That’s disturbing

Let’s talk about bladders and other disturbing stuff! Are you sitting comfortably? Might be best to visit the toilet now, before we begin.

I was struck by the discussion about Bianca Jagger and whether or not she used flash to take photos at the opera. It doesn’t matter whether she’s famous. It’s neither more or less right for the famous to behave badly. And the way people use phone cameras or other digital cameras it’s often hard to tell if the bright light you see is flash, or simply the camera going about its business.

At the recent Joan Baez concert I went to, it said flash photography was not permitted, which I took to mean that photos without were fine, so I got my camera out. But after a while I felt the light visible when I used it was not acceptable to people sitting opposite me, so I put it away, and only got it out again at the end when absolutely everyone was taking pictures, with flash and everything.

Daughter has been known to agonise over the legality of taking pictures at concerts. It often says you mustn’t. But people still do. I don’t feel there should be any ‘rights’ to images of someone singing on a stage. (Different for theatre productions.) What I do feel is that people shouldn’t disturb others.

The Guardian’s theatre critic Lyn Gardner reckons ‘people’s bladders have quite clearly got weaker over the last 20 years,’ and I know what she means, but suspect the answer is that they haven’t. What has changed is people’s habit of drinking indiscriminately at all times, regardless of what they are about to do, like go to the theatre. And also that they have got neither the instinct to try and ‘hold it in’ nor the inclination not to keep leaving their seats from – usually – the middle of the row.

If I have to ‘go out’ mid performance I tend to wait for a suitable moment both for leaving and for returning. I was a bit disconcerted at the National Theatre to find that the usher hovered anxiously outside the Ladies until I emerged again, and checked I was all right. Very caring and sensible, but I’m glad I didn’t know until then.

Went to the MEN arena for an S Club concert many years ago. Was startled by how the audience kept popping out for food and drink in the middle of the show. I suppose it’s the sports arena mentality, coupled with the sheer noise level at these events.

The understanding of what disturbs others varies from country to country. During Roger Whittaker’s concert in Cologne I waited for a song to finish before returning to my seat, only to have the usher urging me to just go in. She clearly thought I was stark raving mad for thinking of others.

And speaking of Roger; I once sat next to a woman, who was happily singing along to every single song. Having exchanged pleasantries on arrival, I felt it would be rude to complain, even though she was ruining ‘my’ concert. I thought if I asked her to shut up, I would ruin her evening instead. I gritted my teeth, almost cheered when Roger got to a song she didn’t know, and after the interval I asked the Resident IT Consultant to swap seats with me.

It is not always the audience who has mishaps, either. I recall the tiny St Paul’s chorister who was sick on stage and had to be bundled out by an older ‘boy.’

To get back to the bladders, it all depends on how long you have to sit through something. Films are frequently dreadfully long these days, with the added pain of too many commercials and too many trailers. With no interval necessary as cinema equipment improves, we simply have to pop out mid-film. And seeing as they want us to buy buckets of fizzy drinks, how can they possibly mind the running in and out? Nor is popcorn terribly silent to eat, and not odour free, either.

At least films don’t talk back to the audience when they rustle their sweet wrappers a little too loudly. Perhaps they should.

Los Backstreet Primos

It’s time for this year’s ¡Viva! at Cornerhouse, and what an excellent start I had last night, seeing Primos by Daniel Sánchez Arévalo. It is easily the best film I have seen in Cornerhouse’s Spanish language film festival over the last few years, and as I came out of the cinema I was busy planning how to get hold of a copy for friends and family to enjoy too.

Having seen Daniel’s Gordos last year, I thought I knew what to expect; a fun film. But this was so much more, funny, romantic, and with that little bit extra that made it more memorable than other funny and romantic films.

The plot is simple enough, with Diego having been left in the lurch by Yolanda, and his two cousins (primos) Julián and José Miguel stepping in to prevent him from going crazy. Except they are possibly crazier than Diego ever will be, so their impromptu trip ‘home’ doesn’t turn out as they think.

