Dear the music industry

Living with a man who works in radio has taught me something – not a lot, but something. I am a nightmare for any radio station that wants to ‘target’ a particular audience. It’s not me personally they would have the problem with, but the person I represent (all wry smiles and comical observations on my persona can be directly referred to my bird flipping finger). 

My musical tastes are not representative of my age, gender, ethnicity, the place I grew up, my role as a ‘responsible mother’ or ‘professional’, or what is fashionable or popular. If someone was doing a vox pop in the street and said: “what sort of music are you into?”, I would either be unable to answer or we’d be there for a long time as I listed everything from the Racoons theme tune to Olly Murs’ ‘Dance with me tonight’, Barry Manilow’s Copa Cabana, and even Def Leppard’s ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me’ – if you’re reading this Jo Shilton, I blame you solely for that one! 

I suppose like your personality, your musical tastes and interests are shaped from a young age. As a tiddler (I’m not saying toddler, as sadly I think I may have been a bit older and should have known better) the music I mainly heard of course was the stuff that came out of my Mum and Dad’s record player. 

One particular LP was purchased specifically for me and my sister. Dad’s idol, Ralph Mctell put together a collection of medleys about animals, appropriately named, Alphabet Zoo (for those of you now going “who the bejeses is Ralph Mctell?” most people tend to resolve their confusion when you say he’s the man who sang ‘Streets of London’)

As much as I enjoyed Holly the Hedgehog and Ollie the Otter, the all-time favourite for little innocent me was Kenny the Kangaroo. I loved that bouncing marsupial! 

Now being a parent myself, I have discovered that when your child does something amusing, particularly in reaction to a song, or a noise, or something you do yourself, however embarrassing that could be for them in the future, you’re tempted to do it again and again, particularly when you have an audience. 

In my Dad’s case, this was no more true than when Ralph cracked open a chorus of Kenny the Kangaroo. For some reason, every time I heard that song, I had some sort of Pavlovian reaction and would grab on to the back of something - a chair, a table, my sister – and just bounce. In fact, if I hear that song now, I couldn’t guarantee I could keep my feet firmly on the ground!

So that was where my musical education began, bouncing with no thought for who’s with me, or what’s going on around me. A common theme that has joined me in adulthood.

Growing up, I grew rather attached to the works of Billy Joel, The Eagles, Simon and Garfunkel, the Beach Boys, the Beatles, even a touch of UB40, as many of our holidays were spent in the south of France and my parents’ preferred choice of transport was a two-day car journey. 

Very quickly you can get through a lot of cassettes, and become accustomed to countless re-windings of Desperado (Mother) and the full eight and a half minute rendition of American Pie, when “A long, long time ago” seems to be the last time you heard another song – for those of you people born in the 90’s, this wasn’t a Madonna original, look up a man called Don Mclean to enhance your pub quiz knowledge. 

I have to say though, to this day, I would rather hear Billy Joel rattling out Piano Man, than Justin Bieber murdering a melody, while making sure his quaint little quiff is perfectly positioned.

And this, ladies and gentleman, leads us swiftly to my 30-year-old self, and my inability to look cool in any way when it comes to my musical choices (or in any other way really, but let’s just focus on one form of reputation bashing at a time!)

It isn’t very often these days that I frequent a dance floor, or am to be found in the drinking establishments of the city of Nottingham, but in honour of the arrival of decade number four, myself and a select few (I believe others may have feared the worst, and they would have been right!) headed out to sample the nightlife – or as my best pal Laura puts it, go for some drinkies and a boogie!

I know it’s not really acceptable to refer to anything as a disco, and I can’t imagine even the lowest-of-the low bars and clubs (we went to them all by the way) would regard their ‘offer’ as a disco. But I have to say, I can’t get enough of them!

I tried so hard for the first two hours of the evening to look remotely sophisticated, drink cocktails, not make reference at 9pm to the fact that I would normally be ready for bed by this point, and appear to all intent and purposes ‘cool’. But it was not to be. I felt the draw of the dingy..the metaphorical fisherman’s rod hooking my mouth and dragging me in, it was time to hit Reflex! 

