The lure of the bottle stall

It was as English as the sound of wood on willow, the summer fete with its promise of a pony ride, an ice cream and a mystery prize if you were lucky from the bottle stall.

There was a summer fete nearly every week at a local amenity called Harewood House. The fete was usually opened by a minor celebrity. So minor that even I was asked to open a jumble sale when I was a lowly reporter on the South Devon Times.

I always made a beeline for the bottle stall. I couldn't resist this game of chance where you handed over a couple of coins and nearly always won something. Unfortunately, as the bottles were things people gave away, the prize was not always to be coveted. Giz, my mum's face was a picture when I once presented her with a bottle of anchovy essence. Followed by, another time, a bottle of "Cresta" (advertising slogan: It's Frothy Man).

I was also very keen on the books stall. For 5d I bought "Glamour School," which gave beauty tips 50s style, with pictures of celebs like Ava Gardner and Elizabeth Taylor. I remember one tip to this day: "beware the kiss of the sun - it's a fiery one!" and it's a pity I haven't heeded this advice.

I was always too wary to step into Gipsy Acora's caravan. It was plastered with pictures of Acora with various celebrities like Roy Hudd and Dora Bryan. My dad (Stamps) knew Acora - he often went to the local pub and they played dominoes. Stamps was mildly amused that David (Acora) never seemed to be able to predict the outcome.

Several years later I did go to see Acora in his Barbican shop in Plymouth. With his dramatic turn of phrase, he gestured with his hands and told me I would be looking into a coffin as the leaves fell. We waited for autumn but there was no looking into coffins, that year or in fact ever.

The other highlight of the fete was the entertainment, morris men, lurchers or little girls from the Marnic School of Dancing. I was envious because Giz had never let me join the dancing school (too clumsy, she said) and one of my friends, Jane Wigginton, was a leading light. Her decision was probably sound, because I ruined the maypole dance in my school's 1972 pageant, the life of Joshua Reynolds, when I went the wrong way. There was mass disarray and the pattern of the ribbons looked less like a spider's web than the bottom of Giz's sewing basket.

I was always careful to avoid anything home cooked, being very suspicious of pasties or cakes that may have been cooked by scenty old ladies, whose perfume or Velouty powder cream inadvertently transferred itself to the foodstuff.

I've been to a few car boot sales, always looking for the game "I want to bite your finger", but somehow I don't think they'll ever hold the nostalgic pull of the quintessential English summer fete, even if it was held indoors owing to inclement weather.

Missing starlets

Whatever happened to Sharon Maiden and Tracy Hyde? Gillian Bailey and Janet Maw? You're thinking, "who?" Unfortunately, or fortunately, I don't know which, I have an excellent memory for names back in the mists of time, and I'm often pinging Google to find out whatever happened to xxx, an actress who was introduced in a particular film, or whatever happened to xxx, a toy, beauty product or food item from yesteryear.

Sharon Maiden for example was introduced in one of my all-time favourite films Clockwise. Yes I know, I shouldn't own up to it - I should be claiming that my favourite films are "Red" "Blue" "Laughing tigers shooting pandas" or whatever pretentious foreign stuff it is de rigeur to claim to like. Ms Maiden appears to have sunk into obscurity after Clockwise.

Tracy Hyde was introduced in the film SWALK, also known as Melody, which was a post-Oliver vehicle for Mark Lester. I was mildly obsessed with him and went to see all his follow-up films, SWALK being one of them. (It was terrible, by the way - a romance between two 12 year olds).

Gillian Bailey is no starlet, she's older than me, but she starred in "Double Deckers" which was huge when I was a kid, and she went on to appear in many things, although I haven't seen her on TV since she appeared in Precious Bane with a disfigured face.

Janet Maw was also a very popular actress in the 70s and 80s, appearing in lots of things, but never seen nowadays. She seems to do a lot of audio books now.

And then there are things. Things like Velouty powder cream which old ladies use. It's only about £1.50 - and very hard to get hold of. Why do things like that permeate my mind?! Or lotions and potions that I used as a teenager to get rid of spots. Whatever happened to Torbetol, Trinsonovin, Cepton, Valderma? Perfumes: Aqua Manda and Kiku. My first perfumes, Yardley Sea Jade and Dorothy Gray Midnight. I sometimes look on eBay to see if any of these things ever turn up. I struck lucky once with the perfume my mum used to wear years ago, Memoire Cherie by Elzabeth Arden, long since discontinued. I found a vendor in the US selling a soap. I bought it and surprised mum with it, though she confessed later it didn't seem to smell the same and people's tastes change.

I'd be interested to know if you ever wonder about people or things in the same way!

I wish I'd never got started!