Although, perhaps they aren’t crazy either. They have been formed by the people around them, and coming back home they meet up with their pasts. There is the drunk, former owner of the video rental shop and his beautiful daughter. There is Diego’s first love Martina, and her young son, who proves wiser in many ways than the three primos. And it’s hardly surprising that Spanish men are so very preoccupied with cojones and the size of them, if they are introduced to this ‘important’ subject so early on.

New and old romances flourish in beautiful settings, and the primos revisit their youthful impersonation of the Backstreet Boys, as well as the local seaside theme park. As I’ve noticed with other non-English language films, there is none of the prudish hang-ups about going topless on the beach, or of being seen perching on the toilet.

And breakfasting isn’t always easy, or ‘desayunar no siempre es fácil,’ as Diego finds.

It’s fluffy and silly, but so very wonderful.

30 seconds of fame

15 minutes is really hoping for too much. In fact, I wouldn’t want that 15 minutes of fame. My seconds were more than enough.

I was reminded of this embarrassing event when author Lucy Coats told ‘all’ about her recent interview on Blue Peter. In a way it was a relief to hear how much time was spent on what turned out to be so brief. And it’s a lesson that you don’t need to go to too much effort. Just be yourself.

And whatever you do, don’t bother cleaning the house.

For me it was walking home from school with Offspring. Just an ordinary afternoon, with Daughter in the pushchair and Son walking next to me. We saw these weird types outside the local theatre, and I realised I was about to be used for something.

The short one told me they were from the BBC and the news was that the theatre was due for demolition and what did I think of that? I told him. (I was quite fluent and sensible, on the whole.)

Then he said, would I mind repeating that on camera, and I couldn’t very well refuse. Except I was barely able to recall what I said the first time, so sounded pretty incoherent. I went home and put the video recorder on for the local news. I had dinner to make and people to feed.

It was embarrassingly bad. I had no idea I sound like that. I wondered how anyone could possibly put up with me. Two more people were interviewed. My neighbour across the road, and another school-run mother.

Afterwards the local children stared at me, and my friend’s husband told her to ask for my autograph. Luckily for her she didn’t.

The theatre went some months after. In its place is the ‘magnificent’ entrance to the new car park for the public school which owned the building and had been waiting to get rid of it. At least the parents collecting their children by car have somewhere to park.

We no longer have the Roger Whittaker concerts or the pantos or any of the other entertainment in this former 1930s cinema.

The thirteenth day

As I raised my blinds the other morning I noticed immediately that the neighbours opposite had removed their Christmas decorations as soon as New Year was done and dusted. I had half suspected they would. I know it sort of makes sense, what with people going back to work.

But I do feel harassed into doing the same, and I don’t WANT TO! (Sorry about the shouting.) I want to keep my stuff up until January 13th, as I was brought up to do. But, not wanting to be too difficult, I’m willing to adapt and clear the decorations sooner.

But I do feel this coming weekend is enough. I want to feel that Twelfth Night (and the subsequent thirteenth day) is permitted to exist. We’re not Russians, I know, but I’ve been cheated out of my third period of celebrating. Christmas is shorter here. Then there is New Year. After which there ought to be a Twelfth Night (5th January), but isn’t.

The good thing about going back to work after New Year’s Day was always that soon you’d be off again. And we could never have celebrated Favourite Aunt’s birthday so thoroughly without her day being a half day, and everyone having time for carting flowers around town and eating too much cake and chocolates, again.

When I emigrated I was aware of the different circumstances, but I was so sure I could incorporate that festive 5th of January into my new life. I just knew I was right. It took only one Christmas to see I was deluded, and perhaps another to give up. But after all these years it still feels as if something’s missing.

At Ahlströms Konditori

I’m running out of my Gothenburg konditoris. A long time ago there was the lovely Bräutigams, which is now an Irish pub or something. If you want Bräutigams goods you can have the marzipan, but only from their factory…

Then there were a couple of other nice ones, where we used to go. One has since closed and the other was so trendied up a few years ago that one visit was more than enough.

