Monday, 8 October 2012
Bad experience? Just press delete.
How far back can you remember?
I can still feel the sun beating down on me in the garden behind our flats in Ealing, one of a crowd of children spending endless, happy days dreaming up games and shouting ourselves hoarse. My friend Rosalyn taught me how to do a handstand, and,skill mastered, I then spent that entire, sweltering afternoon perfecting the technique before staggering giddy and sunburnt back up the stone steps to our place on the top floor when Mum called us back in for tea.
That November in the same garden, doubtless inspired by those `light up the sky with Standard Fireworks` adverts,all of the families in the flats held their first Guy Fawkes night. The dads, full of beer and bravado, set rockets and bangers firing off at all angles, while mums with pinnies over their coats handed out hotdogs and sparklers to the children, beside the towering inferno that was our shared bonfire. Even though my face was burning from the heat of it, I stayed rooted to the spot. I was slightly fazed by the Guy`s ghoulish leer--right at me--but also too scared to wave the fizzing wand around in the night air like the other kids, in case it set my mittens on fire.It was all terrifyingly wonderful.
You want to remember times like that, don`t you, and have an automatic delete mechanism for the days which leave you feeling lost or lonely: bitter or bereaved.
I started thinking about the power of memory today after being reminded that it`s the 60th anniversary of Britain`s worst peacetime rail disaster today--at Harrow and Wealdstone. One hundred and twelve people died in that three train smash.
Today, survivors and local people have been back to the spot to stand in silence to remember those who got caught up in the horror.
I`ve just turned the house upside down to try and find a newspaper cutting from that day.It was either the London Evening News or the Standard, or maybe the Evening Star. We saved it because there`s a mugshot of dad as a very young PC, looking shattered. He was one of a vast army of people rushed to the scene to help. He`d been crawling through mineshafts at his local pit at 14, and so volunteered to crawl under a mangled train carriage in the tightest, darkest, most desperate of spaces to help those trapped He held their hands, offered words of comfort and in some cases, shots of morphine. He`d then been part of the gang who used their own broad shoulders and brute strength to raise the carriage a few precious inches to try and drag the casualties out.
Horrific memories.Sometimes the darkest of days, like the Harrow crash, have to be remembered and then investigated so that lessons can be learned. Often,thankfully,there`s now help for people whose traumas linger,and blight their later lives.
Dad`s in his eighties now, with a brain dulled by dementia.He`s sleeping so much, and often bewildered by simple tasks. I`ve written before about how we can still share a laugh and a memory sometimes if one flashes back into his mind. That young, heroic PC went on to be a royal bodyguard, travelling the world, Katmandu, Kuala Lumpur, San Francisco,Canada, Italy,Sydney, Canberra, Mustique, staying in glittering palaces and learning how the other half live. It`s those scenes I hope he can remember. And those Ealing bonfires.
But if his patchy,fading memory has been cruel enough to retain the images it logged at Harrow, sixty years ago today,I hope it can also still register the pride his family feel today, looking back. I`ll phone him later, just to be sure he knows.
Comments
Kerry @kerry_pt3
@janemcintyre12 :) your blogs alway bring a warmth with them x
andy richardson @andyrichardson1
@janemcintyre12 @BeBoldPR just don't get her started on chocolate
33m andy richardson @andyrichardson1
@BeBoldPR @janemcintyre12 her blogs are good. almost as good as those by mr w
38m Be Bold PR @BeBoldPR
@janemcintyre12 you're welcome. Always look forward to reading your blogs!
Thursday, 4 October 2012
600 on my sofa: Loving Twitter
........so the debate`s raging again. This time in my local paper, The Shropshire Star. Is Twitter a good thing or bad? A waste of your time and everyone else`s--or a fresh, effective way of linking up with friends old and new?
Well--it can be both. But if it`s the former, then as the song goes...it`s my `favourite waste of time`.
As a radio journalist and programme producer, a tweet was a fantastic way of reinforcing news you`d just broadcast, researching a story idea,or gauging opinion on all kinds of local issues--and a great way for people with a story to reach you, too.
That`s how Twitter started for me.
But then one weekend, my daughter and I had a hankering to escape for a couple of days to the Welsh coast; breathe some sea air. I mentioned on Twitter that we needed some ideas for last minute accommodation--fast. They came; and we booked, and had a great time. One of the tweets that weekend was from someone on the Lleyn Peninsular, offering us a place to stay in her home . We`d never met ! And although it was further than we wanted to go, Nita became a close friend.
In fact when she went into labour ....a small group of Twitter friends who, again, had never met....ended up `virtually` pacing up and down the hospital corridor as the hours ticked by. We kept each other updated, sent our love, and messages of support and celebrated when beautiful Livia entered the world.