At the start of the year when all the part works were getting promoted on TV, I decided a new hobby was in order and ordered "Creative Papercraft" with its various free gifts (binder, selection of hand made paper envelopes, etc).
Big mistake!
Before I knew it, I was standing dazed in Hobbycrafts, Romford (I didn't even know where Romford was and had to look it up on the map) with a shopping basket full of numerous ribbons, handmade papers and embellishments. I made a couple of cards, very amateurish now I think, just embellishments stuck on.
Unfortunately Creative Papercraft must have gone out of business. I haven't received a magazine since June and they haven't been using the direct debit. Too many free gifts, I suspect. So in lieu of that, I've been buying crafting magazines. What a burgeoning sector! But as I eagerly flick through them, I soon get crestfallen. The cards they feature are either too difficult, requiring me to use techniques like embossing, teabagging or quilling to name but three, or, if I believe I can make an attempt, they always require new and different paper stock and trimmings, which sends me fleeing to http://craftobsessions.co.uk (amazing service, arrives the next day with a personalised card from David & Brenda).

I must confess I do love looking in my craft box, which holds all my papers, trimmings, ribbons, glitter, beads, stamps, paints, etc (it will soon become a trunk)and sometimes I even attempt the odd card or two, though I dread to work out how much each one costs.
And it just gets worse. Somehow I now have in my possession a scrapbook kit, and this is a whole new area with its own websites, magazines and handmade papers. Aargh!

The art of running marathons

John started his latest marathon training schedule at the weekend. He runs all the time, but in the run-up to a marathon starts a more intense programme. He is hoping to be one of the chosen ones to run in the London marathon in April. If his application is unsuccessful, he'll run in Boston instead. He has a list of the world's top 10 marathons and is working through them. In total he has run 14 marathons; on the list, he's completed New York, Paris, London, Berlin, Stockholm, Rotterdam and Honolulu.

Honolulu was fun - I didn't think John would be keen but because it was in the top 10 he agreed to have a fortnight's holiday with the marathon bang in the middle of it. It started at 5am and I was outside the hotel in the gloomy early morning light to take one of my inept photos as John ran by. I then got an excellent spot at the finish, although it meant I had to stand around for hours.

John's ambition is to complete a marathon in four hours. He's come close, but it still eludes him. Last year he joined local club the Orion Harriers to try to improve his time, and it's helped in terms of camaraderie and organised sessions. Saturday's run was a club race, a seven and a half miles cross country. I was filming for J's vblog. He wasn't very happy with his time and was covered in mud and scratches from brambles.

Last year J ran four marathons, far too many because the body takes a long time to recover. So he dialled it down this year and did two, Rotterdam and Stockholm, with some half marathons as part of his training. I went with him to Rotterdam and Stockholm. Rotterdam is one of the fastest courses, but unfortunately he got dehydrated after missing a water stop. Stockholm, back in June, we turned into a long weekend and took Rachel.

The picture hows Rachel, John and I at the Hastings half marathon earlier this year. It was cold!!!

Mum very impressed with new Intel TV ad

She is not in the target demographic, and can't even be called a silver surfer as she refuses to try a PC, but my mother is very taken with the new TV ad. Usually she dismisses Intel's ads as "silly," so when I told her about the new campaign I pointed out it's aimed at young people (with the implication that she wouldn't like it).

She saw the ad that's running in the Uk (all the ads worldwide were directed by a top UK video director) and inmmediately texted to say she liked it. I thought she was just being perverse, but a couple of days later, and more exposures to the ad, and she texted again: "That ad is a real head turner, I can't get over all the different things that are going on in it."

I suspect she has missed a whole vocation as a focus group member.

Madonna and Baby

We probably don't need yet another voice to add to the shrieking banshees of the tabloid press as they castigate Madonna for her adoption of baby David from Malawi.

Just one thought on this subject. Madonna lives in the UK. It would have been far better for her to adopt one of the thousands of children (not babies) ignored by adopting couples every year who only want babies.

These children, many of them with behavioural problems, are doomed to children's homes or countless foster families. They need just as much PR as African orphans, just as much as they deserve a caring home. But they're probably not as trendy as the African baby, the latest style accessory for women like Madonna who can literally buy anything they want.