But in the company of konditori specialist Pippi, I have been to Ahlströms Konditori, maybe three times. It’s generally been pleasant and suitably traditional and with reasonably good pastries. Which is why I popped in yesterday, when I needed somewhere nice to sit, not to mention a cup of tea.

I chose a beautifully green green cake, and I must say it tasted good too. I suppose they have realised people like the green marzipan and decided to have three layers of it, instead of just the one.

And then there was the tea. It’s always tricky with tea in Sweden. Not always good, and each konditori arranges their tea in their own different way. Coffee is uncomplicated, but tea isn’t. I vaguely remembered that here the tea (as in the tea leaves) was handed out from behind the counter. I asked for my ‘rhubarb cream’ (yes, really) and picked up a mug and put milk in while I waited.

I shouldn’t have. The tea leaves were handed to me in hot water in a teacup. A large, wide one, with saucer and teaspoon and the works. ‘Oh,’ said I. ‘I already have this mug. With milk.’ How pathetic.

‘That’s for coffee,’ she said.

‘I didn’t know. I come here so rarely. And I find a mug so much easier to handle, than a wide cup.’ (Some places might at this point have let me drink my tea from a coffee mug.)

‘Well, you’ll have to remember that next time, then.’ She said.

I suspect there might not be one. A next time, that is.

Especially after sitting at a table squeezed in next to the coffee counter, with a great view of the used trays trolley. I drank my (very nice) tea pretty fast, gobbled up the triple marzipan and left.

It’s a cultural thing

I couldn’t remember why, but I did know I desperately did not want to see Black Swan. Which was a shame, as it was the only film on at Borås Röda Kvarn, when School Friend asked if we wanted to come with her. Daughter sacrificed herself and went along, while I stayed at home ‘away’ and blogged and stole sweet stuff in my host’s larder.

When she returned, Daughter said I’d been right to stay away. Something to do with a nail file (?) and legs?

Anyway, I asked her to take a few pictures of this lovely Art Deco cinema, which played such an important part in my past. It’s where Aunt and Uncle Cinema worked, and where as a child I was able to see many films free of charge.

I really must return one day when there is a ‘friendlier’ film on.

As a cultural counter to this film business, Son went along to a football match with Mr School Friend. Elfsborg were playing Göteborg IFK. Naturally they won. So the ‘boys’ were satisfied. Even I was satisfied, and that’s despite needing to sit through all the sports news on television in order to see all the goals from the match.

Teeth

I’ve got teeth on the mind. Well, actually, mine are in my mouth, where they belong. But I think about them. Especially when they hurt. But it’s not those teeth I meant, really. Although I swear by Swedish dentists, and I took my teeth to see one of them yesterday.

What I’ve really been saying and thinking this last week is that Swedes have no teeth (other than those beautiful, well looked after things they chew with). The most recent thing to make me think toothless thoughts was the article in the paper last week, detailing how a listed shop building in Halmstad was stripped of what made it special. And nobody can do a bl**dy thing about it!

It’s like chopping down trees. Once they’re gone they’re gone. In this case the town’s ‘listed buildings person’ discovered the violated shop front and felt sad. So he told the newspaper about it. What he should do is make more fuss, more often and more usefully. It’s not he first time I’ve seen him feeling ‘sad’ in the paper.

Anyway, I was thinking how toothless he and others are, unable to deal with this kind of thing. I was thinking of the bus driver who feebly told the teenage louts to ‘stop it’, and then shrank back and did no more. I’m thinking about all sorts of other people who should be doing things and don’t.

The paper ran an article on the student who had to move because she couldn’t stand the noise all night long from the other students (!). You’ll be relieved to hear that the landlord did nothing. And we are talking big, local authority type landlord, not a private individual.

