras work with life on dialysis while she waits for a transplant. Catch the link to her story below.
4) You might be needed at the crack of dawn, or on overnight shoots. And you need to be patient. Take a book, a smartphone; and some music.
5) You`re sometimes (only once, so far, ) asked to take a packed lunch, but on other days the catering truck`s ready with a feast. Sometimes a choice of feasts, and three courses!
6) You won`t always make it to the big screen. It could be a commercial, a TV period drama, a crime thriller, or a soap.You might sit around all day, and never be used. Don`t worry, you`ll still get paid. Just watch and learn!
7) Talking of pay; it varies enormously.Sometimes they pay more if you`re able to show off a special skill, like football, for example. There`s usually more for `walk on` roles, than faces in crowds. Some commercials pay big bucks, especially if the brand is high profile, or if your face fits. For guidance, I`ve earned between £75 and £140 a day so far, with the chance to double that. Remember it`s not regular employment--you could be waiting many months for a call--so don`t ever bank on it to pay your bills.
8) If you stay quiet and watch, you can learn loads about the army of people involved in a production, and the incredible skills needed to put the simplest production together. You`ll see the technical, lighting and camera crews, the make up and hair teams with their `tool belts` packed with all kinds of delicious cosmetics, clips, brushes and fasteners; how the catering squad prepare and serve up--stars and directors first--and how many guys are needed to transport, install and clean the trailers for the stars, and run the double decker buses where the crew and extras hang out. Helping you will be assistant directors or runners--making sure you`re in the right place at the right time.
9) You might be star struck, but no, you don`t approach the `stars` for a chat or a pic. They`re working hard, going over their lines, or being directed. Know your place!
10) Yes, it *is* quite exciting to see yourself on the telly. Yes, even for a nano-second. Better still when it features stars you`ve raved about for years, like Alison Steadman and Celia Imrie (true for me in ITV`s ace `Love and Marriage`series.) The camera can be a bit cruel though...(I haven`t eaten much since seeing my bottom on Corrie, tbh....!).
11) You`re told what clothes you need to take along for your role. They usually ask for several options, and choose what`s best when you get there.So keep a little stock of `extras` clothes in your wardrobe--such as formal office wear if you don`t normally own that kind of stuff. Charity shops can be helpful! And invest in thermals for winter jobs!
12) No matter who you think you are, and how you like the world to see you *in real life*....you`re there on set, to be who THEY want you to be. Just for one day. I learnt this the other week when...arriving `made up`, found myself being marched into the make up trailer, and assessed (a little scathingly, I felt....) by a make up man...who after one glance at my signature red lippie hissed at his junior to `take it down`.
So yes, Mr Make Up Man. As far as life on set goes...my lips are smiling, and sealed.
But still red.
xxxx
Here`s that story about Pauline Obi--one of the wonderful people I`ve met along the way doing extras work:
Once a journalist...: Corrie, courage and a kidney transplant.
Monday, 17 June 2013
Age: More than a number?
This all started when my sixteen year old was describing a woman she`d met.
`She was, you know, like you, she said. `Oldish`. She then laughed a bit, to make it sound like a joke. I started to think really hard, about how I viewed people `of my age` ..when I was her age. Parents, teachers, bloke in the corner shop, Yep all ancient.
I then wondered what age you had to be, for most of the population to be younger than you. Was I there yet? Hell, yes. A piece in the Economist earlier this year said that of the seven billion or so people in the world in 2011, the average person was just under 32. That`s disturbing for lots of reasons, but at least I can tell teen daughter that on a global scale--she`s positively middle aged. That`ll stop her chortling.
When it comes to my age, (37), I`m sensitive. Yeh OK, and dishonest. I put it down to anxiety about time ticking away and losing a mother way too young. But am I the only one? And never mind the rest of the world-- where do I sit age wise, I wondered, among the people who follow me on Twitter?
I asked for people to Tweet me their ages. More than thirty people hammered back their responses.
There was a barrage, first, with 43 year old Karen leading the attack.Then:` 41, 55, 36, 44! ` from
Diane, Geoff, Ciaran and Hefin, swiftly followed by `42, 40, 56, ` from Martin in France, Michelle-out-west and Tim.
And another `40` with multiple exclamation marks from Dave Burrows at the Shropshire Star. Cheryl in France, told me she was 41, and `running to keep in shape.` More twenties and thirties...followed, a sprinkling of fifty somethings; a 61 year old mum, and a loud and proud `62` from Nonny; none of them thinking twice about coming clean.