What's gone wrong with Amazon? Oh and iTunes

I always loved Amazon.co.uk. I started using it soon after it launched, and I made BIG use of it during the 18 months from 1999 that I lived in Germany.
But what's happened to it?
Recently it's become increasingly slow; so slow that I've sometimes had to give up. I notice, as an IT professional would, that it's now powered by a different company. Is this the reason? The whole USP for a site like Amazon has to be instantaneous response and the ability to carry out a meaningful search. But Amazon has become a hopeless jumble sale.
It used to be a well structured and UK focused site (Amazon.co.uk that is).But to share an example, I just carried out a search, one I've done before (it's my Holy Grail), looking for books about the house design in the UK in the 20s and 30s. You would think there would be lots of books but I can never find any. I am fascinated by houses like those in Chingford, where I live, where each street seems to have different designs of stained glass windows. Plus the Tudor effect. Was that an Essex affectation? Anyway, I digress. I narrowed my search down, and I consciously chose not to tick the box "US architecture." So I was surprised that the search seemed to throw up books mostly from, you guessed it, the US.

Then there are all those wretched sponsored links and adverts. Eww. I know we love Google here on Blogger (if only I generated enough traffic to make some revenue from my humble blog!), but it seems to me that Amazon should focus on the areas where it can conquer. It's finally making a profit and to my mind it could do so much more with the books and music side of the business (surely the cash cow). But no, instead there are irritating sponsored links and additional sales lines and credit cards.

And the thing that really gets my goat? You can't communicate with them. I searched through the help topics, thinking that eventually there must be an option to email Amazon. Or a way of giving them feedback. There isn't. It makes me mad, this dissociation with their customers. Presumably we are all idiots who only email them about lost books. We can't give them any feedback or advice. And yes iTunes, you're just as bad. I was furious about downloading "Fooled around and fell in love" to find out it was a naff instrumental version and they didn't have the version that was a hit. That was available on the itunes US site, but of course you can't download from the other sites because they charge us more in the UK. I also wanted to download Bill Nelson (the 80s cult artist not the country & western singer) but his material is also only available on the US site.

So my advice would be: monolithic e-tailers, because we can easily decide that actually we prefer personal service (and bookshops with coffee bars) and leave you to enjoy another internet crash.

Recalling OK magazine - the original

I am a compulsive and obsessive buyer and reader of magazines. It's a constant source of irritation to me that I didn't make the logical step after my journalistic training of going into magazines. I did try once, when I was at Radio Devon and I needed to move to London (my then husband having already done so), but I received a "no thanks" letter and didn't pursue it further. Linday Nicholson, who did the same newspaper training course as me (she was the year ahead) became editor in chief of Good Housekeeping.

The magazine thing started when I was a kid. I always hated comics like the Wheezer or whatever it was called (Beano, Dandy, Bunty etc) and went straight into the hard stuff, Teddy Bear comic followed by Princess Tina. The only memorable thing in Princess Tina was a villain called Snurge. I still call my elder brother that. I also flirted with young girls' titles like Pink, which had fabulous free gifts.

After PT, it was a rapid progression to Jackie. I was never much of a Jackie fan. It constantly featured pinups of saps like Donny Osmond, David Essex and David Cassidy when I was more interested in David Bowie and Chicory Tip. I dropped Jackie as soon as Hi! and OK! appeared. You can buy old copies of OK! on eBay (I did recently). It's not the celeb version we have nowadays. It was quite ahead of its time then, as it featured sex problems which Cathy & Claire in Jackie didn't. Hi! was a similar magazine. Neither of them lasted very long. I also read Mirabelle and Fab 208 magazine occasionally, but I didn't listen to Radio Luxemburg very much. It was too crackly on my transistor radio.

Snurge was reading Melody Maker, which I considered old hat and full of BOFs (boring old farts). So I started buying New Musical Express. How I swooned when there was a memorable double page article on Woody Woodmansey, the drummer from the Spiders from Mars.

My seminal magazine moment came when I was on holiday in Hayle. It must have been around 1975. I was bored, and looking at the magazine racks. I picked up Honey, and instantly liked what I saw. I remember even to this day: a big 2-page spread on how to make a real pizza with the headline "Belissimo!" Honey was probably a little old for me at that time but it seemed just right. I became an avid reader of Honey, 19 and then Over 21.

I've seen quite a few titles come and go. Obviously OK, Hi, Over 21, Frank, Woman's Journal, Living. I'm not always very true to my demographic. I was buying Cosmopolitan until about two years ago, New Woman until about 5 years ago, and still buy Marie-Claire occasionally, all with a much younger target reader.

These days I buy an eclectic mix of Eve, Woman & Home (my current favourites), Red, She, Good Housekeeping, Gardener's World, various craft titles, You Are What You Eat and Business Week, plus weeklies OK and Hello (shocking isn't it). It's thanks to my magazine obsession that I'm never short of an offbeat conversation topic at dinner parties. I find that the minor European royals, courtesy of Hello, and the dieting secrets of the stars (OK) are an endless source of fascination.