This is in interesting contrast with my cultural shock when staying with friends who live in flats. I’ve been an exile so long and adopted these dreadful foreign habits until I no longer know what’s proper. I told one host I’d have a shower later, and received a pitying smile. Actually, I’d better shower straight away, as you aren’t allowed to after 11pm. Then there was the other friend who informed me I couldn’t use the toilet in the night. Or at least not flush. My mind immediately turned to number twos…

But all this was put right when I read this morning’s paper. I have found someone with teeth! The guard on a train threw an 11-year-old girl off the train for not having a ticket. The ticket was with an adult, who just happened to have gone to the toilet. (See, toilets again! Nothing but trouble.) The girl spoke hardly any Swedish, so couldn’t explain. Off the train she went.

The police appear to have spent twelve hours searching for her. Luckily she was still alive when found.

I then recalled the guard on my most recent train. He had teeth too. He also used them against a passenger, who also happened to be foreign. And ticketless. And my goodness, but the woman didn’t even have a credit card! I know this because he shouted so loudly at the polite – albeit so foreign – woman.

But in order to be kind to train guards, who I am sure are really lovely people, I will mention the one I encountered in June. I’m afraid it’s to do with toilets again. Neither of the train’s two toilets worked so when the train arrived where we got off, the helpful guard had called ahead and ‘those who need a wee (yes, really) can go to the front of the train (at this point my mind boggled with the unspoken possibilities…) where they will receive help.’ In actual fact, they were guided to the station staff facilities, and if they were lucky the train waited for them.

Mannen från Mallorca

I suppose you need to know your Lucia celebrations on the 13th of December in Sweden to fully appreciate the scene where the singing children are striding through a post office mid-robbery in Bo Widerberg’s film The Man From Majorca.

Somehow I suspect I appreciate it all the more for being an exile who can’t have enough traditional behaviour, especially if it takes place in my old place of work. Well, not precisely ‘my’ old place, as this was set in Stockholm 6 (‘Post offices have numbers?’, Daughter said incredulously), and I never worked there. However, I could give you a long and almost complete list of all the post offices I did work in.

Other than the Lucia in the post office bit, this is a fairly average Swedish style police film, and was probably one of the earliest of what now seems to be the norm for Nordic crime on both small and large screens.

I first came across it late one night on BBC2, back in the 1980s. We’d just bought ourselves a video recorder, so recorded the film and watched it at a more sociable hour. I suppose I must have been feeling a little homesick, or something, because the beginning in the post office really got to me. I knew exactly what it was like on the inside of the counter, except in my day I never had a robber or murderer jump in with the parcels. On the whole, that’s a good thing.

Policemen Johansson and Jarnebring are the ones who end up chasing the cold and calculating robber. They keep stumbling on clues and it doesn’t take them too long to work out who did it. The hard thing is proving it, and in true Swedish style there’s a lot of dirty politics going on in both the police force and in Government departments, and the ending is an interesting one.

This is a film full of big name actors, including Sven Wollter (most beautiful man in Sweden…). His partner Tomas von Brömssen is the more vulnerable, being lonely after a divorce. Watching him watching the Christmas Eve Disney special on television in the company of the ex-wife and children and the new husband is very painful.

No Nordic crime is complete without a well pickled drunk, and Sten Lonnert does a good job getting hopelessly lost in a monologue about boxers during his ‘interrogation’ by Tommy Johnson, who himself hides a little bottle of something in the bookcase at work.

After all these years, it was good to force Offspring to watch the film, and it’s a relief to see how well it has aged. Were it not for a lack of mobile phones it could have been set today. And that post offices no longer exist.

Do unto your children what your parents did unto you

And by that I mean nothing more sinister than parking them in front of a television screen with a bag of crisps, while you engage in more adult behaviour. By which I mean food and drink. Or you could always leave them outside the restaurant in your parked car. In the dark. While you eat.

It’s (British) adult behaviour at its weirdest.

I was enraged – yet again – by the Guardian’s travel section on ‘Where to stay’ by Sally Shalam. The lovely hotel with the wonderful food that she writes about is great if you’re encumbered by children. ‘En route to the restaurant, we spot a TV area with books and videos – you could park the kids here and have what a menu on the bar calls “posh afternoon tea”‘.