And it turned out that I`m not the only one who gets a bit twitchy about the topic.
The man who shall be known only as `H`, messaged me in private.`Sorry Jane,` he wrote.`Couldn`t bring myself to put it on the open market. A greying, balding, wheezing 41`. I hear you, H.
Two were heading for big milestones. Like Mike.`I`m 39 and eleven months,` he wrote.`And reflective to a certain degree.` He`s planning a party. But, he admitted, ` procrastinating about sending the invitations out. I think that sums it up quite well!`
Emma, a Shropshire businesswoman hits 30 soon--with mixed feelings. `Everyone says it`s great and that you feel better in your thirties, `she said.` I feel I haven`t reached the goals I thought I would have done when I was sixteen. I worry than I`m going to turn into a cat lady, as I haven`t found anyone yet.` That said, Emma admitted she was looking forward to her party, and to adventures that lay ahead.
If 41 year old chef Lisa is anything to go by, Emma`s got it all to look forward to. `I`m loving my age,` she tweeted, `confident in who I am, and knowing that I`ll grow in confidence as I get older. I will live life as I see fit for me.`
Clare Benson, ` 44 and loving it`, agreed.`I have an inner confidence in my 40s that I don`t think I had when I was younger,`she said.` It means I have more time to enjoy life, rather than worrying about things that are unimportant.`
Enlightening. And encouraging. And then, mixed in with the `41, 55, 26 and 44` from Karen P, David, Deborah and Trace (really ??!) --and the `43--most of the time` from Mr Access Taxis, a reminder from two people who cherish every year they have.
Rich Smith`s 46. `But I make it look good,` he boasted on Twitter, then suggesting that I should perhaps list him as 20 again. That`s because Rich has clocked up 20 years since, at death`s door, he received the new liver that would save his life and give him the strength to become a British, European and World cycling champion, husband, and doting dad. He`s written a book about his story.
And then Kath got in touch. She`s 52; a former banker and teacher, and mum of two; waiting for a new heart and lungs. And hoping, like Rich, that a transplant will help her notch up a few more candles on the cake.
`When I was first diagnosed with my illness,`she told me,`amongst all the shock some of my first thoughts were that how lucky I was I had got to age 49 and managed to achieve all I had.
`When I was diagnosed, the following year was a rollercoaster until they managed to get me stable.For months I was striving to still be alive for my 50th birthday and hoping things would improve.I was just glad to be alive, but I had been referred to the transplant team, who told me I would probably only have a few good years left if I didn't take the transplant option.
`I had to take ill health retirement and I was lucky to be able to draw my work pensions early, so I suppose now I'm fairly stable. I feel like I'm enjoying my retirement while I wait for my transplant, albeit 15 years earlier than most people, but what does 'age' matter as long as you can still make the most of life?
`Since being ill,` said Kath,` I can only take one day at a time. Old age is too far away for me at the moment and I have too many hurdles in front of me to even think of it. I know my life could change in the next hour or even minutes should I get my transplant call or take a turn for the worse, so at the moment age doesn't matter, just living each day counts.`
Thanks Kath, and Rich, and everyone who gave me their `number` today. See--age does matter. But will I tell you mine? No. Not on your nelly.
http://www.kathstransplantblog.blogspot.com
http://www.economist.com/blogs/graphicdetail/2013/01/daily-chart-3
http://www.amazon.co.uk/ReCycled-Richard-Smith/dp/1781764891
Thankyou! Karen, Diane, Geoff, Ciaran, Hefin, Richard G; Nonny, Julie, `H`, Martin, Michelle, Lisa, Emma, Tim M; Tim P; Dave Burrows ,Shaun C; Chris, Rich, Clare B, Kath, Mike Perry,Karen P; Dave Wright, Deborah Reck, Access Taxi-man, Trace W; Seb, Helen, Ruth, Cheryl, Rich D; Tom.
COMMENTS:
@janemcintyre12 Very good again Jane :) BTW HOW old are you? #spillthebeans :)
to read Jane! Here's to ageing disgracefully;-)))))
@janemcintyre12 Just
don't think about asking for my weight missy!! Great article - loving my 40s so
far!