If I'm really desperate, if I'm going on a long flight or it's that lean period when all the magazines are out, I might get Perfect Home, Q, Grazia, Good Food or Glamour, or American magazines. The American magazines are interesting because they're a bit like a step in time: they're more like Cosmopolitan used to be in the Marcelle D'Argy Smith days when it was all a bit soft and boy obsessed, with no hard reportage. There are some titles I wouldn't touch with a barge pole: Vogue, Vanity Fair, Harpers, Wallpaper, Tatler (file under "Emperor's New Clothes").

Oh, and I forgot to mention the best magazine of all: Smash & Grab, which was the comic I used to write with David Westgarth when we were kids and borrwing his dad's Olivetti typewriter. There are no back copies of that one, sadly.

Penfriends

Going back a few years, when stamp collecting, Subbuteo and Airfix models were the hobbies of most young boys, most young girls were collecting penfriends. I had another hobby at that time which was sending off for free samples from comics and magazines like Jackie. Linco Beer shampoo and Albion Milk of Sulphur soap stand out, and you could always get free stamps from some outfit in Goole, but they would then pester you for money and you would have to get your mum to write them a letter.

Anyway, back to the penfriends. For some reason the centre of excellence for penfriends was somewhere in Turku, Finland, which was the name of the company or exchange that matched you with appropriate penfriends. They were usually the same age and sex. It was all very genteel.

There was no Internet then, or texting, or even PCs, so having penfriends meant writing in longhand, fortunately not on papyrus, and sending photos.

The good people in Turku provided me with two penfriends, Helga Kunz in East Germany (before the Wall came down) and Cheryl Morris in Massachusetts, US. You couldn't have had two more different girls - you could tell that by their photos alone. Cheryl looked very pretty and wholesome, posing confidently like a trainee cheerleader. Helga stood cowed, her eyes fixed on the floor, flanked by two enormous breasted women, her aunt and her grandmother.

I didn't write to Helga or Cheryl very frequently and the letters were mostly formal exchanges. I was then introduced by a teacher to a penfriend in France called Marie-Claude, but our letters soon petered out because I was supposed to write to her in French and she was supposed to write to me in English. As soon as I had asked her about Johnny Hallyday (who according to my French text book was a teen French idol, but illicited a "bof!" from her) and how you cooked artichokes, I had exhausted my possibilities.

As I got into my teen years, I wanted penfriends who were a bit more like friends, giggly and like minded, willing to talk about boys and pop groups and clothes. Through the auspices of magazines like OK (not the current version) and Hi! I got matched with Karen Walker in Swindon and Julie Cox in Pevensey, Sussex.

Karen was the only penfriend I actually met. We were both about 15, and she and her family came to visit me in Plymouth when they were on holiday in the area. Karen lived in Swindon - I had no idea then what a big role that town was to play in my future life. We used to write quite frequently and she would tell me all about her outings to the Brunel Rooms in Swindon and the boys she'd kissed, and I no doubt did the same, referencing Rees youth club and the Lutheran Church youth club (I didn't go to the church, only the club, honest).

But when we met, it was a big letdown. We were both quite shy. I was newly permed, I recall; it was de rigeur then to have a perm like Kevin Keegan. Our mothers did all the talking, and I don't think a further letter was exchanged after the meeting so you can tell it didn't go well.

Julie Cox, meanwhile, she was a blast. She was freckly with long brown hair. We wrote huge long gossipy letters to each other and sent postcards from holidays. She was 18 months older than me, which seemed a lot then, and she was a huge Queen fan (I didn't see the attraction). She used to tell me all about life in Pevensey with her friend Anita, who lived in Polegate. Her longest letter was about seeing Queen in concert. By contrast, I had only seen Sailor and Andy Fairweather-Low in concert, and for both I had to leave early to catch the last bus.

I was reminded me of Julie Cox recently when J and I drove through Pevensey not long ago. I'd never been there before - it has a very scenic castle. I've often tried to locate Julie through sites like Friends Reunited, but no joy. We had a fairly short lived correspondence, and sadly I don't have any of her letters. But I always remember my excitement when a big brown envelope with her chaotic right hand slanted writing fell through the letter box. Julie Cox, what are you doing now?

Fashionistas make me furious

Yesterday's Sunday Times suggested that even celebrities cringe and cower in the presence of the fashionistas, the predominantly female dowagers who sit glaring and wearing sunglasses in the front row at fashion shows. Demi Moore, Ashton Kuchter and Victoria Beckham were shown looking nervous as they took their place alongside such gorgons as Anna "Nuclear" Wintour from Vogue.

It's not surprising that VB looked so nervous, having been comprehensively savaged for the dozens of outfits she unveiled in the US recently. Having decided she's good at fashion, and that it's to be her new career, poor old Posh wasn't expecting a roasting from the likes of the ascerbic Liz Jones, more famous for being married to a womanising sap than for her fashion journalism.

