FOR me it was always the Cybermen. Never the Daleks, even though their leader guy looked like a Gujerati granny. The Cybermen. They were actually men; and probably from a place called Cyber.
The Daleks were fine when it came to the invasion of a planet on ground level or one well serviced by lifts. But it's hardly an impressive mode of galactic domination, is it, waiting for the nice man from Otis to come and reset the doors so you can g
et up to the fourth floor to mercilessly kill the President/Prime Minister/Doctor. (Although I note that in their more recent TV incarnation, Daleks can float.)
My first introduction to the men of Cyber came in the flat of one Janet Barnes. Janet used to babysit me and my two brothers. She was fab. Luckily she had both a sizeable couch (to hide behind) and a crocheted blanket (to view the TV through). The greatest irony of five-year-old me cowering behind the couch was that when encountered in an audio-only way, Cybermen are much more frightening than when one combines the visual with the aural. They may be able to ascend a staircase, but my mum, even with both knees replaced, would give them a run for their money. Or a brisk walk to be more accurate.
I had nightmares about them. Their emotionless, unforgivingly metallic faces would bear down on me. And now, 35 years later, they are loveable cult figures, set to charm thousands of kids when the Doctor Who exhibition opens at Kelvingrove next weekend. How times change.
Worn to a frazzle by what to wearI had a clothing crisis on Monday. I don't mind admitting it. It's been ages since I had a complete confusion about what to wear. In the old days there was always the impeccably watchful eye of her indoors. Alas, there is no one indoors any more and I only have my own questionable judgment to rely on.
My challenge is the variety that my day offers. I can easily be with 12 different people in 11 different locations covering 10 different projects. I am relied upon to be "street" enough to talk to school children about the beautiful work of Shakespeare while lunching with the editor of some august BBC show. And then I have to factor in my bus journey on the 55.
It's a constant and ever-changing challenge. And on Monday, my dwam-like mind wavered from a black angora suit with a grey shirt and cream knitted tie to jeans with skulls down the back and the ubiquitous Adidas trackie. Both were shunned in favour of a more dour grey trousers and jumper look which in turn was spurned so I could put the black suit on again. The entire process of sartorial indecision managed to waste an entire half hour at the very beginning of my week. I have spent the rest of the days planning carefully what I wear. Having said that, today's Fair Isle tank top might be a mistake.
First mate on voyage of discovery Last year was unarguably the most emotionally difficult year of my life. A marriage breakdown and the subsequent soul-searching and self-loathing combined with the very real and practical concerns of sorting paperwork out. In and amongst all the pushing and shoving, the fear and the anger, a new life starts to emerge. At first slowly, gradually, then eventually with a little more momentum, an existence that you thought would remain forever shapeless starts to take on a shape. New patterns form, new friendships; and friends that had until that point seemed good friends step up and become great friends. Like Charlie.
I've known Charlie for years; how many I can't tell you, but it must be close to a decade of shared time. We were good friends; we would be happy to sit around a poker table together, his presence ensuring a charming tone to the evening. A cup of tea upon bumping into each other would be the norm. No plans would be made, no dinners arranged, holidays discussed. We were casual friends. Last year Charlie rushed into the screaming chasm of my broken life and offered copious pre-arranged cappuccinos and lunches and dinners.
It made me realise about the changing nature of friendship. For one reason or another I never carried friends with me from primary school. I had a few secondary school friends, but given how I left for London soon after university, my ability to keep in touch was diminished. Also, having been married at 21, I had a full and wonderful life as a husband (and soon thereafter a father) when my contemporaries were busy being friends. My once best friend now lives near Wales. I rarely hear from him or see him. I'm sure if we were both honest we would admit that neither of us misses the other.
When I was at the heart of a family my need for friends – and the space in my life for friends – was very different. Now that I am rediscovering myself, I have found that dormant acquaintances have morphed into special friends. And as I stood next to Charlie on the terraces at Arsenal having taken him to his first football match, I realised how lucky I am to have friends like him.
The Ivy's irresistible when it makes a hash of it I've never actually been totally sure what corned beef is. I was aware that it was some sort of meat, probably beef (clue in the title). On picking through it, I never managed to identify anything at all corny. So the name confused me. Yet, confusion aside, I have always liked it. It's a controversial product to like, growing up in a Sikh household where all things beefy are banned. I would steal quiet moments when out of the house and gorge on a corned beef and tomato sandwich. Delicious.
Through the years, I have managed to wean myself off corned beef. That was until last Wednesday. I was at The Ivy for lunch and can't pretend I wasn't enjoying the superlative service of what must be one of the most elegant dining rooms in the country. The menu is a cornucopia of culinary delights: possibly the most difficult menu to select from.
Yet my eye was caught by corned beef hash. Surely the only way to improve corned beef is to mash it up with potato before frying it, serving it with a couple of beautifully fried eggs? I had to have it. And I did. And it didn't disappoint.
