My star turn at the Silver Jubilee

I remember the Silver Jubilee very well. It was 1977: the Sex Pistols were in the news, my mum was busily baking "Jubilee buns"  (fairy cakes with red, white and blue icing), and I was planning my assault on the title of Colebrook Carnival Queen.

It was a big year for the village community association which was fund raising for a community centre. My dad was vice-chairman. The fund raisers included an ambitious Jubilee parade of floats which would make its way to Peacock Meadow where there would be stalls, candy floss and old-fashioned entertainment.

The first ever carnival queen was to be chosen at a disco evening at Harewood House, an event in itself. I had a strategy for success. I knew I wasn't the prettiest girl - that was either Hazel Roles or my best friend Sally - but I figured that I might win if a) I had superb posture and walked tall, and b) had a stand out outfit.

My stand out outfit was a two piece "safari suit" in khaki green, worn with cream wedge espadrilles.

The day before the disco, I went to the funfair and unfortunately knocked my face against the dodgem pole, but resolved I would cover up the mark with Hide The Blemish. My other preparations included a face pack - either Anne French Glow 5 or Christy, a Harmony or Toners hair rinse, and a DIY manicure.

About 25 girls entered the carnival queen competition. We had to walk round the room in a large circle. Most of the girls were giggling and gesticulating at friends but I remembered my posture rule and held my head high to try to look confident.

I got through to the next round which embarrassingly involved being interviewed....by my dad. Wags in the crowd were shouting out my answers and adding "Dad."

The final six were announced and I was in it, along with Sally and another girl from school, Gina, whose parents ran the fish and chip shop.

My dad stood down and we were "interviewed" again by John McGowan, the vice chairman.

The judges conferred and the results were announced in traditional reverse order. Gina came third, Sally (Sally!) came second....and I was first. I was Dead Chuffed, although the congratulations and applause were a bit muted because everyone thought it was a fix. In fact someone told the local paper, the Herald, and there was a story about it.

I was given a bouquet and a record voucher, which I used to buy David Bowie's Low. My dad took a picture of me at home with my bouquet. My mum took the shine off my victory somewhat by looking puzzled when we said I'd won and saying "You won? You beat Hazel Roles?"

Jubilee Day dawned. It had been decreed that the queen and her attendants would wear white, red and blue. We scoured the small ads in the Herald and sourced a former wedding dresss for a tenner.  It was not in the least flattering. Sally's mum was handy with a needle and she had a beautiful red dress with a little cape. My sash had plastic letters which all fell off during the big day, one by one.

Cheer up girls!

We were seated on a decorated ECC China Clays lorry. The procession was the highlight of the day. I have dozens of photos that my mum took as the parade passed our house, but  only one of me. I blame the Kodak Instamatic.

Having arrived at Peacock Meadow, we partook of the Jubilee Tea, which included the lurid buns. We gave out Jubilee mugs and crowns (coins) to the children, and handed out the prizes at the tug o'war. I remember a big roar going up for Sally when she kissed all the participants. No cheer for me. People were still smarting about "the fix."

So that was my Silver Jubilee. How about yours?

Garden Progress

The garden is making good progress. The borders have now been planted. The extra light bestowed by removing Leylandii trees has given a new lease of life to the hawthorn and clematis Montana Rubens, which were both magnificent a couple of weeks ago.  My blackcurrants are thriving so I am hopeful for berries this year.

I've chosen mostly perennials and shrubs for the main border, adding some different textures with hosta white feather and a couple of ferns. I'll fill in the gaps with cosmos  (being grown from my Mum's seeds), nicotiana nd penstemons. I went in search of penstemons and salvia hot lips at the weekend but could only find one penstemon. Hot Lips arrives later in June I was told.

Clematis Dr Ruppel

The smaller border

L to R: part of the large border: lupin, honeysuckle Serotina, fuchsia, viburnum, hosta White Feather

The cherry tree (needs re-siting in the autumn, too close to the wall)

Blackcurrants

In the smaller border last year's nasturtiums have re-seeded themselves, which ruined my colour scheme somewhat (it was going to be restful white, pink and purple) but I've now turned that border into a "jewel garden". There are dahlias, which are still not showing yet; lavender, John's favourite; lime green nicotiana and a red penstemon.