Quite. Of course you could. Did the grandparents not want to mind the little darlings then? There must have been some purpose to them being with you? Perhaps they look cute in the holiday snaps?

It’s hardly surprising British children don’t learn to go places or eat normal adult food. They’re never included.

We’re such clueless idiots that we’ve taken Offspring to most things we’ve done, however pitiful the number of those occasions might be. If we eat out they come too. If they weren’t invited to daytime ‘parties’ we tended not to go either. There was the family wedding that was to be so perfect they banned children. (To be honest, I would probably not have enjoyed it, had I attended.)

The – fancy – hotel that expected the child below the age of 12 to dine at the children’s hour, on baked beans and the like, while the older child was welcome(ish) in the real dining room at the later time. We insisted on the baked beans and the child to be allowed to dine with her family. Was she meant to sit alone in the hotel room while we ate?

They got their revenge the next morning when the waiter snootily informed us the establishment was far too grand to serve baked beans. At all.

As a little witch I was always included in adult dos, and taken to proper restaurants. I somehow grew up with the idea that Mother-of-witch liked my company. I somehow find I quite like the company of Offspring, too. Now that they are old enough to be left alone in hotel rooms, I still don’t feel it’s the point of holidays.

We always made it very clear on invitations to parties that we actively wanted people to bring their children. Generally they arrived childless, because they ‘knew we didn’t really mean it’. As hosts you look a wee bit stupid having hired that bouncy castle, but never mind.

So whether children, when they grow up, do what their parents did because it feels natural, or because they want revenge, I have no idea. But it’s good that a liberal newspaper like the Guardian is at the forefront of parents’ lib.

Getting a babysitter is one solution, though I tended to feel I wanted to enjoy Offspring’s company rather than leaving that to someone else.

And if you’re really pushed, I suggest you lock them in the car outside the restaurant. A bag of crisps will suffice while the adults force some nice food down themselves. (In fairness, I have only seen this once. It might not be a widespread tradition.)

Cream tea

I was complaining about my recent ‘cream tea’, courtesy of a German airline. Regardless of Nicola Morgan’s tale* of her Taiwanese visitor who accidentally put whipped cream in his tea and pretended it was quite nice, tea really tastes better without. (*Your cream in the tea story reminds me of when a Taiwanese man came to stay and we thought it would be nice to show him an “English” tradition. — Anyway, inevitably, he dolloped the clotted cream into his tea while our mouths were too frozen to warn him in time. He pretended it was delicious…)

So why call it cream tea?

I recall my first almost encounter with the stuff, back in January 1978. A group of us were driving from Harwich to Brighton and needed to stop and feed en route. I would guess we were in Kent, somewhere. It was Sunday evening and it was before everywhere started being open for business at all times, day and night. So we were grateful to find somewhere reasonably nice looking that was still open.

We ordered tea and scones. We knew that much. ‘Do you want cream tea?’ asked the waitress. ‘No, we’d like it with milk’ we replied, thereby narrowly avoiding a lovely treat.

I believe we all learned about cream teas during that spring term in Brighton. We certainly spent enough time at the Mock Turtle tea rooms, debriefing after exams.

Later on, also in Brighton, the Resident IT Consultant and I used to calculate whether we could afford a cream tea at the end of our Sunday walks. The tea usually won, because what’s the point of having walked to Rottingdean and then not having tea? £1 is what it cost in those far flung days.

Those foreigners not too stupid to ‘get’ what cream tea really is, tend to like it a lot. You sort of learn that it’s something you order when you’re doing touristy stuff in England (and Scotland if you visit Nicola Morgan).

Round about the time we relocated to Manchester, friend Pippi reported that someone from her local Swedish paper had visited that north western paradise, and how he had gone to the tourist information and asked where he could find somewhere nice for cream tea. They had looked at him bleakly and informed him that they didn’t engage in such things in Manchester.

Absolutely right!

Now it’s a lot easier, with lattes and muffins all over the place. And if you want cream in your tea, all you need to do is fly with certain airlines.