Anyone who has been to Reflex in Nottingham will probably make reference to the revolving dance floor, and the hoards queuing up in the rain to experience such a spectacle (this may never have actually been the case, but in my warped, often drunken memory from yesteryear, this was in fact true). 

However as we turned the corner to find there was nobody battling to get in, and the ‘VIP guests’ queue looked like a panel of onlookers from Jeremy Kyle, I should have taken note. But I could hear Wham blaring out from inside and like a fly heading towards the lamp, I was in there. 

Getting our drinks we headed up the stairs towards the dancing arena. Almost blind to anything around us, we put our bags on the floor and started to dance around them (old school). For some reason the lights were quite bright so you could see everything. Something I now realise you should never have to see when in Reflex. 

The room we were in looked somewhat like the interior to a ‘cheap as chips’ multi-storey car park, with a revolving steel circle in the middle, that looked even sadder than the room itself, as it had slowed down to almost just a stutter. There appeared to be hardly anyone else in the centre of the room, apart from a couple of middle aged women with tattoos on their boobs who were grinding suggestively to a rather pleased looking tantastic and wrinkly man in the corner. 

Gathered around the edge of the room however, like the hyenas in the elephant’s graveyard on The Lion King, was a collection of ageing men, all effectively wearing the same grey jumpers, and staring not too inconspicuously at my incredibly attractive sister and her two equally stunning friends as they formed a conga-style train on the stuttering dance floor, bouncing up and down to Tiffany’s ‘I think we’re alone now’.

It was at this point I concurred with my friend’s nod to the door, and we made a hasty exit.

Are my musical tastes that bad that I can only share them with Steptoe and Kathy Burke lookalikes, writhing around like retired pole dancers with a dicky hip?

You’ll be comforted to know that our evening didn’t end at 10pm in the doorway of said establishment. In fact we even got in free to the 80’s and 90’s fest next door for saying how disgusting Reflex was – the little things eh?! 

Our final couple of hours were spent dancing in that Pavlovian style to anything from Backstreet Boys, Bewitched, Peter Andre and Spice Girls, to Chaka Demus and Pliers and Inner Circle (la la la la long). Yes, when Whigfield’s Saturday Night came on, despite my feet telling me I may develop bunions overnight if I carry on, I regurgitated the dance routine like a reflex (if you pardon the pun.)

So whether it’s Kenny the Kangaroo or Chesney Hawkes, this girl will dance. Not well, or with any grace, dignity or rhythm, but who needs rhythm when you can bounce, jump and wiggle? 

Now, let’s do everything we can to get Kenny the Kangaroo to Number One – YouTube ladies and gentleman!

Dear My Twenties

As I stand on the cusp of leaving my twenties and entering my fourth decade, I thought it would be only fair to the past ten years to reflect on the ups, downs and comical episodes that got me to 30..there you go, I said it. Thirty. 

I suppose the classic answers, when people ask what would you like to do before you turn 30, are things like, travel the world, find the job you love, get married, have a baby and buy your first home.

I’m pleased to say that I have seen a fair bit of the world now, thanks to my husband who is far braver than me and got me on a long haul plane as quickly as he could! I can also thank him for daring to marry me and collaborate with me on the Erin project – much like the Eden project, just a lot more fun!

If someone would have asked me at 19, what I wanted to happen in my twenties, I can’t imagine I would have said “I want to get my heart broken” or “I want to learn what it’s like to have £19.70 left in my account to last me a week”. You’d never ask for these things, but they have surely got to be the things that shape us?

When I was 20, I was right royally dumped by, who I can quite happily say in hindsight was a horrible boy (polite and edited version), and I can only hope for the female population has become a better man (doubtful, but we can only hope to find out more on a future episode of Jeremy Kyle). 

I spent over four years with this waste of pavement, but I wouldn’t say they were wasted years. I don’t think you should ever regret the past as it made you what you are today. But I do look back and laugh at my former self. 

Having my heart broken, however hard at the time, was the best thing that ever happened to me. I learned a lot from that boy. I learned to never go for someone who fancies themselves more than you, always avoid those men who don’t get on with your friends, and when they start to talk too much about the 16-year-old admin girl at work..they’re probably sleeping with her!