Another Night of Hurt

Oh dear, another disappointing Eurovision. So much for hoping that Engelbert would bring us the first of many triumphs this summer.

I'm sure the papers will be full of analysis, earnestly discussing tactical voting and the misfortune of singing first, and what do we do next year?

We all know the Eurovision is a kitsch festival of the ludicrous. Yet we love it for its irony. Twitter was ablaze last night as everyone gave their opinions on each act, some very amusing.

Engelbert may have been first in the draw to sing but he still had to wait a while. The host nation, Azerbaijan, decided to show off for a good 20 minutes at the start, with fireworks and whirling dervishes, leaving the interval curiously empty.

Engelbert did us proud with his performance; he brought all his charisma to bear and there was no hint of nerves or losing the voice as inexperienced Eurovision hopefuls have done in previous years.

The song itself was, as Graham Norton kept saying, a pretty ballad. I liked it so much I downloaded it. A poignant, haunting song,. it would have been perfect as the last song of the evening, as an antidote to the usual excesses of Eurovision. There will always be camp acts in fetish gear; minxy girls in short dresses; novelty acts with folk costumes and howling soloists. Engelbert's song would have soothed the soul after that little lot.

But it was not to be, and when I saw the Swedish favourite, I immediately knew she would win. The evening usually gives us one act that is different. The Russian grannies weren't different: there is always an act like them, even if they were older than it usually is. But Loreen was a throwback to Kate Bush when she memorably burst on the scene 30 years ago. She had a spellbinding aura and her song, Euphoria,  was a pleasing disco number of the sort we will hear pounding out across European resorts for the next few months..

So what do we do next time?

Well, having a known act is good, and we have done that in the past two years. Loreen is apparently quite big already in Sweden and has been no 1 in several countries. So perhaps we need a  young, currrently successful performer. I can only imagine that a Voice or X Factor loser would fit the bill - who else would want this poisoned chalice?

I don't buy the argument that we'll never win because no-one likes us. We don't, it's true, have neighbours we can rely on. Ireland are quite stingy with their points. But it doesn't matter who you are, if you have the stand-out act  (eg Lordi from Finland; Dana International from Israel), you'll win.

It's a bit of fun and it's over now until next year. I hope Engelbert hasn't taken it too badly -- it's a shame that he finished unjustly second to last, behind many really dire acts, but I haven't heard anyone in the UK criticise him, his performance or the song. C'est la vie.

Don't castigate them for selling their Olympic torches

Bit of a furore today about Olympic torches and torch bearers' outfits being sold on eBay.
My mum was in a froth about it on Saturday until I pointed out that the torch bearers did have to buy their torches at £250 a pop  (with a few exceptions: those given to sponsors, and those where the local council, like ours, has agreed to pay for them).
If they've bought their torch, it really is their perogative whether or not to sell it. As one torch bearer pointed out, it's quite large to go on the mantelpiece.
Times have changed in that we don't need, or have room for, physical reminders of achievements and happy times.The torch bearers have a rich library of photos and YouTube clips to remember their achievement. They don't need the torch itself to remind them.
Times are very hard and for some people selling their torch will give them money that's sorely needed. 
Reports that a torch sold for over one hundred thousand pounds are wrong: the person has almost certainly been the victim of a hoax. She was on TV this morning saying the money was to go to charity anyway. An auctioneer said today that with the nunber of torches around, they won't sell for more than three thousand pounds.
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Here today and gone tomorrow: TV Presenters

I often wonder what happened to TV presenters who, one minute, were ubiquitous on our screens, and the next, pensioned off for being too old.

Sometimes you read an intriguing little nugget. John Leslie, for example, who presented Blue Peter and then This Morning, but was quickly dumped after a scandal, is now apparently a successful property developer.

Mike Smith, a former radio personality and married to Sarah Greene (formerly of Blue Peter) is, we hear, an entrepreneur.