Every year at this time, the Sunday Times and all the monthlies go fashion mad, exorting us to snap up the latest trends - leopard print shoes, giant handbags, smock coats, waist high trousers, yawn. If you're over 40, it's all a bit "same old" because we wore all these trends, and those of next year and the year after, in our teens. There's nothing new in fashion. At the end of the day, is it really important, compared to the big issues of the world, if we wear A line or tulip shaped skirts? Yes it is in the narrow, cruel and judgmental world of the fashionistas. Woe betide you if you have been safeguarding your health with a normal diet. You need to be a size zero before you can even deign to present these rags to us on the catwalk.

It's enough to send a sane person straight into Marks and Spencer. And it's no wonder M&S is seeing a reversal of its fortunes when you consider how easy it is to go into one of their big stores, try on some of the latest trends which you've seen on models like Twiggy and Erin O'Connor and leave without having been humiliated or sneered at by shop assistants,a practice which is the norm if any normal sized person should go into shops like Chanel, Prada or any other designer boutique.

The world of the fashonististas is so crazy that its role models are people like Kate Moss, a promiscuous drug taking slattern. Sure, a bit of hedonism is fine when you're young, but surely when you're a mother in your 30's you're a bit too old to act so irresponsibly? As for her fashion sense, those skinny jeans and waistcoats she wore all summer were a bit old hat (even Victoria Beckham did it). The only new thing she's doing is carrying a Superdrug plastic carrier. I'm sure it was simply because she nipped out to the shop and didn't take one of her giant designer bags, but to the fashionistas it was a seminal Fashion Direction, and they're probably all now hurrying off to Superdrug. So much for individualism. Long live the Emperor's new clothes!

Goodbye to a wonderful summer

Later this week we're off to a European resort for three nights to enjoy a final roasting in the sun. I won't reveal where exactly because it's been positioned to J as a surprise. All he has to do is fit everything into 1 suitcase (I resolved not to take 2, it's only three days) and drive us to Stansted at an unearthly hour on Thursday.

It's been a wonderful summer and this was an attempt to prolong it. Although it's sunny now as I look outside, there has been an autumnal nip in the air for two or three weeks now. In the mornings, when I leave for Swindon at 6am, it's quite cold, and on the long journey I can see the leaves on the trees changing colour. It's as if summer is holding out her hand but slowly slipping away.

I used to be a winter person and actively looked forward to winter, knowing what to wear (opaque tights, woollies, long coats), being able to stay in and not feel guilty, sitting by the fire, reading, looking at Christmas catalogues.

But now I look resentfully at the approach of winter thinking of the car frosted up at 6am, the rain, the bleakness of the landscape, the tedious boredom of it for the next six months. And Christmas! Don't even get me started.

This summer was wonderful - two weeks in Ischia, Italy; a week's cycling in Wales; a long weekend in Stockholm where J did the Stockholm Marathon; Picnic in the Park with Bjorn Again (and an awesome hamper from M&S), BBQs in the garden with Pimms; the Bolshoi in London.
The hosepipe ban was a bit tedious but give me a long hot summer anyday over our usual excuse for a summer.

Selina was right: TV is deteriorating

Earlier in the week I saw a programme on Five featuring Selina Scott, "Don't Get Me Started," featuring her rant against the poor quality nowadays of British TV.
And she's so right.
I felt quite ashamed after the programme because I did watch Big Brother 7, even though I felt slightly uncomfortable about it, realising that this is the modern equivalent of throwing the Christians to the lions, or, as her show stated, the equivalent of Bedlam where rich people would pay a few shillings to watch the lunatics in the asylum.
But in the last few months I have become increasingly depressed about the standard of our TV, once the greatest in the world.
In the last week, we've sunk to new depths. Charlotte Church, once the voice of an angel, is now the voice of the sewer, overblown and coarse at the age of 20 with a neat line in the f** word. A programme on Five featured the memorable title "F** Me I'm Getting Fat." And coming this week, a new programme on ITV2 featuring three young men whose only claim to fame is that they are lotharios who can't commit to relationships. Calum Best (unemployed, claim to fame is deceased father who was an alcoholic), Paul Danan (was in a little-watched soap a few years ago) and Fran Cosgrove (claims to own a nightclub) travel through the US seeing how they can get by without money.
If you scan the TV listings, it's difficult to find any good quality, new dramas. You can find re-runs of "I, Claudius" and re-runs of good, but old, comedies. Even documentaries have been dumbled down. They come in two flavours nowadays. The first is "big cat/bear/wildebeest" specials, where a shrieking and over-excited team pursue animals relentlessly across the savanna. The animals are always involved in life and death struggles, presumably manufactured with editing. The second is the classic historical documentary, dumbed down with riduculous computer generated graphics - for example dinosaurs, gasp! - chasing TV presenter, or re-enactments with poor acting of the fire of London, Pompeii, etc.
Selina was also right about the trend for cruel TV, where stupid members of the public are ridiculed and disgraced for their poor dress sense or parenting ability. Fortunately, I think the tide is turning on this one. The recent C4 programme "How to look good naked," whilst featuring a gratuitous title, did at least build the self-esteem of the women it featured with kindness and no plastic surgery.
There are a plethora of TV channels, but without exception they show mediocre dross. And yet teenagers seem to lap it up, the cringeworthy US imports of ABC1, the exploits of "rent a celebrity" Jade and Chantelle on Living TV.
My dream would be a channel called "Quality TV," showing programs about art, history and nature without the dumbed-down factor; quality drama; experimental comedy. TV for grown-ups with intelligence. No programmes featuring "The Public" and no revenue-generating telephone scams. Surely there's a market for that?