I only thank the lord, and any other Gods who are listening in, that I was dumped. I can only imagine how terrible life would have been if I’d have stuck around. Phew, that was a close call.

And then there’s of course those first few years of living on your own. It’s such a leap from the safe sanctuary that is Mum and Dad’s house. Of course there’s huge benefits. You’ve got yourself on the property ladder, you have your freedom, you can go to the toilet with the door open, you can decorate however you like, you can wake up whatever time you like on a Saturday morning (without the drone of the hoover outside your bedroom door.) 

On the other hand, if you want to eat, you have to cook it yourself, you have a house to clean, lawn to mow, clothes to wash and ironing to do. Not to mention having to afford it all. In my first year of living on my own, I went from having more disposable income than I have ever had, living at home and paying my Mum and Dad a token £40 a month board, to having a mortgage, bills, food and travel to pay for, which left me with about £50 a week spare – which, as I discovered, disappears very quickly! 

One month I had about six birthdays to pay for (damn you March!), and when I looked at my bank over a week before pay day, what greeted me wasn’t welcoming - £19.70. But it’s amazing what you can do with Asda, less than £20 and a couple of visits to Mum and Dad’s for tea.

The past decade has taught me a number of little things that I think it’s worth sharing. Whether you’re in the middle of your twenties, looking forward to spending time in them, or see them in some misty distant memory, please take note:

• - If someone challenges you to a ‘dance off’ in the middle of Love Shack after one too many cheeky milks, politely suggest you have blisters and couldn’t possibly participate. Don’t embrace the challenge, attempt some sort of Flashdance style drop to your knees, and fall flat on your bum, in the centre of a pool of stale beer.
• - When taking part in a pub quiz, fully aware that you have about as much general knowledge as TOWIE has brain cells, don’t attempt to answer a question, unless you absolutely know the answer. And think before you speak. Do not confuse Whitney Houston with Sadam Hussein, and if you do, don’t say it out loud! 
• - Make sure you at least once use the phrase ‘let’s give Malia a go’. You’ll see things you never thought you’d witness in real life, you’ll never be more delighted to be in the presence of a 45-year-old copper from Bolton - who booked a last minute deal on Teletext, hoping for a quiet stay in a sleepy fishing village – when a group of men dressed as women start approaching you with their pinafore dresses over their head and no undergarments. You have visit once, but you’ll also never want to return as long as you live
• - Always be a cheap date. Ask for too much, and you really are doing just that. Mine and Mark’s first official date (after years of drinks out) cost him a few gin and tonics, a very cheap and questionably dog or horse curry and a couple of late night episodes of Only Fools and Horses. Sold. 
• - Never ever refer to your 38-year-old boss as middle-aged, because very soon you’re going to be looking not too far into the future and realising that 38 is not in any way middle-aged and you may have just caused the poor woman to buy out the anti-wrinkle aisle in Boots.

In essence my twenties dealt me a good hand, I’ve danced more than Bez from the Happy Mondays, have married a fantastic man, had a beautiful daughter, been within ‘breaching an injunction order’ distance from Gary Barlow five times, cuddled Chesney Hawkes, discovered curry, had Breakfast at Tiffany’s, been to Wembley with Mansfield Town, learned how to make the perfect Victoria Sponge, made lifelong friends, found old friends again, and built a Christmas decoration collection to rival the North Pole. What more can a girl ask for really?

Looking ahead to my thirties, I expect to make just as many errors in judgement, have just as many challenging and equally hilarious episodes, and be just as surprised by each and every year as I go. 

Hopefully my twenties have taught me something…but I can’t promise not to give in to the prospect of a dance-off every now and again!

Dear old wives

Isn’t it amazing when there’s a groundbreaking discovery. Something that changes our lives beyond recognition. This week we hear that a baby girl has been cured of the HIV virus in America which, although the tabloids seem to have sidelined this story for a piece on the Queen having a tummy bug, has to be the start of a life altering solution to a worldwide epidemic.

Well over the past week, I have also made a groundbreaking discovery of my own. Not necessarily something that will warrant headlines, change the world, save lives, or change the pattern of history. But something that will make a difference to the day to day for mothers of young children everywhere. Now don’t get me wrong, I am assuming when most of you read this, you will have already heard of this 'discovery', and my astonishment will pale into insignificance.