I'm not sure what has happened to Ms Greene and many other ladies we used to see a lot of:  Carol Smillie, Anneka Rice (though she has turned up on Radio 2 on Saturdays), Anna Walker, Philippa Forester, Kate Thornton, Anthea Turner. Gaby Roslin seems to be doing mostly radio, as is Moira Stuart.Fiona Phillips is rarely seen now; she sometimes does the paper review on radio.

What bugs me is that a lot of good, mostly women, presenters disappear and yet current in-vogue presenters are given plum jobs far above their capabilities.

Julia Bradbury is good at doing her walks and Richard Hammond is OK on Top Gear. But I wouldn't rate either of them as presenters of natural history. Their juvenile shrieks and attempts to humanise every animal on Planet Earth Live makes the programme a no-no for me. Why didn't the BBC use people who know about natural history? People like Saba Douglas-Hamilton (right).

The latest crop of ubiquitous TV lovelies includes Holly Willoughby, Tess Daley and Fearne Cotton. All entirely interchangeable. They look great in a frock but they make me, the viewer, nervous because I get the impression that if everything went pear shaped on their live show, they wouldn't have a clue what to do. 

I'm always at a loss to know how people like Nicki Chapman, with her nasal voice, manage to get a good string of presenting jobs including the Chelsea flower show. She was one of the judges on the original Popstars programme years ago when she was in the record industry. Why did she give up a good job like that?

Reality TV stars who become TV presenters haven't earned their spurs in my view, nor people like Dominic Littlewood, a former career criminal, who has made a nice living for himself despite Wikipedia referring to him as an untrained journalist.

I like my presenters knowledgeable and I don't particularly care what they look like. I love seeing social historian Ruth Goodman, Professor Mary Beard, Professor Sue Black from History Cold Case and Angela Rippon - still so glamorous in her 60s. We need more women like this on our screens, real role models. Who are your forgotten (or current) favourites?

PE Traumas



Me aged 11
I couldn't find the photo of me
with a hockey stick

There was a report this week that said many women are put off exercising for life because of the trauma of PE/PT at school.

I don't believe it. They're put off because it's BORING.

My friends won't be surprised to know I was never very sporty at school. My set rather looked down on the sporty ones. It wasn't cool to perspire, throw things or brandish sticks.

I wasn't complete rubbish but I couldn't really be bothered. I never gave 100%. I was punished for this in every double PE class. The teacher would choose two captains and ask them to name their team, one girl at a time. I was always third to last  (there were two girls worse than me).

Ironically, on the one occasion I was chosen to be a captain and name my squad, I decided I'd go for gold and selected all the girls who were sporty. My non-sporty friends were horrified, still left at the back. But I wanted a bit of a glory for a change.

I had a memorable disaster in hockey when I was about 12. My chosen position was left wing because I found I could run up and down a lot, looking busy, but without actually doing very much. Well, on this occasion someone raised their stick and hit me in the mouth. I had to have two stitches, and got told off by the awful cookery teacher for taking my unwashed bloodied face into her pristine kitchen in search of the Dettol.

Netball was never great, you need to be as tall as Meadowlark Lemon. And don't you think those little vests with "GA" and "WA" on them look really silly? 

Anyway, lest you think I was a couch potato, when I was a kid I would be out playing until dusk: turning a skipping rope, skipping, cycling, making a den or er....fighting.

My school experiences didn't put me off exercise. I just find it very BORING. I've tried running. I have a peculiar gait: I'm told I run on tip toes. Once you know that, it puts you off. I'm sure everyone's having a snigger at my expense. I have an expensive gym membership, but I seldom go. I like yoga but there's only one class that works for me, time-wise. I like swimming and aqua, but swimming hats don't keep my hair dry and I don't want to ruin my highlights.

All excuses, I know. I could go on. I've tried Bodypump but my knees aren't up to all the squats. I'm too un-cordinated for aerobics, step, etc. I'm still doing my grapevine while everyone else is at the other end of the room doing something with their arms as well.