Livia`s 18 months old now, and was here at my place the other day, sorting fir cones into neat groups for me. It kept her busy while her parents were in the other room, having a holiday nightmare (no ferries....).They dropped in mid way to Portsmouth because they desperately needed a computer (and coffee). I`ve stayed at their place too; a stone`s throw from the beach. We had fish and chips and much better coffee than they ever get here. We`d never have met without Twitter.
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| The people you meet on Twitter...! |
Nita`s one of a whole bunch of new friends on Twitter, some of whom I`ve met, and some I`ll probably never see in `real ` life, but who`ll share a joke, an idea for a movie, or a moan about what`s bugging them.
Take the Olympics--and our desperate search for tickets. Stuart got plenty..but also tipped me off on Twitter every time more were released. And although we never made it to London, it was still glorious to watch on television, and even better with six hundred `friends` on my sofa, reminding me that the 100 metres was on in five minutes on the other side. I choose not to follow celebrities--but followed team GB and just couldn`t help tweeting good luck to Martyn Rooney. (To get a tweet back from him after the games encouraging me on my morning mile was just amazing. Yeh, I`ve kept that one !)
My sister won`t tweet. She doesn`t get it. I`ve tried to explain that it`s sometimes the virtual equivalent of a party. The room`s full. There are loads of separate conversations going on. And you can move around the room, opting to stop and chat, or move on. You can share wine, dance, shout or sing. And leave whenever you please.
`You`re going for coffee with someone you met on TWITTER?` she asked, aghast, some months ago. And more recently...`...you`re going to GLASTONbury? With someone you`ve never MET? Oh tell me you didn`t meet them on Twitter too? ` Yep, big sis. I did.
That`s the thing with Twitter. Fast, intimate, friendly , funny. A great place to meet people, help people, and learn about people. And always there when you need a smile.
COMMENTS:
Dave Matthews
want to read a great blog, you will find one here http://bit.ly/NhSvfx written by @janemcintyre12
Jane McIntyre 
David Burrows
stuart bickerton and 4 others retweeted you
Monday, 24 September 2012
Soho: Red lights,getting Rich & a sweet talking guy.
Soho. It felt less smutty, somehow, than it had back in the last century when, as a trembling teen reporter, I turned up for work on a paper in darkest Dean Street.
I was nnnn-nineteen. But I soon got the hang of it.You rushed in (always), holding a cappuccino and a croissant, hammered through your contacts book,clinched exclusives,bashed out your copy; got sneered at by sub editors for all your Tippex stains,and choked half to death by a constant fog of fag smoke;then emerged gasping for air at lunchtime. Tuesdays were good. You put the paper to bed and skipped over the road for a couple of bottles (each) (on expenses) and then you might end up in a club. Or..whatever. And there was plenty of extra dosh to be made selling anything mildly salacious on to the tabloids.
Thousands of words and years of radio shows later, Soho lured me back .The prospect was intoxicating. It was just round the corner from where it all began...in a darkened room, somewhere under Bateman Street. The promise? A dozen complete strangers. A little one to one stuff. Some heavy breathing and some gentle panting. A soupcon of filthy banter. And lots of new tricks.
OK-so it was a voiceover training day with Peter Dickson and Tanya Rich. You`ll have heard them both. Peter`s the guy with the mahoosive voice on X Factor and any number of other big shows, ads, and events.Amazing to meet him. You know that scene where they find the Wizard of Oz,while he`s booming out some terrifying proclamation...and Toto whips a curtain away to reveal a fairly normal looking bloke? It was like that. But nicer. Gently spoken, articulate, elegant, lovely. And so damn clever. And his partner in crime, Tanya Rich. Rich? She might be.She should be...because she has a vast talent for being whoever people want her to be; and like Peter, you`ll have heard her.Apart from that, she has the loveliest laugh, endless patience and the coolest biker boots.
And with them in this subterranean, state of the art studio in the heart of Soho, their 12 disciples. From the deepest baritone to the chirpiest, most vibrant of voices --and all shades in between. Over a day we learnt how be ourselves. And how to be someone else. How to breathe, persuade, sell, sight read and in-to-nate.
So --was it a breeze for me...with over 25 years in radio...17 of them newsreading, and with a couple of Sonys under my belt? Far from it. I learnt loads (yes, Tanya, I`m still smiling....!!) and was inspired by my teachers, and by everyone around me.
So to Tim the boatman (don`t mention Snow White...), Randle the chocolate coated Baritone, James the highly talented ex teacher, Dave the DJ (knows his stuff; nice having lunch), Jas the amazing mimic (don`t you dare....), Simone from Shoreditch (shoes as well as a voice to die for), Anne and Laura (cool and classy and lovely to meet), Dan and Rich (late on parade after having a flat tyre but still sounded ace), and the gorgeous, fresh voiced Lauren...it was great to meet you and learn from you all. And thanks to Olly the technician for nipping and tucking us together so skillfully, and to Nigel for lending us his studio and leaving me a pink cake in an envelope.
