whimsy


Further to a previous Rock Notes post, it occurred to me that the correct frame of reference for the slightly aggrieved London hardcase calling for Thompson was, of course, Spiny Norman:

DINSDALE!

DINSDALE!

It then occurred further that the Netflix pilot would only succeed with the casting of Emma Thompson:

emma-thompson

So yeah, Emma Thompson plays Emma Thomsen, a successful Scandinavian crime novelist, who spends the series battling the attentions of a giant animated hedgehog, Spiny Normal (n.b. hilarious British comedy reference/anxiety of inference gag). Spiny Normal is trying to get her to front a crime procedural he has written about hedgehogs. He thinks she needs a comeback vehicle, which of course she does not, being the successful Scandinavian crime novelist rather than the British actress.

Thomsen has to resolve this mysterious collision of worlds, aided/hindered by her patronus, Thomson the cat. Thomson knows how to contact everyone in the multiverse but is perpetually popping off for a pee.

thomson-local

Thomson would probably have to be voiced by John Thomson (Jazz Club).

…I have actually got up to about Episode 4, if anyone’s interested in bunging me a few quid.

The last jam slewed into a slough of despond somewhat. This week, the three of us (vocals, drums and guitar) regrouped and set about reconstruction. The main song we did has a nifty melody and words, and we managed a harmony. It was a unanimously agreed Good Sesh.

The best thing about that song is that the version on my phone makes one of the drum patterns sound like someone saying “Thompson!”, in a kind of disgruntled Cockney voice. Weird, but unmistakable. Sort of Guy Richie character? He’s clearly aggrieved at Thompson, or at least trying desperately to get his attention.

 We may develop this germ of a notion into an eight-part series for Netflix. Meanwhile, the Lloyd-Webber inspired Sweeney musical continues to develop well, with “Falling down the apples” now set to close the first act.

Saturday night’s alright for loafing. I’m a big fan of IFTTT at the moment. It’s great for automating fiddly tasks I’d never get round to otherwise. “Add” a track on Spotify, for example, and it could send it to a specific playlist. Does the same with SoundCloud, for another example. So, one might generate a nice evening selection wivout scarcely lifting a thumb.

Fiddle de dee, loaf, loaf, loaf. Apparently, yesterday was National Guacamole Day. Some avocado marketing guru is patting themselves on the back for that, I’m sure. However, as a fan of guac, it deserves a nod. SFA, take it away!

I need revolution, ’cause I can’t afford the price of cake.

This time, the orange streetlight loomed large in the foreground. With an irritated click of the tongue, Bryan took two steps to the right. 

Right, he thought. 

The overgrown privet now shaded the lamp on its post, but a cloud had appeared along the top of the moon, occluding the upper half. Across the garden Jean, crouching in the shadows, shifted on her haunches.

“How much longer now, Bry?”

“Just a minute love.” Bryan paused, willing the clouds south west with a wave of his hand. Not much cop, he mumbled. 

“What was that, Bry?”

“I said, wrong f stop.” Stalling. “Here we go.” Mercifully, the cloud scudded off, revealing the huge orb of the full moon. “Right, now!” Jean rose slowly from her position by the bay and, as Bryan clicked, she stood with her arms aloft, the brilliant white of the moon illuminating her. 
A few moments passed.

“Well, have you done?”

“What? Oh, yes, sorry love.” Bryan, flustered, fiddling with the dial on the camera, started towards where Jean’s dressing gown hung from a branch on the bay. A fresh cloud scudded over the moon. In the sudden dark, he clouted his foot on the low fence around the lavender bed and with a grunt hit the turf.

“Bry? Y’daft beggar.”

“I’m alright, love… Hang on.” As the moon emerged, Jean watched Bryan heave himself to his hands and knees, groping about for his glasses, which sat askew on his moonlit scalp.

 She stifled a giggle and reached for her dressing gown. Pulling it on and fishing her spectacles from the pocket, she started over to help.

The full moon shone down.

Oma brought round some bags of play sand today, very thoughtfully.

I’ll just put the little wooden sandpit back together, then, I thought confidently.

Some hours later…

image

Silas Marner, the deceptively slight novel by George Eliot, can still pose problems for modern, young readers. If you are unfamiliar with the book, the main character is an alienated weaver-turned-miser who loses his gold but regains his soul (etc). He has two leather bags full of guineas, gold coins he likes to fondle lovingly.

Tonight I was marking some empathic work from students – mostly diary entries in character. One of them had written:

My genies. My golden shiny genies. Why did you have to leave me?

The recasting of Silas Marner as a magical realist tale woven through with 1001 Nights is a wonderful notion. It even got better:

Gem Rodney, I bet it was that man. He was always jealous of my genies. Oh, how my genies overpowered his.

…and a jinn warfare aspect would certainly enliven the novel for a contemporary teen audience.

While we’re mashing:

From Inspector Bastoni Calls, by Marco Uoffo

‘The day the family were visited by Inspector Bastoni, Sharon and Valerie had been playing happily in the garden. Beyond the patio’s tessellated heptagons, where a jug of lemonade and two cups sat on a small wooden table with two wooden chairs, across the short lawn through the three pear trees, and then in the cool shade after of the bigger plants bearing apples and plums, Valerie chased Sharon, and Sharon chased Valerie. Both wore white crinoline dresses, cool for summer, which blazed around them.’

 

 

Next Page »