Sometimes I say to myself that I just need to man up and put some time in on the aerobic machines. I find them hideously BORING, even when I'm listening to music or watching the TV. I can just about tolerate 10 minutes on one machine. The theory is that I then do 10 minutes on the next. How it usually works is that I do 10 minutes and then sneak off to the weights. Because I really like lifting the weights! It's not too arduous and you get results fast.

And then I can reward myself with the sauna and jacuzzi (provided it isn't full of men ----- nothing on earth will induce me to get in, if it is).

How was your sporting life at school, and what's it like now?

Spare us from The Voice

I'm not surprised that The Voice UK is mentioned in despatches on Tripe Advisor. It is quite toe curlingly awful.

The first week or two it seemed a novelty to have the judges turning round in their chairs when an act tickled their fancy.

Now we're into the screech-offs, where two of the stables compete against each other each week in order to be "saved" by the public.

My mum has got the right idea, hitting the mute button as soon as the screeching starts.

Two of the judges appear to have the right credentials, gravitas and name dropping : Tom Jones and will.i.am. The other two are there to appeal to the BBC's holy grail, the yoof audience. Jessie J and what's-his-name from Ireland.

The Sunday night results show, which it transpires is recorded immediately after the Saturday show, is a real waste of time. Endless repetition from the Saturday show and nuggets like this: Jessie J, supposedly offering an insight into her fellow judge, the Irish one - "he's a singer and song writer."  You don't say!

Holly Willoughby has a really irritating way of grabbing the contestants  (has she been watching Big Fat Gipsy Weddings?) and hurling them off the stage. One of her cringeworthy moments was grabbing an Irish girl who had just been eliminated by posey old will.i.am and saying "Will really needs a hug."

I'm sure the poor girl, whose dreams of escaping a backwater and finding fame were now in the dust, really needed the hug more.

Every week the judges weep and wail about how difficult their task is, choosing one contestant over another. "It's the hardest thing I've ever done," they despair. I wish one of them would man up and say "well tonight your voice let you down so I'm going to choose xxx." Quite a few of the contestants would look more at home singing along to pub karaoke or screeching on a cruise ship than going for gold on national TV.

Then there's Wardrobe. As soon as they're confronted with what Grazia likes to call "a curvy girl," they immediately reach for the wrap dress and Spanx. These poor women immediately look staid, boring and interchangeable. Where's the imagination? A size 16 girl doesn't have to wear a wrap dress.

The only good thing about it is that it's knocked the even-more-deplorable Britain's Got Talent off the top ratings slot. Good to see a dent in the massive ego of emotionally dysfunctional Simon Cowell.

Blogging: is it over?

I've had my suspicions for a while. Traffic to my two blogs, both direct visits and search engine visits, has been dwindling. Comments are fewer. I've noticed it on some other blogs I follow.

Now my colleague Ekaterina Walter, social media strategist, has confirmed that blogging is dying. A 2011 study by a US university showed that use of blogging had dropped to 37% from 50% the year before.

People are moving to more visual sites like Pinterest.

Walter says that blogging still works for companies and can play a big role in their content strategy and credibility-building.

For those of us who toil away with personal blogs, it sometimes feels like we're shouting into an abyss and no-one is listening.

When I first started blogging in 2006, I had high hopes I was going to start the next Huffington Post. I felt sure I would draw thousands of readers through my wit and repartee. Well, I soon realised this wasn't going to be the case. When your own family and friends rarely visit your blogs, you have to swallow a reality pill.

Utilising search engine marketing brings a few visitors every day looking for some of the offbeat topics  I have written about.

But my biggest learning, and the one I will share with  you if you're a prospective blogger, is that you need to focus your blog on one content area.

Blogs which meander and cover the minutae of our lives, like mine, don't find an audience. But blogs which talk about fashion / beauty / football or other specific topics find a ready audience.

The thing I miss most is comments. Comments make it worthwhile. Someone is reading the blog and has a view to share. On my other blog, the craft blog, it used to be easy to get lots of comments, simply because it was a reciprocal thing. You would leave a comment on someone else's site and they would hop over to yours and do the same. That seems to have gone out of the window, sadly. I think it's partly due to Blogger's word verification and "prove you're not a robot", although I've now turned it off. But it's also a sign of the times. We're all too busy (or maybe we're less courteous).