Weekly Blog Club @WeeklyBlogClub
Weekly Blog Club @WeeklyBlogClub
@janemcintyre12 Are
you contributing that great post to #WeeklyBlogClub,
Jane? Even though I didn't get as far as admitting my age to you?
mentioned in a blog! woo hoo!
Age: More than a number? http://lovemymondays.blogspot.com/2013/06/agemore-than-number.html?spref=tw …
14m:
What a fabulous Monday.Hope yours was too. Thanks if you contributed to, read or RTd my `age` blog. V grateful ;) : http://lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk
Great blog from @janemcintyre12 (34) including your truly (36) and a host of other people who fib about their age :)
Friday, 14 June 2013
My now *award-winning* Aberdovey blog!
Aberdovey: Cheese on toast and a taste of summer
We decided in the end that we could all die, waiting for the weather to change. Sea air would be good for us. And so, twenty minutes later, car crammed with wellies, scarves, shades, gloves and suncream--you never know--we were on our way to Aberdovey--our closest slice of the seaside.
It was sunny and bright when we got there. Chilly. But chilled. This is a classy coastal resort; limbering up for later.
On one side of the car park, there`s the elegant stretch of tall, terraced houses; pastel painted in their Sunday best, linked like a chain of paper dolls. Some offer B and B; others, hot cups of tea, fish and chips, gifts, and postcards.
Hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, they shield from the elements, the jumble of smaller, former fishermen`s cottages behind them. These are prettier in their way, but overshadowed today by the bright sparkle of seafront windows winking back at us; three or four storeys high, all boasting a sea view.
Today, some are still hibernating, snuggling inside for a week or so more. We explored. There was a sale on at Fat Face, and a warm welcome across the road at the brilliant Simba Jones gift and housewares shop.
Round the corner and back on the sea front we settled at a scrubbed wooden table at Y Bwtri Blasus and ordered Welsh cheddar on toast with bacon and onion, and hot coffee...and milkshakes, plus a bag of rocky road to keep us going on our brisk walk along the beach.
The wind whipped around us, but we bowed our heads against it and warmed up as we walked...laughing, talking, gazing out to sea. We took photographs, paddled, screamed with laughter at Alice`s boot-leak, then stood, and looked back at the pastel terraces along the sea front. Mum and two daughters; reminiscing about Balamory.
There`ll be days, not too far away, when Aberdovey`s sunny. Scorching. And noisy. Squealing children; bat on ball; dads roaring;, scoring runs. Happy, happy dogs, bounding along the beach; splashing in the sea, shaking salty droplets over everyone. But today, Aberdovey`s biding its time; waiting for the weather, knowing it has treats to share.
We shook the sand from our wellies, licked the salty air on our lips and smiled. The wind might have been as fierce as a face slap. But today...we`d tasted summer.

Grand Prize
Michaela Fowler with her nostalgic and honest account of Blackpool:
Michaela wins flights and a hotel for up to 2 people for a European destination of her choice!
1st Runner-up
Jane McIntyre with her descriptive tale of a pre-summer trip to Aberdovey:
Jane wins a £200 LateRooms.com Voucher.
2nd Runner-up
Annie Taylor with her sunny, vivid reveal of hometown Alcalá la Real:
Annie wins a £100 LateRooms.com Voucher.
Readers’ Choice
(Voted for by LateRooms.com Blog readers)
Liam McKenna with his somewhat sarcastic yet funny and well written ‘ode’ to Cheshunt:
Liam wins a Samsung Galaxy Camera and a £100 LateRooms.com Voucher.

Wednesday, 12 June 2013
Carers need more than hugs & chocolate.
I had lunch today with a friend whose dad has dementia. They`re all having a tough time. We`ve compared notes over the years--the care of my late father presented plenty of problems, too. Dad died nearly two years ago but I think often of people still living with dementia, and those who look after them. It can be challenging, as my sister and I found out one weekend when Dad`s partner/carer took a well earned break:
She`d waited a long time for this weekend away; so it had to be right. Dinner B&B, twin room, sea view, parking on site--and shops within a stroll. After scouring the south coast from Deal to Dorset; we found a place that ticked all five boxes--and they were off: Phyllis--my dad`s partner-- and for company, her cousin Mags.
Apart from the odd day trip, this was Phyl`s first escape from the demands of looking after dad, whose dementia is really taking hold.
Sometimes you can only understand the pressures on a single carer by `doing the math` to work out how you`d cover them. So--to replace one Phyllis for two and a half days, and two nights? Five people: three professionals to deal with his `personal` care round the clock, plus, armed with copious amounts of chocolate: my sister and I .