And finally ...(this is the bit in my news bulletins where I honestly DID smile, Tanya....) back to business, and why we were all there. After a hell of a tasty taster day....do I still want to do voiceovers?
Hell yes. Watch this space.
Oh. Here they are. Thanks Olly, technical studio hero. Here you go AND REMEMBER...I`M A TRAINEEEEE!!!!!
Jane After Mortgages Mix
Jane After BlueIslands Mix
Comments: rockyrds
Monday, 17 September 2012
....and.....JUMP!!!
............there`s something about September. I`ve already said that I`m ready for autumn: love the colours, the plump fruit ripening in the garden; the chill in the air that means log fires aren`t far away.
But I reckon the anticipation and the excitement of a new school year stay with you, however old you are.
Maybe that feeling is heightened in this house, with a 16 year old starting sixth form college, making new friends and studying her chosen subjects in more depth. That`s a big step. But her older sister`s at a crossroads too. She has a good degree under her belt; some amazing work experience on both sides of the pond, and now it`s time for her to find a job in London. (Sooner, rather than later, please, as her first rent cheque`s due this week.) She`s home for a few more days, scouring the job ads, composing applications, making decisions...like thousands of other new graduates.
It`s a very different world from when I left journalism college at 19. I had three interviews to work on three different papers, and got offered a job on each of them. These days it`s a virtual rugby scrum for jobs. You have to stand out--but you don`t want to seem pushy. And you have to be prepared to make compromises. All I hope is that the people she`s applying to work for, have the courtesy to send some kind of reply. It must be so soul destroying to hear nothing back.
So. That`s both daughters facing new starts, and in a similar way, six months on from asking to leave my producer`s job at the BBC (with some money for my back pocket, ta.....) I`ve been through a crossroads too. But now, every day, I`m free to choose to do what I like, when I like. And I`ve never been happier. I`m writing (oh...did I tell you about the three book plots I have in my head? Only a matter of time before at least one of them`s in print. Honest .) I`m also running, travelling, walking on the beach, reading, chilling, visiting my dad while he can still remember who I am.....and laughing lots, too. I know I`m lucky, but I`ve also been through some turbulent times to get here.
Only this morning I heard from two friends--one whom I`ve known for many years, and one I know through social media but who I like to think of as a friend , on Twitter. Both of them say they`re not content with their lot. They`re considering taking a drastic turn.
I know it`s easier said than done, and you have to be able to eat and to pay for the roof over your head, and support your children. But if you can survive--then just follow your heart. Only you know if your job or your circumstances or the people around you are making you unhappy. If they are....then ...double check your parachute....have faith in yourself ...and jump.
Better to try it...than look back and wish.
Tuesday, 4 September 2012
Naked New Yorker....
.....well this guy came close:
.....the nearly butt-naked cowboy. Strumming and strutting his stuff in Times Square. He really didn`t mind posing, either.
From the stars of Broadway shows to pavement performers, stall holders and smoothie bar staff (*Hey...welcome to Jamba*....!)..it seems like every New York City street`s a stage for somebody. And noisy with it.
For the big name stars in those multi million dollar productions, their shows are the culmination of months of rehearsals. They`re among the best in the world, but standing up there every night, they must feel almost as naked as the cowboy; baring their souls, sharing their skills and belting out musical numbers they hope their audiences will love.
They put themselves out there to be judged. But at least most of them have a cast and back up team around them for moral support.
How about if you`re showcasing your talents to the world alone? Letting passers by judge your work...as you`re writing it?
That`s what Sarah Shaefer did this week at The Drama Book Shop--an incredible New York store which does what it says on the sign. She was one of a series of playwrights who sat in the window for a couple of hours, hammering out her latest piece of work. And you could stand there in the street, watching her words pop up on a giant screen, as she wrote them.
Now that`s brave. I felt a bit guilty tapping on the glass and interrupting her flow to mime that I`d love to take her picture, but I did it anyway and she smiled back, so...here she is:
So this blog...and a suitably muted, terribly British ripple of applause ...is dedicated to Sarah, and to you, if you`re bold enough to bare your soul, your show, your boxers, your book, or your blog--to the world. Remember...even if they don`t tell you......someone, somewhere, is loving what you do.
Tuesday, 21 August 2012
Summer: thanks, but budge over now.
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| Good year for the walnuts ... |
Look. It`s probably my fault.
I wrote a blog four months ago when we were deluged by daily monsoons. Don`t worry, I said. It`ll pass. And to put a positive spin on things, I offered ten damn good reasons to love the rain. I can`t remember all of them but one definitely had something to do with staying in and baking chocolate brownies.