Radio Devon anecdotes (1)

Hawses for Courses
I was a journalist at BBC Radio Devon from its launch (1982) until 1988, working first as a reporter and then a news producer. The latter included a lot of newsreading. To start with, I was very self conscious about my Devon accent. A more experienced producer, Helen Hughes, advised me to think of different spellings of words: for example, hawse instead of horse. It worked well. However, there was a monthly curse of the unemployment figures, where the "rip and read" always started "the number of people out of work and claiming benefit has risen / dropped" (delete as appropriate). I didn't like words with 'R' in, so I always changed this to "number of people without jobs."

Raining Men

One of our DJs, Ian Brass, had a wicked sense of humour. I had a news story about a man who threw himself over the top floor of the Newton Abbot multi storey car park, unfortunately landing on someone and causing serious injury. After I'd finished the news summary, Ian followed up with the song It's Raining Men. I'd like to say that was the only time, but after I'd broken the news about the Challenger disaster, I heard "Space Oddity" as I left the studio.

Not Thought to be Seriously Hurt

As I got more adept at newsreading, I started live editing, where I would read the bulletin and edit the copy as I went along. For example, sometimes I forgot to take the snippet about today's weather in with me, so I would ad lib depending on how it looked outside. Or I would not have time to edit a piece of copy about a court case from one of the local news agencies, and would edit it live to avoid the legal errors they always included.

On one occasion, I was nearly at the end of a bulletin when a colleague burst in with a piece of paper and mouthed "news just in." I delivered the phrase with great relish and proceeded to read out how a man had been killed in a road accident. The copy had handwriting all over it and I was suspicious it was incorrect, so I hastily ended the piece "the dead man is not thought to be seriously hurt." I groaned as I closed the fader, realising what I'd done. I sneaked into the main newsroom but fortunately Trevor, the news editor, was listening to our competitors Devonair and hadn't heard my faux pas. Then the phone rang. I picked it up: it was A Listener. He asked if could speak to the newsreader. I gritted my teeth and said "she's not around, can I take a message?" He chuckled and told me to tell the newsreader that she had made his day.

Cycling in Wales

Those of you who know me from a few years ago will be more than mildly surprised to know that I've just cycled 120 miles up and down (it seemed like mostly 'up') the Welsh hills.

Since meeting John two-and-a-half-years ago, I've had to put my couch potato days behind me and start a new lifestyle which includes cycling, running (though I have to get beyond 5km), the gym and eating healthily.

But nonetheless, as I am a very reluctant cyclist, and training consisted only of a one hour session cycling behind John as he ran along the canal, I was filled with trepidation at the prospect of a six night cycling holiday with John and his 15 year old daughter Rachel, herself no slouch in the saddle. They recently did the London to Cambs cycle ride and she came third in the Pedal in the Park, ahead of serious cyclists.

The holiday started at the farm HQ of Wheely Wonderful Cycling in deepest Shropshire where friendly Chris & Kay gave us our bikes, confortable touring machines (Rachel had a mountain bike) and we sheltered under the awning waiting for the rain to stop. It didn't, so we set off for the first stop, a pub for lunch. Except that when we got there, at 2.30, it had stopped serving food and we couldn't even get a sandwich out of them. So fortified with crisps and nuts we set off again in the rain for Presteigne. The hotel dated from Tudor times and had some very strange and interesting twisty staircases. Fortunately the heating was on - we needed it to dry our clothes and hats - and it took a hot bath before circulation was restored.