I truly hope we are not heading for a world where the written word becomes a rarity; where nobody spells properly because they use text speak, or phonics; or where only photos, plagiarised endlessly from sites like Pinterest, dominate.

Marathon Eve

Tomorrow sees the London Marathon and J will be running. It's his 24th marathon or something like that. He is excited by the weather forecast: mild with showers. I am less excited, remembering a marathon three or four years ago when it poured and the green dye from my raincoat soaked through to my skin. Umbrellas are too hazardous in such dense crowds.

I will be perched on my shooting stick in the elite runners' drinks station at 35k, opposite St Paul's Church at Shadwell church. It's a great spot because I get to see the runners twice, on both sides of the road. I'll be trying to spot the members of the Orion Harriers, John's running club, to take pictures as they whizz by.

I was reminded of an amusing story that I heard when I was working at BT International a few years ago. It was at a time when mobile phones were new, rare, and the size of bricks. Their battery life was about an hour. BT Cellnet, as they were called then, decided to give every London Marathon runner the opportunity to make a call to a loved one after finishing the race.

The problem was, they built a bank of kiosks housing the mobile phones which involved climbing some steps. Unfortunately most of the runners were too exhausted to make  it, and gave up before scaling all the steps.

It's a far cry from nowadays when many of the runners are speaking on their phone as they rush by, or taking pictures of the crowd.

Breakfast in America

I was at a big conference last year that I'd helped organise. Colleagues from all over Europe, Middle East & Africa were attending. It was fascinating to see everyone's breakfast choices. The lines of "multiculturality" (to quote the wonderful TV comedy Twenty Twelve) are not drawn with the breakfast buffet.

The French stick to their croissants and large hot chocolate or cafe;  (and never cafe au lait: only we Brits say that); the Germans pile up with cold meats and semmel rolls  (if they're Bavarian - the others don't eat semmels), and the Brits either go for cereal or, if someone else is paying, a fry up.

My scrapbook layout celebrating Eggs Benedict!

Last week an article in Marketing Week explored how various manufacturers are trying to introduce other cultures to different foodstuffs for breakfast. In Africa, the concept of cereal with milk is completely alien. To be honest, I can't say I approve of the drive by Weetabix to force their product into markets like Nigeria. It seems patronising and a bit authoritarian.

When Krispy Kreme launched in the UK, they debated trying to convince us to eat doughnuts for breakfast. But they realised this would not work. So instead they presented doughnuts as a sharing experience, to take a box to work, and introduced "office heroes" with a gift card.

This is a much more sympathetic approach.

When I go abroad, I try not to stick to the British breakfast. It's a real black mark for me if a hotel or restaurant offers a British breakfast. I love to gorge on Greek yoghurt, honey and fresh fruit. Cheese and meats in Germany is also perfectly acceptable. And breakfast in America is Eggs Benedict (as a treat) or what they call oatmeal with a side of scrambled egg. What's your favourite breakfast?

Cheeky Squirrel



Photo: John Hanlon

The bird feeders sustain a whole ecosystem in our garden: the birds (obviously), including a pigeon that hovers below waiting for dropped seeds; mice, who dash up the arbour in full view of the cat, and a squirrel. The squirrel destroyed our last feeder by managing to unscrew the lid and then dragging it away so that we didn't find it for ages. What a superbrain! Here he is on his latest mission.

A Visual Feast!

Stepping into the spacious galleries of the Royal Academy my breath was taken away. I was so overcome with the sheer vivacity and scale of what I saw that I had to blink away tears.

I'm talking about the exhibition David Hockney "A Bigger Picture," which ends today. J and I went on Saturday, our slot at 9am (very good slot to have ---- it gets progressively busier as more people linger and more arrive).

In the paintbrushes and ipad of Hockney, East Yorkshire becomes as colourful as Van Gogh's recollections of Arles.

We start with four massive paintings showing the same group of trees, each painting showing a different season.

