Ceramic Ducks.

It's 10.15am on Friday and Ali is pacing between table 12 and the window.

'John isn't here yet.' She frowns.

John is a lovely old boy who comes in every Tuesday and Friday for breakfast. He likes to do the Guardian crossword whilst he eats his salmon (half portion) and scrambled eggs (runny please).

Ali always reserves his table and puts the paper open on the right page by his cutlery. He's never late, 10am on the dot. Except today he is late and Ali is fretting.

'He'll be here in a minute,' I say and find myself straightening his chair.

'He's never late,' she counters.

We pace a bit.

I always help him finish the crossword which he keeps his arm wrapped around whilst telling me to bugger off until he needs me.

We have quite a few regulars. There's Malcolm who literally runs in for a flat white on his way to or from one of his endless spin classes. He's somewhere in his early fifties and I've never seen him out of sports wear. Rose who works for the hat fair comes in for coffee and breakfast early before it gets busy. The woman who is impossibly glamorous, has hot milk with her coffee and is very good at napkin origami. The tall elderly man who always has an espresso with hot water on the side, pays at the counter and never stays more than ten minutes but is terribly nice.

Okay so I don't know ALL of their names. But I'm pretty sure Ali does. And Karon. Karon probably knows their National Insurance numbers. She's off on maternity now and kicking it up in the South of France. It was getting to the point where the tiny woman was having to tie her apron higher and higher over her belly. If she'd stayed any longer she'd have been wearing it as a scarf.

John eventually saunters in at twenty past ten with no kind of excuse or apology for the hand wringing he's caused. Instead he says:

'Your man cooking Thursday night?'

(My man is the head chef at The Green Man)

'Yup.'

'Good. Can you ask him to do me a chateaubriand. I'm taking an old mate and he likes his meat ruined so can you ask if he'll cut it in half and do my bit medium rare and his bit leather?'

'Okay.'

'7 for drinks, eat for 7.30?'

'Fine. Are you OKAY? You're late.'

'Yes I'm alright. Can I have a coffee?'

Damn him.

You know that expression about how it takes a village to raise a child? Well it takes a small pub group to keep a John up and running.

Working in a little local place is a curse and a blessing. The curse is how many people's lives you become tangentially involved in. That's also the blessing. We have a lot of regulars and most of our suppliers are local and independent so we get to know them too. And the little pub group has three other pub/restaurants in Winchester so you get to know all that lot too and before you know it, seven months down the line of pretending to be a general manager, you can't walk down the street without stopping five times to say hello to someone and ask about their day. I can't remember the last time I felt part of a community. It was sometime in the 70's when summers lasted forever and you still went tad poling.

I think independent businesses might be the last bastion of community. It's depressing to see so many places shutting their doors as another chain invades the High Street.

It's a bit more expensive to eat at a place that can't afford to offer you two courses for a tenner. When we started using Fran's coffee we had to put our prices up by about 5p a cup. I asked John what he thought of the new Moonroast and he quipped 'Can't afford NOT to like it.' Then winked at me roguishly. But 5p isn't the end of the world because what you get in return is people who know your name, your favourite table, that you like your eggs a certain way. We see you come in for a first date, you have your wedding here and the following autumn you rock up with a baby in tow.

A community witnesses your life, let's you know that you matter, and that if you are usually always here at ten am on a Tuesday there is someone who will worry when you're not.

Everyone who has worked at The Corner House for any length of time loves it and owns it. This too is a curse and a blessing. The curse is quite funny. Every new manager wants to put their stamp on the place, make it their own a bit. My stamp has been a desire to shift its image a little. A really tiny amount. We are well known for our breakfast, lunch and afternoon cake but not so well known as a bar. With that in mind I put together a little cocktail list. That went relatively well once everyone was up to speed on how to make an espresso martini and we remembered to order some kahlua. I then thought we should perhaps de-chinz a little. As you know I'm not a fan of the expression 'shabby chic.' With that in mind I started quietly removing some of the more quaint decorations. The odd ceramic duck here, a tea pot there. I placed them in a box and returned a day later to find them quietly removed from said box and placed neatly back in their original locations. I less quietly removed them again and this time sealed the box and hid it. One of the tea pots still found its way back in to the restaurant. When I moved some of the furniture around, to let some light in, I came in the following morning to find Ali standing in the middle of the floor rubbing her wrist and staring like a rabbit at the new layout.

'Ali?'

'Mhmm.'

'Everything okay?'

