Living in the Material World

I don't usually do reviews, but then I don't usually find things on TV that are worth watching.  Not saying that to be cruel, it's just when you get to my age you've seen it all, or most of it, so the latest soap story line or new character in Doctor Who doesn't hold the same fascination.


But it's nice to find a programme that's so well made and says something genuinely new that you can slide into it without effort.  That's how I felt about Martin Scorsese's Living in the Material World, a two part documentary about the late George Harrison, part one of which was broadcast last night.  Part two airs later this evening so no prizes for guessing what I'll be doing then.


The appeal, for me at least, is partly nostalgia.  That's another thing about getting to my age - your distant past becomes endlessly fascinating.  I was a little girl when the Beatles burst on the scene, lighting up stuffy British culture like a Catherine Wheel.   Somehow they appealed to everyone; old ladies and little kids like me were equally smitten, not just the hordes of young women who screamed hysterically at their concerts.  These four fresh faced lads brightened post-rationing Britain and made everything seem possible as they conquered the world.


I was smitten by Paul in those days.  He seemed the least threatening of them in my estimation.  John was my older sister's crush, but not many fell for the quiet one, George.  Yet as the years went by it was George of all of them who seemed least affected by the fame they accrued.  Every interview shows the same thoughtful young man who was never afraid to speak his mind, whether it was telling George Martin he didn't like his tie, or, in a studio debate on spirituality, declaring that the only 'mysticism' in meditation was down to ignorance.  He was always content to go his own way, never looking for acclaim or the limelight, pursuing his own quest for spiritual growth in spite of popular skepticism.  And he became a hero of mine when he put up the money to fund Monty Python's Life of Brian after the film's original backers pulled out at the last minute.


Living in the Material World contains fascinating clips and interviews with those closest to Harrison, all new and giving a unique insight into this most interesting man.  And of course there's lots of music too.  Just to prove he was no slouch in that department, I've posted one of his songs below.


I'm looking forward to watching the conclusion of this film and recommend it to anyone with even a passing interest in its subject matter.

November, November

November, November.  Something odd happens to the light at this time of year; the low rising sun in Scotland makes dawn and dusk particularly eerie times.  It changes perceptions.  Colours deepen; the sun, so bright on the horizon, blinds the eyes and casts darker shadows.


November is an important month for me.  My first born came into the world on 11th day, twenty-five years ago.  I remember sitting on my hospital bed, watching the brilliant sunshine illuminate stark window pane shaped rectangles on the ward wall.  Intense as search lights, with no hiding place.  


This is a time of reflection, a time of taking stock.  Yesterday, walking out early with Theo in the first light, I encountered what I assume was a crow when it collided with the back of my head as I climbed up the cliff slope of the golf course.  Stunned by this event, I was more surprised that the bird made no sound at all, before or after.  It simply flew on.


Then this morning, on the narrow metalled road that slopes up to a small car park on a vantage point beside the beach, I encountered a hare.  At first, the dazzling sunshine lighting up its cream and gold fur, I thought it was a dog.  But then I saw a black labrador in pursuit.  The hare turned and sideways on I realised what I was seeing.  It saw me and hesitated, turned away and climbed the steep grassy cliff face at the side of the road.  The lab pursued.  Both darted here and there among the gorse and rocky outcrops until the hare got the better of the terrain and reached the summit.  Within an instant the hare was gone, the dog still bouncing bewildered among the foliage.


This afternoon a magpie tapped on my living room window.  Wildlife seems to be getting in my face at the moment, don't you think?

Hogmanay - Old Year Thoughts

Funny how this day brings out the nostalgia. It's been an eventful year for me, and not always on the good side. I started the year full of hope that my revised novel would snag a certain agent who'd shown some interest. By the end of January my optimism had evaporated. Disheartened, I fought through the miserable winter weather uncertain about the future. Did I really want to keep going with this business which had brought nothing but disappointment?

Then in March my sister died. She was only 3 years older than me and although not in the best of health was hardly at death's door. The event was sudden and shocking, leaving all her family in a turmoil of grief and self-recrimination. I too felt a weight of guilt. I'd spoken on the phone to her a fortnight previously and she'd told me her symptoms. Concerned, I'd urged her to get to the doctor. "Maybe I will," she'd said breezily, before hanging up. It was the last conversation we had. I wish I'd pestered her about it now. How wise we are after the event. But one thing her death did was show me in technicolor clarity how short our time is and if there's something you want to do you better get on and do it now, while you can.

A few weeks after the funeral I fell down some stairs and sprained my ankle. Sitting in out-patients that evening - a first for me - I saw a big slice of life up close, many poor souls a lot worse off than me. Again, life's fragility on display.

An internet friend contacted me around this time to ask how things were going submission-wise. She urged me to keep sending the novel out and not give up. Talking to her made me realise I couldn't give up, I'd come this far and I had to see it through. So I jumped back on the submissions wagon again.

I had a perfectly nice week at Loch Ness in June. Time to get away from writing and take stock. By this point I'd more or less decided to forget about the novel and concentrate on other projects I'd had ideas for. When I got home I got right back to work and started writing Redemption, another ghost story. By October I was well into it and took the plunge to participate in Nanowrimo to get it finished.

The first week of Nano I was stricken with a nasty bout of what I suspect was swine flu. Dragging myself to the computer with blankets and hot water bottles to keep warm, coughing up my lungs and snuffling into boxes of tissues, was hardly propitious for a creative pursuit. But somehow I managed to do it. And at the end of the first week I received the email from my agent offering representation.

It's funny how life gives and takes simultaneously. Just when you think you can't feel any worse something marvellous happens. It's happened to me time and again throughout my life, but it still never fails to amaze me.

So that's where I am now. I've no idea what 2011 will bring, but I hope it brings success and happiness for all of us in whatever way we desire. Here's to a bumper writing year!

A few Crumbly observations

You know what they say about nostalgia - it ain't what it used to be.

I've never been one for nostalgia much. It seems like a curious way of looking at the world, with your back to the engine staring at where you've just been rather than where you're going. But recently it's been creeping into my viewing habits. It started with the box set of Blakes Seven, followed by Sapphire and Steel and even the Avengers. You know, all the good stuff they never seem to show on UK Gold.

Must be my age I suppose. It's tempting to think things were better back then, but I have no illusions about that - they weren't. It may seem that way at times because what we have in youth is boundless energy, good health and a heart full of optimism about the future. Somehow the shine comes off over the years and is replaced by a weary cynicism. When you've been round the block so many times it gets to resemble a shooting gallery (with you as the duck dodging pot shots) rather than a Great Big Adventure.

But there are compensations to getting older. I don't miss the crippling self-consciousness, and it's comforting to know that however much of a prat you make of yourself someone somewhere has done it a lot worse.

And you get to ramble a bit, like this post. Stop me when I get to "when I were a lass..."