This is the theme of the exhibition. Hockney is fascinated by the changes that the seasons make. It's clear from the output that he was a man possessed, waking early if weather conditions were right to take his easel into the countryside.

His virtuosity is in no doubt. Turning a corner into another gallery, we are confronted with a wall of 36 watercolours. There are exquisite charcoal sketches. And vast, vast canvases made of pictures stitched together by trickery with an ipad. He may be in his mid 70s but Hockney has consistently been an early adopter of technology, experimenting to create art.

J was very taken with a 20 minute video that showed the output of nine cameras that had been set up to record the same stretches of woodland throughout the year.

I loved the gallery devoted to the Arrival of Spring in East Yorkshire in 2011, including the explosion of hawthorn blossom for just a week in early May. Hockney calls it his "Action Week" when the blossom springs forth. "If this were Japan at a time like that, there would be thousands of cars driving around to take it all in: here we are lucky, we have it to ourselves," he says.

It's very special when art has an emotional connection with you. I felt this very deeply and how I wish I could afford some of these wonderful pictures!

Easter is far nicer than Christmas

In my view anyway.

As someone said on Twitter this week, at Easter you get a relaxing holiday, chocolate and a faint air of melancholy.

Christmas has that awful "rolling thunder" that starts in September; the pressure to socialise; high expectations - "this year it will be perfect" - and the threat of bad weather as people set off on impossibly long journeys with cars stuffed full of.....nonsense.

The country grinds to a halt for far too long. Grizzly over-indulged children cry because they can't choose which present to play with.

And then there's the enemy lurking in the brined bath in the garden: the turkey. Waiting to trip up the average cook with its insatiable demand for accompaniments and its tendency to go dry.

As our US friends would say, "enough already!"

Easter on the other hand has chocolate eggs and hot cross buns; a harmless looking bunny, Easter bonnets and the first lamb of spring for lunch. And two days' holiday. For those of us who know/and or care about the religious festival, (a dwindling number) it's a more uplifting celebration, albeit more mystical and challenging than Christmas.

Here's to Easter Day - the shops are shut and it's raining, what could be better?

Spot the Difference

We're determined to improve the back garden this year, now that we look out on it from the new conservatory. A number of improvements has been made already. Compare the before with the current "after" :

Before: April 2011. The border was cleared of Leylandii trees

After: March 2012. New fence; border dug and 2 fruit trees planted; edging replaced with sleepers. Patio extended. Garage repainted. Grass replaced with artificial lawn

On the right hand side of the garden we have also had a new fence put up and it has given us quite a lot more border to play with. John did the back breaking digging this weekend. Normally I put pots here but I'm going to get rid of a lot of them and in future plant the bulbs in the borders instead. In the summer I will plant annuals in the right border.

We're very pleased with the artificial grass, laid by Steve at Highfield Landscapes. It's come on a long way since "Astro Turf." You look at samples as if you're buying a carpet. The one we chose is called "Stately Manor." It will last for at least 10 years, and will still look green and lush after a few months of the hosepipe ban. My argument is that I am offsetting the ecological downside of artificial grass with a planting scheme aimed at encouraging butterflies and bees. I've ordered my plants and I'm now eagerly waiting their arrival. The garden is north facing so I have to be realistic about what's achievable. I'm getting some ferns, hostas and ornamental grasses and will grow some of my favourites, penstemons, campanulas, dahlias, Japanese anemones and plenty of cosmos and nicotiana. More photos to follow in a few months! 

March 2012: the "new" border 

Couch Critic: Kevin You Contagious Tinker!

Well dear reader, it's already been a month since my last film reviews! Since then we haven't seen too many new films owing to a falling out with Lovefilm (too many new films "unavailable for rental"). My mum, who's 80 in June, has probably seen more because she avails herself of Orange cut price tickets at the cinema on Wednesdays.

But I will give you my verdict on: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, Contagion and We Need To Talk about Kevin.