And just to add the disclaimer now, this wasn’t something I discovered alone. In fact it was information passed on by one of my mum’s friends, so really, I have just been the grateful beneficiary of an old wives’ tale – but I don’t care, I’m sharing!

Since Erin (our seven-month-old little lady for you new arrivals) was around two months old, she has had the dreaded cradle cap. Having a lot of hair, the poor thing either looks like Colin from the Brittass Empire (all under 25’s stop looking confused) with large flakes of skin falling from her head or sticking up tempting you to pick them, or she looks like she’s being treated for first degree burns after I’ve lathered her with E45 cream.

I’ve asked numerous people, looked it up on the internet, asked the doctor, brought all the recommended creams and shampoos, and persistently tried all these remedies, with no success.

But then last week my mum happened to mention something her friend tried out, an old wives’ tale that suggests if you cover the baby’s head in Vaseline (or Tesco own brand petroleum jelly as us cheap skates tend to favour), leave it for a day, then wash it off (which will also take about a day) and it will go and never come back.

With my sceptical head on, I assumed this would have no more affect than the very expensive creams, shampoos and treatments I had already tried. But willing to give anything ago, I duly paid my 57p and put those old wives to the test.

Aside from Erin looking like she was walking around with a cling film hat on, it wasn’t as messy and slimy as I expected it to be, so I was happy to leave it for the whole day.

I was shocked to discover half way through the day that the scaly skin on her head appeared to be just lifting off. Without touching it, Erin’s head was starting to shed its load of cradle cap. My scepticism was subsiding with every hour, and I am ashamed to say I was finding myself excited about bath time, wondering whether we could wash this damn stuff off.

Well, despite it taking almost a bottle of shampoo to remove the Vaseline, which had hardened a little to form a bit of a moulded plastic cover, I can report that...it went. The cradle cap just disappeared. So far we have no signs of it returning (she says crossing fingers and toes and gripping on to the nearest wooden chair).

And this made me think that maybe we should pay less attention to what the books or the websites say, or fall less for the expensive branded lotions, potions and solutions, and rely a little more on ‘what grandma used to say’ or the ‘someone once told me’.

I asked some of my friends about the old wives’ tales that had worked for them, or that they believed in. 

A mixed bag of responses, ranging from ‘sitting on a cold wall will give you piles’ (or bottom grapes as it was so beautifully put), to ‘don’t pull a face just in case the wind changes’, and even ‘never look a gift horse in the mouth’.

All of these I think, even following some pretty solid evidence as to their effectiveness (or in reality questionable anecdotal evidence at best), I will choose to ignore. But it did make me start to think that perhaps paying attention to the old adages every now and again, and not believing the modern way is always best, could be a far more open-minded approach to life.

Don’t get me wrong. The minute I have a question about motherhood, I will follow my usual pattern of research – Google it, text my friend Tracy, call mum and at last resort, hazard a guess, or even trust my inexperienced, but reasonably sensible judgement.  

But after this experience, when one of the old ladies in my grandad’s nursing home starts a sentence with “you know in our day” I may just pay a little more attention this time. Of course, many of the people in the nursing home have the exact same conversation with me every time I go, or have more to say on the evening’s dinner menu than anything of any substance. But just occasionally, in some brief moments of clarity, I may have been missing some little gems of advice.

In fact, all jokes aside, it has made me feel a little arrogant to think that me or any other twenty something (I’m hanging on to being able to say that, even if I have just days to go) would know better than any of these ‘old wives’.

And I would like to have it confirmed to me at some point, just how old you have to be to dispense first hand old wives’ tales. I’m hoping to build up a few myself over the coming years, and I just don’t want them to be too diluted or even forgotten while I’m waiting too long to become old enough to be an old wife (any sniggering from that husband of mine about the fact that I am soon venturing into my fourth decade, will be duly ignored and given short thrift.) Answers on a postcard to...

In essence this blog entry is dedicated to Tracy, my mum’s friend with her tub of Vaseline and probably numerous empty bottles of baby shampoo.