How did we feel? Anxious. A weekend `in charge` of our beloved dad, who`s spent a lifetime doting on us, guiding and protecting us--and is now frail, with Alzheimer`s. His health problems meant this would be a total reversal of roles. When you have a toddler, you note the development of each new motor, speech or social skill with pride. When you have a dad with dementia, you watch each one disappear, with sorrow.
Before we arrived, we wondered, to be honest, if his increasing sleepiness would make our `job` easier. It`s true, there were `nodding off in the chair` times when we could get ahead with laundry or preparing food. There were `not really sure what to do` moments where we re-loaded with coffee, and chocolate, and more chocolate, `to keep us going`....and just about muddled through.
But there were angry, befuddled moments too. He had a rant about, of all things, the political situation in Turkey --we just about kept up with that. But those flashes of anger surfaced several times when reminded, gently, that the carer had arrived to help with various, personal tasks. He responded on two occasions with a heartbreaking mix of confusion, hurt pride, incredulity that carers were even needed, and eventually, a complete, stubborn refusal to budge.
That`s the short version of a couple of `scenes` that lasted about an hour each, and ended , inevitably, in tears.
My sister and I had coped with all kinds of conflict at home and at work. We`d survived professional prima donnas, achingly long hours, crushed commuter trains and domestic toddler tantrums. We`d emerged unscathed from those `five minutes to get to work` mornings where your three year old`s in PJs, face smeared with raspberry jam; not budging from under the kitchen table. We`d faced, and defused dad`s wrath when, as teenagers, we`d try and sneak back home three hours late, hoping he hadn`t heard the click of the lock or the quiet swoosh of boyfriends` motorbikes being rolled silently down the road before being fired into life once clear of the house, round the corner. We`d convinced him that our two week teen breaks to Majorca and Rimini wouldn`t be a licence for moral turpitude. (They were). We`d discussed things. Negotiated.
But now, his mind is addled; hard to reason with. You might think your points are persuasive, but they`ve sometimes been forgotten by the end of your sentence.
There were bright times, too. He didn`t fancy our attempts to rekindle his talents for art, or piano playing.
But a `quick coffee` out in the front garden melted into three or four hours soaking up the sun, watching village life, squinting at the frothy vapour trails from silver birds high in the blue skies above, wondering together where they were heading. More coffees, ice lollies, more chocolate, a hug from a neighbour who`d spotted us sitting together and dashed across the lawn to say hello. And, best of all, the moment Dad, in the straw hat he`d chosen for his venture outside, beamed at both of us, proclaiming `this is the life !`
Meanwhile, under the same sun in Bournemouth, Phyl was lapping up the sea view, strolling along the prom; hopping on a bus for a day trip to Swanage, relaxing in a hot bath without worrying what Dad was up to, and slipping into her new dress for dinner.
She deserved that escape, and many more. For all she does, we consider Phyl to be one in a million, but in fact she`s one of six and a half million carers in this country. We survived our weekend with dad, through professional agencies, sisterly support, caffeine and chocolate. And we`ll be back. But real, regular carers face daily difficulties and challenges 24/7, with varying degrees of help. Carers` Week, every year, highlights some of the problems they face, part of a vital, ongoing campaign to give them the benefits, the back up, and the breaks, they all need.
In memory of John McIntyre 1928-2014
http://www.carersuk.org
- 5mnot Anita retweeted you19m:
Carers need more than hugs & chocolate. http://lovemymondays.blogspot.com/2013/06/carers-need-more-than-hugs-chocolate.html?spref=tw … - 7m17m:
@CarersUK @ShropshireCarer @katebentham Why carers need more than hugs and chocolate. http://Lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk - @janemcintyre12 @CarersUK @katebentham such a fantastic blog post, i hope lots of people read & share it
Rachel Jones retweeted you
18m:
@CarersUK @ShropshireCarer @katebentham Why carers need more than hugs and chocolate. http://Lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk
- Trace J Williams favorited your Tweet
- @janemcintyre12 So good. So brave. So true. So raw. So honest. Thank you.
@janemcintyre12 this is an amazing blog, thank you for sharing. Are you happy to #weeklyblogclub it?
@janemcintyre12 What a touching blog! Really lovely. Hope Phyllis enjoyed her time away! Let us know if she ever needs support/has questions
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