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

I'm a big fan of Gary Oldman (left). I've seen all his films, including some we'd rather forget about. He is a sublime actor but in recent years I was exasperated with some of his role choices. Finally the "big one" came along - Tinker Tailor - and he was Oscar nominated. But while I admired his restrained performance in Tinker Tailor, I couldn't help thinking the film is a bit of an Emperor's New Clothes. I suspect that some of those who say how wonderful it is are just trying to stand apart from the rest of us. I knew what to expect - a complex story and none of the usual sledgehammer clues and shooting you get in most modern spy thrillers. Nonetheless, I found it baffling and incomprehensible. I didn't know what was going on for the first hour, and although with spy thrillers like this you have to wait for the story to unfold, the clues were released with agonising slowness. I'm told it's better the second time but I don't think J and I will be rushing to replay it.

 
Contagion
Disaster films like this used to be all the rage --- Jaws, Towering Inferno, Earthquake, etc. Contagion shows what would happen in the case of a killer virus going global.  Of course this did happen back in the 1920s when Spanish flu, or sleeping sickness, killed 1% of the world's population.  Contagion follows the usual formula - a clutch of famous people and how their lives intersect. There are a couple of surprises in terms of who croaks early on. I loved the music, very atmospheric. Overall though the plot  (and music) promised a bit more tension than was actually delivered. It was all quite pedestrian. Next time I fly though I will feel like wearing a Michael Jackson style mask.

We Need to Talk About Kevin
It's probably a bad thing to say that I loved the book by Lionel Shriver because the subject matter is so grim. But it's a book you can never forget because it handles, very skilfully, two taboo subjects: what happens when a mother doesn't love her child? Is her lack of love and empathy the reason for the atrocities committed by Kevin? Or is it simply the action of someone who sociopathic and unlovable?

The film doesn't quite live up to the novel. Tilda Swinton is quite marvellous as Kevin's mother, managing with her facial expressions to say what most actors struggle to say with their voices. But the film tries to be too arts-housey. The three most powerful incidents in the book are completely underplayed, as if to avoid upsetting us, which dilutes the outcome. Disapppointing.  (Wouldn't it be great though to see a taut drama starring Tilda Swinton and Gary Oldman?).

Hyacinths to feed the soul

Hyacinths in our garden
Photo by John Hanlon

If of thy mortal goods thou art bereft,
And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left,
Sell one, and with the dole
Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.

MOSLIH EDDIN (MUSLIH-UN-DIN) SAADI (SADI)

Engelbert: it's brilliant

When I first heard that elderly singer Engelbert Humperdinck was going to be our Eurovision entry this year, my reaction was shock and dismay.

I thought the BBC had really thrown in the towel.

But now I've come round to the idea. I have to agree with DJ Paul Gambaccini: it's so bonkers it's brilliant. Why not have an old geezer? This could be the novelty that wins it for Royaumes Unis after a 15 year drought. Winsome boy bands and girls in sequins and little else is so last year! Let's bring a bit of dignity back to proceedings.

A few years ago, when a documentary asked why the UK never gets any votes, it transpired that other countries resented the fact we used unknowns. As if the contest was unimportant  (perish the thought!). Well, they can't accuse us of that this time. Engelbert tells us he has sold 150m records, and has the world's biggest fan club with members all round the world. He has homes in LA, and...er..Leicester.

We have yet to see a current photo of the singer. He has disappeared off the face of the earth. I'm hoping he looks dapper and age appropriate: ie, not sporting black hair and weird hamster cheeks. He is 75, after all.

From Engelbert's point of view, it's a master stroke. Steve Wright played two of his records back-to-back yesterday, and he certainly has an admirable back catalogue. If he were to win, sales would go through the roof.  As we speak, he is hastily recording a new album and his management is apologising that he is cancelling his tour dates this month. But it's a rocky road ahead and his competition includes Jedward for Ireland. It's their second time, so there's a country that's clearly given up on Eurovision.

"Titanic" - the ship is not the only thing that's sinking

A new dramatisation of Titanic starts next month on ITV. Brought to us by no less than Julian Fellowes (Downton Abbey).

Reader, my heart sinks.

We already know the ending. So all Fellowes can do is mine a seam that has already been ruthlessly exploited before. He will create relationships and intrigue on the doomed vessel.