The next day saw us cycle for 21 miles to Hay-on-Waye, the town of books. The day after, 21 miles to Builth Wells and a very elegant country house hotel; an easier day of 15 miles to Rhyader and then the killer day, 33 miles to Knighton. The route, the Welsh national cycle route, was mostly quiet country lanes (and hills) with hardly any traffic. There was one short off road section where the mountain bike excelled. There we saw two dead sheep. I wondered how they got there - the rest of their brethren were grazing below, fenced in.

Fortunately on the killer day the weather was kind to us; the forecast had been for torrential rain. We seemed to be ahead of the rain all day. But it was very bleak at times. The first 20 miles seemed to be all uphill. The plus side was that the remaining 13 miles were mostly downhill - but too steep for me to be comfortable. All you could hear was the screech of my brakes as I inched my way down the hills, John and Rachel already waiting at the bottom.

Ah yes, bottom. A gel saddle cover was not enough to prevent the agony of cyclist's ass for the first two days. If I could give any advice to novices like myself it would be to acclimatise yourself on a bike beforehand to try to avoid being saddle sore. It's a killer, and something I will happily consign to Room 101 if Paul Merton ever asks me.

Me and David Bowie

David Bowie for me began in 1973. Well actually it was 1972, but 73 rhymes better. I was a blank sheet aged 11, waiting to make my own discoveries of popstars, authors, fashion, life. Top of the Pops came on and it was the now eponymous show that featured David Bowie & the Spiders from Mars performing "Starman." (I've since read that Ian Mccullough from Echo and the Bunnymen discovered Bowie from this performance). I watched transfixed. Now here was the popstar for me. I didn't like the saccharin appeal of David Cassidy or Donny Osmond: here was a genuine British eccentric, so colourful, so controversial. I immediately scoured my mum's Freemans catalogue and ordered the LP (yes, vinyl) Ziggy Stardust, paying 10p a week. I was so thrilled with the album, which I played hundreds of times in my tiny bedroom on Sid, the old Alba record player, that I promptly put myself into debt by ordering Aladdin Sane, another 10p a week.

I wasn't allowed to see David's Ziggy retirement tour when he visited Torquay. A big injustice at the time, but I was only 12 or 13 and Torquay was a far way from Plymouth. But I read about it in NME and it became one of the things I've always held against mum ("you never let me see David Bowie" "you used to make me drink cold tea" "you never bought the basket I made at Sunday school," etc).

I finally did see David in 1983 on the Serious Moonlight Tour. I saw the ad in NME and immediately requested a ticket for London but received Milton Keynes instead. At the time the ticket was in my eager hand, I hadn't passed my driving test, but the thought of being able to drive to MK in my Datsun, a hand-me-down from my dad which cost me approx £1,600, spurred me on and I passed with three weeks to go before the gig. I booked accommodation at The Cock, Stony Stratford (not far from Milton Keynes Bowl), and, armed with an AA route map, set off for the great adventure, a Plymothian aged 22 with zero experience of motorway driving.

For some reason I hadn't brought an outfit to wear. I didn't like to wear jeans back then - I thought they made me look fat. So I found myself in a rather staid ladies' boutique in Stony Stratford looking for something to wear. I bought the most horrendous jade green pair of trousers with a jacket in a rigid unmoving fabric. I wore these with my red shoes (made me think of the video for Let's Dance with the aborigine girl in the red shoes) and a turquoise t-shirt. When I turned up for the gig, very early, I felt a bit out of place: everyone else seemed to be wearing jeans. Somehow I went the whole day, several hours, without speaking to anyone (chronically shy), or buying anything except for an official t-shirt. I didn't buy any drinks in case I needed the loo, and I wanted to keep my spot. It wasn't too near the front but it wasn't too nar the back either.

It was a sunny day and I enjoyed the support acts: Madonna, hardly famous then, prancing around singing "Like a Virgin." The Beat, who I'd seen before. Icehouse, whose appearance was preceded by a flying banner from an aircraft. I became a big Icehouse fan after this. And finally, David Bowie.

This was what I call his commercial time when he looked gorgeous, wore sharp suits and played music that sold in millions. He changed suits about three times, leaving Carlos Alomar to play virtuoso guitar solos. I was transfixed the whole time. I think we danced, swayed, clapped. "We" being the adoring audience of thousands. At the end, the huge moon-shaped shapes at the side of the stage opened and dozens of helium balloons were released. I was so thrilled to catch one, and so disappointed when it got taken from me at the gate. I couldn't believe they needed them for the next performance.

It took ages for me to find my car. In the excitement of arriving, I hadn't clocked which field I was in. Suddenly it all felt very flat because I had no-one to share the experience with. There were no mobile phones then and it was already half past eleven. So I crept back to Stony Stratford and my hotel room.