Maybe I was tempting fate. You know, don`t you, that as soon as you start the early summer ritual of scraping the rust off the barbecue and looking up recipes for spicy chicken wings, it`ll cloud over .
Undeterred, weeks ago, I hit town and tweeted merrily about my four *bargain* pairs of summer shoes. High black strappy wedges. Sky blue ones with cheeky peep toes. Tan leather flats with a sparkly bit on the front that would glint in all that sun. And pumps so gleamingly white, they`d blind me with their brightness. Not for one moment did it occur to me why they`d all been marked down in price. Someone in retail land had clocked the long range weather forecast.
Uncannily accurate, too.
Luckily there were a few cracking sunny days in the mix. So few, really that it`s easy to count them on the fingers of one untanned hand. But now here we are, sharpening our pencils, flogging our frocks and crocs, and eyeing up supermarket stew packs.
So it was timely to wake today to a tweet from chef and food writer Sabrina (@SabrinaGhayour), about how much she loves September, and the autumn `mists and mellow fruitfulness` so beloved of Keats. She even copied Ode to Autumn in her message,a poem I used to know off by heart.
Yes, it`s beautiful to feel the sun on your face, relax in your garden and run free in bare feet. But in recent days, I`ve started looking longingly at my boots again : high black suede;shiny conker brown.
Out shopping, I found myself stroking a charcoal grey angora jumper and wriggling my fingers into the tips of soft tan leather gloves. I`m longing for those Aberdovey days when I can pretend the beach is mine during a brisk walk or a bracing run against the breeze. Only after a pause for hot chocolate in a cafe overlooking the sea will I start my lazy meander home.
Much as I love throwing open every door and window at home in the summer, months later, I still get a thrill out of battening down the hatches with a gale lashing against the glass, knowing there`s a casserole cooking and a basket of logs for the fire. I was born in December and often wonder if it`s the same for all `winter babies`.
We`re not quite there yet, mind. There`ll be apples, pears and damsons to pick, and a little cottage in Normandy to visit where the branches are already heavy with walnuts. So long summer, and your pasty white face. I`m just about ready to warm up for winter.
ps Thanks for dropping by! Where in the world are you? Love to know a bit about you too! And if you`re on Twitter it would be great if you could RT..thankyou!
Monday, 13 August 2012
Food, France and a man called Ron
Poitrines de poulet.
I know NOW, but I forgot the word for breast (as in chicken) while I was at the boucherie in Segrie Fontaine the other day. At the time I had two options: direct the butcher`s attention to my own breasts, by touching them, (would I cup a breast in each hand? Point at them with my finger? Subtly brush my hand against one with a raised eyebrow?) and hope he didn`t get the wrong idea.
Or....I could simply opt for the chicken thighs,completely change the recipe plan for dinner that night, and beat a hasty retreat.
So, blushing profusely and irritated at my forgetfulness; I took the second option; paid, and backed out of the door. My guests were none the wiser, and scoffed the lot.
One of them was Margaret, and, amnesia forgotten, we switched that night to remembering Ron.
He was a great bloke, her late husband. Entertaining, caring, incredibly clever and a joy to be with. He died earlier this year and is so sorely missed--not just by his family and friends in England, but by people in the tiny Normandy village of Breel where he`d been holidaying for more than twenty years.
Ron was fascinated by the tale of three British airmen, who were killed in action on August 8th 1944 when their Wellington crashed at Breel. He spent many, many months painstakingly researching their lives and families so that there could be a lasting memorial to these young men in the village, and to a fourth airman who died later that year.
He managed to trace their relatives and bring them together from all over the world to join a poignant memorial service to them on August 8th 2008. It was a moving, bitter-sweet occasion, with grieving family members supported by villagers and expats. There were readings in French and English, smart uniforms and medals, a few tears, and some smiles too at the French national anthem firing off on the loud speaker at the wrong moment, but that added to the charm of the occasion.
And on every August 8th since then, flowers have been laid at that little memorial in Breel as a mark of respect.
It happened this year too, but without the wonderful man who`d helped bring the memorial, and that special act of remembrance to fruition. So seven of us gathered at 11am on August 8th to support Margaret as she laid flowers at the memorial. Martin Weston, who`d worked so hard alongside Ron during his research, read a poem and then invited us back for coffee.
There were cheese scones, rich tea biscuits, some friendly banter and a chance to check out Martin and Linda`s chickens and sheep. It was a lovely morning.
When it was time to leave, I went off for a wander through the village that Ron Vickers loved so much. I pushed open the creaking door of the tiny,16th century village church and stepped out of the August heat into the cool stillness of this simple, beautiful building. And because it seemed right, I dropped some euros in the box and lit a candle for Ron, and for the fallen airmen .
You can struggle to remember the right word sometimes. But some things...and some people....should never be forgotten.
http://www.bygones.org.uk/page_id__81_path__0p2p14p.aspx
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