I've been struck down with that cold that's doing the rounds, though it had the decency to hold off until my final, final Downton Abbey essay edits had been completed. I think submitting that gave me permission to collapse and my body took the invitation without much hesitation. So here we are.
Fortunately, I have found some upsides to this being ill malarkey. Most of you know I don't exactly slow down but I've been forced to do just that and I'm actually relaxing for a change. I was already rereading Aurora Floyd slowly as part of my thesis work but I've finished that pretty speedily, thanks to waking up at half four this morning and having a three hour reading session. I'm going to indulge in some 'fun' rereading until I recover. I don't much have time to reread these days and there are some books on my shelves I really want to revisit such as Sing You Home (Jodi Picoult), Carol(Patricia Highsmith) and All Passion Spent (Vita Sackville West). I'm hoping to get through those three at least by the weekend.
I'm not entirely resting though - I'm incapable of it. I'm still working on some novel edits but the pressure's not there because I'm just doing as much as I feel like. And the rest of my free time is being spent with these lovely ladies because that's what I do when I'm unwell...
Did anyone else watch Victoria Wood's Nice Cup of Tea over two nights last week? I found it very entertaining, particularly the last fifteen minutes or so when Wood was discussing the future of tea - if it has one. The focus group with young people, and deciding whether Lady Gaga was a good advertising technique, got me thinking about when I first started drinking tea and enjoying it.
The two most formative years of my life were between 16 and 18, while I was at college. That was the time I began writing (it might've been only fan fiction but it certainly helped me with things like plotting, dialogue and characterisation so I'm not arguing), it was the time when my passing appreciation of musical film and theatre grew into a love that would prove to be my favourite way of working through...anything. It was also the time I started drinking tea.
Picture it (I suddenly feel like Sophie Petrillo): I would leave home or college (sometimes not actually bothering to attend when I was meant to be) and walk the few miles to my grandparents house. All I had on me besides the essentials was a battered tiny bag containing the A5 spiral-backed notebooks I accumulated full of fan fiction, a pen and possibly my latest 40s era CD. It was quite a walk over there, the final quarter being uphill, stretching past Pinderfields Hospital. That was the moment when I used to deliberately check there was no one behind me and start singing along to whatever track I was listening to at that moment. Frequently, I made sure it was this one:
When I got to the bungalow my grandmother put the kettle on straight away. If I was lucky my grandfather was away on his mobility scooter watching lawn bowls. The perk of this was that we'd be able to watch Murder, She Wrote in the living room instead of sitting on the floor in the bedroom. If I was early I'd have my first cup of tea in my gorgeous koala mug (still my cup of choice when visiting her) at the kitchen table with my notebook open but as soon as this theme music started I was into the living room like a shot, my grandmother already having put the kettle on for a fresh cuppa (with plenty of biscuits) as we watched Angela Lansbury:
Afterwards I retired to the kitchen, with another cuppa, to write and write and write until the time came for me to leave their bungalow and walk the mile or so to my other grandmother's where most of my evenings ended. The amount of writing I got done in those hours, though, was prolific. And you know the funny thing? I never drank tea anywhere else at this point. Not at home, not at my maternal grandmother's, not out in town. It was my special drink for there, made just right.
I started drinking it again at university to get that home feeling. These days I need a drip installed to manage my intake. Years ago I cut out the sugar but I have it quite weak and with a big dribble of milk. There's also an obsession with fruit and herbal teas but that's a post for another day. In the meantime, say hello to Sophia!
(In this post I managed to talk about Victoria Wood, Murder, She Wrote and The Golden Girls - all things that kept me going through those tricky college years!)
Although I'm a relative novice when it comes to Eve Arden's films (I've only seen five to date), I've recently encountered her in two small roles that utilised the best of her caustic wit and damning facial expressions. Ziegfield Girl (1941) and Stage Door (1937) are pretty good films, even if you take away Arden's contributions, but she's the actress who makes them as far as I'm concerned. Not bad for a woman who invariably played the side-kick in Hollywood movies.
Why do I love Eve? Well, I have a great affection for sarcastic women in films. Think of the wonderful Jane Russell in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1953) or Virginia O'Brien's underrated role in The Harvey Girls (1946). Bea Arthur stole my heart in the television series The Golden Girls(1985-92) for the simple reason that her outlook matched my own - even at a very young age. Sometimes the world is just so stupid that you need characters played by these wonderful actresses to point it out. But there's something else these roles (and those portrayed by Eve) have in common: the characters have a underbelly of emotion that they release to those that matter when it matters. I'm talking about Dorothy Shaw's (Russell) affection for her friend in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, whom she would defend to the hilt in spite of her flaws. I'm referring to Dorothy Zbornak's mask slipping as she confronts the potential loss of her mother in series one of The Golden Girls. And in The Harvey Girls, Alma helps out her new friend the blacksmith, giving rise to one of my favourite songs (see clip below). As for Eve Arden, her role as Eve in Stage Door was full of sarcasm until she felt compelled to comfort her friend, played by Andrea Leeds, who had just lost out on a part. These characters are fully-functioning human beings but they like to cover it up with a barrage of sarcasm. That's me all over.
Like many people, my first exposure to Eve Arden was in her role as Principal McGee in Grease (1978). But since then I've seen Cover Girl (1944) and Tea for Two (1950). It was the latter with Doris Day that beguiled me. What's not to like about a smart-talking, strong-willed female?