The next morning, the breakfast room was filled with people wearing the official t-shirts, smiling at each other in acknowledgment. I felt proud to be part of a tribe. I drove home light in heart, occasionally even doing more than 70 mph.

I've seen him three times now but the first time was the most special, even if it was also the loneliest.

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Big Brother - thank God it's nearly over

As it limps towards the finish post, is this the end of the line for Big Brother? It's been longer this year and even more tedious than last year.

As always, every year I resolve I won't watch it this time. But somehow I succumb. This year, it started the day before the Eurovision Song Contest so I'd gone to my mum's in Devon to watch the songs and it was a no-brainer we would watch BB. Yes, even though I'm near the age of the hapless Susie (and I'm still smarting from the housemates sneering that she was too old to take part), my mum is even older (obviously) and she still watches it too. She even watches Love Island. I couldn't take on two reality series at the same time. Too much of a commitment.

Anyway, back to BB. It's pretty safe to say that Nikki will go back into the main house, so I'm confident to predict the winning order: #1 Pete, #2 Nikki, #3 Glyn, #4 Richard, #5 Aishling. I'm assuming Imogen will be evicted this week. About time! She may be pretty, but soooo dull. I can't believe she's supposed to have a degree. The thing that irks me most about the housemates is their level of intelligence. There's never any interesting debate about anything, or if there is, we don't see it. Some of the tasks show their woeful stupidity. I can't believe how, with so many empty hours stretching before them, they don't have interesting debates about art, literature, sociology....anything!

And I'm with Susie on the swearing. Must be an age thing. I used to think that if (God forbid) I ever ended up in the BB house, I would introduce them to some debate on good food, wine, music, literature, ballet (maybe only with Richard, thinking about it).....but I guess the reality would be that I wouldn't play spin the bottle, the prospect of kissing Glyn being too horrific, and I would drink tea endlessly.

BB used to be a good psychological study. It was fascinating seeing all the misfits trying to interact with each other. But after the first couple of years, they all became wise to performing for the cameras and had tactics to try to win. Mikey, for example, tried to make himself visible in the last fortnight by arguing with everyone. It backfired and he got evicted. That was a magical moment, as was Sezer's eviction. I was so thrilled that the two arrogant muppets were put in their place. Nikki's eviction was a mistake and BB's fault for giving the public too many to choose from. They should have turned it into "you're voting to SAVE...." instead of voting to evict.

Pete used to be endearing but I'm very cynical about his sudden revelations about his mother, the crying and the news that his dad suddenly wants to get in touch. Seems a little manufactured at this stage. I'm not sure why everyone seems so enchanted with Glyn. His whiny voice and constant cries for "foooood" drive me crazy. His poor mum will be dealing with a monster when he gets out.

So, not much longer to endure. I don't even watch it every day now, so tedious has it become. I hereby commit that I will watch the next celebrity version (only 3 weeks long) but next year I may hoist my colours on the good ship Love Island.

The Bolshoi Ballet in Swan Lake

On Saturday (Aug 5) went to see the Bolshoi in Swan Lake at Covent Garden. Haven't seen the Bolshoi before. For the last two summers, have taken my mum to see the Kirov. Coincidentally they were also in London at the same time but because they've changed their name to the Maryinsky, I missed the programme announcement. Anyway, we were excited at the prospect of seeing the Bolshoi. Their version of Swan Lake is much acclaimed, and the Russian productions are always special with sumptuous costumes and gorgeous sets and scenery.

Big disappointment!

I've seen many ballets over the years and this one was probably the most boring. The two leads were soloists, not principals, and the young male had no charisma whatsoever. It seemed like the company was going through the motions; there was no passion, no sparkle. The orchestra was too slow. I kept thinking "put some heat under it!" like Jack Lemmon in Some Like It Hot. Even the costumes and set looked tired. Usually in Swan Lake (we've seen several versions) there's some trickery or devices to make you think you're watching water and swans. There was nothing notable in this version. A tatty curtain with a swan painted on it was lowered every now and then, but that was it.

I looked eagerly in the Sunday Times to see if they'd reviewed the production but they'd reviewed the Bolshoi's new production of The Pharoah's Daughter. Very enthusiastic review and said the Kirov had been outshone. Perhaps they put all their investment into the Pharoah. Swan Lake has been in their repertoire for ever; perhaps they should shelve it for a few years.

Next year we'll be seeing the Maryinsky (hopefully).

The best version of Swan Lake I ever saw was at the Coliseum with Rudolf Nureyev. It was in the early 80s and he'd lost it in terms of his ability to dance, but he was still very commanding and charismatic. Odette/Odile was a Japanese dancer and she was amazing. She actually danced some of the segments that he should have danced. I'll always remember how she fluttered across the lake like a bird.