I can just imagine some of the treats in store. An inseparable pair of brothers in steerage, setting off to earn their fortunes in America. The twist? One of them is disabled in some way. Thus setting up a nice scene for the glug-glug-glug bit at the end.

A beautiful, sensitive young debutante whose mother has just died. Her cold, ruthless father is demanding she marry some rich old cove. On the ship she meets xxxx, no doubt charming, Irish and in steerage, where they will have many a knees-up.

There will be snooty old dowagers; a cad who's spent all his family's wealth; a bigamist doing a runner. And of course: the iceberg. Let's hope it's a lot more convincing than the computer generated creation in the Winslet film. I couldn't stand that film. Everything about it was wrong: the over-acting of Billy Zane, racing round craze-eyed; the tinny squeaks of Winslet  - "Jack come back!" - and the sight of her and Jack as ship's figureheads in the film's most copied scene.

Where are you on the Titanic saga?

Plans for the Garden

One of my favourite pastimes is listening to a podcast of Gardeners' Question Time while I make my regular journey from London to Swindon. My imagination goes into overdrive, mentally planting my new border. Yesterday the Parkers' catalogue came and I started making notes of the shrubs and perennials I would be buying.

The border (left) was cleared a few months ago, sleepers put round the edge and a couple of fruit trees planted. My plan is for a pink, white and purple colour scheme. I want to try to have all-year-round interest so there will be some shrubs, ornamental cream hostas, Japanese anemones and a honeysuckle on the fence. I'm going to plant a lot of my favourites: penstemons, salvias, cosmos (my mum sent me some seed from hers), dianthus and dahlias.

I'll soon be filling my "Monty Don" compost box and using my dream shed for all my potting up. I wish I had a "before" shot but these are the "afters". The shed now has a new roof, a cute half-timbered appearance and new shelves and staging. John put in strip lighting and hooks for all the tools.

Meanwhile spring is pushing winter out of the way. The bulbs in the front garden - hyacinths, tete-a-tete, tulips - are all out. The thorny old hedge has started to get its yellow mantle. And helleborus niger is having a bit of a moment (below).

Gym bunnies: Prepare to Splutter

When I was on a plane recently an advert in a US airline magazine caught my eye. It was for a piece of exercise equipment, priced at $14,000. The advert said that you only needed to use it for a few minutes a week. They offered a trial period and said they confident buyers would find it more effective than slogging away in the gym for hours.

I pondered on this and then parked it.

And then last night, Horizon "The Truth About Exercise" on BBC TV showed some new research and theory on exercise. It was mind boggling stuff.

For a start, 20% of the population will never benefit from exercise. It's their genetic bad luck. The journalist in the programme, Michael Mosley, (left) turned out to be just such a person. He is slim but has high levels of visceral fat, the "invisible" fat around our internal organs which can lead to conditions like diabetes. He was anxious to avoid the diabetes his father had, but like most of us, not too keen to exercise.

After eating a huge Scottish fried breakfast, the levels of fat in his blood shot up. But by walking for 90 minutes, briskly, the researchers showed that when he ate the same breakfast the next day, the walking activated an enzyme which reduced the amount of fat that he metabolized.

But 90 minutes of brisk walking is still tough if it's to be done daily. So the intepid Mosley had a go on a piece of equipment probably like the one I read about. He was told to cycle flat-out for three bursts of 20 seconds. And that was all that's needed, in a week. His glucose levels improved over time, although his cardio vascular levels didn't because his genetic make-up means he won't ever benefit from exercise.

Meanwhile the Mayo Clinic got him to wear some weird pants with electrodes that measured his normal activity during the day. As he was mostly sitting down at a desk, the result was not good. The next day he moved about more. Walked more often in the office. Used the stairs instead of the lift. And burnt an extra 500 calories without doing anything very strenuous.

Fascinating stuff. The main learning was that the blanket message of "start running or get in the gym" won't work for everyone. Exercise and diet needs to be very tailored. The gym industry obviously has a vested interest in making us want to exercise and buy shoes, equipment and gym memberships. We will hear a lot more about this new science. It's very exciting!