'Yes. It's fine. It's just different. Fine. This is fine.'

'Oh-kay.'

On the whole its a well functioning democracy. I change things and if they aren't met with universal approval they are swiftly returned to their original way and we say no more about it. If one out of five changes are kept I suppose I'm winning in some way.

It's a bit like the make over scene in a romantic comedy. The previously perhaps slightly set in her ways, comfortable and cluttered beauty, is plucked, primped and bejewelled and reveals herself to be a Goddess like vision. Except half way through the transformation the beautician turns away to grab a pair of tweezers only to discover that a ceramic duck has been placed on the head of the subject whilst her back was turned.

We've just had some more shelves put in. It's all very exciting. We are expanding our wine range don'tchaknow and we need somewhere to put it all. We usually have six white, six red, one rose and four sparkling. We are in the process of adding twelve white, twelve red, two more rose and another sparkling. The actual getting of and having the new wines is jolly fun and was really as far as I'd bothered to think about it. I hadn't really taken in to account all of the business bit around it like reducing the old stock and staggering the ordering of the new stock and – anyway, Lara, made me a graph. She always makes me a graph when I stop blinking. We've got a lovely new Sancerre if you fancy a tipple.

We do a monthly pop up Vegetarian and Vegan night too now. That's proving very popular. I want to call it Nothing With A Face Night but have been forbidden. Anyone know of a good Vegan wine that doesn't make your teeth disintegrate? We've found a shockingly good vegan stout but you can't please everyone. The next one is on August 24th if you fancy it. 

The more I learn about this job the less I know. There's nothing fundamental I'd change though. I wouldn't want to work with anyone but the people I do and when things get overwhelming I have a nap and everything look much more manageable. It never ends, its a constant rolling ball of madness and incomplete lists and cake and orders and people, a breakages and christmas bookings (yes really) and ceramic ducks and locals and days and weeks and sun and rain (both equally bemoaned). It's life. It's a community. And as my mum says: You just take it in your stride darling.

PS Do you like our little ad? Ali was FYYYURIOUS that I used the picture of her with all the cake and wine. Oh how we laughed.

The Corner House Bell Curve

When I first started as manager at The Corner House I asked the owner what the difference between gross and net profit was.

No, really, I did.

Everything froze for a moment, the birds stopped singing in the trees, the coffee machine ground to a halt. To her credit she merely stared unblinkingly at me for a fraction of time (whilst she wildly calculated the risk she'd taken) before launching in to a 'Finance for Idiots' explanation: “Imagine you have a hundred pounds...”

Larabelle, my predecessor and educator, has fielded so many mind numbingly stupid questions from me its a wonder I haven't found her rocking in a corner. She sometimes draws pictures to explain things to me. And she does this on whatsapp whilst dandling a baby on her knee. The Corner House was her baby until she had an actual baby and she has bit by bit handed me the reins with great grace and kindness.

Everyone I work with in one way or another has had to teach me something they probably didn't think they'd have to teach me.

“Ali. ALI! How do I get someone to come and look at this beer thingy that doesn't work?”

“You see that number on the wall right next to the beer barrel?”

“Uhuh.”

“Call that number and ask them to send someone.”

“Okay. And will they know what I'm talking about?”

“Yes. Just say you're calling from the – I'll do it.”

“Okay great! Thanks. Busy busy!”

I shuffle some papers.

“Ali. ALI! We need bin liners and -”

“I do that order on Fridays.”

“Right. Well there's hardly any Twisted Nose Gin left -”

“I've ordered some already.”

“Okay, good, great. Good job everyone, keep it up.”

During one of my early meetings with the owner she gave me some golden advice:

“The secret to good management is surrounding yourself with people who are better at something than you and then letting them crack on with it.”

Never let it be said that I don't listen.

But I am learning things. And I'm better at my job now than I was three months ago. The first time I had to arrange for a man from Dyno-rod to come I was so amazed that he actually showed up and fixed things I embraced him like a long lost friend and kissed him on both cheeks. I'm told this is unnecessary. But then on the two subsequent visits he's made he's always greeted me with a bear hug and a 'two sugars just a dash of milk sweetheart.' I feel like we're old friends now. His name's Rob and he and his wife are in Majorca at the moment so I'm not allowed to call him.

In the words of Blanche Dubois: 'I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers.' Though I think she was largely talking about sex. And that's really frowned upon in a managerial capacity. Never let it be said that I don't listen.

The place is starting to feel like mine. As do the staff. They are mine. And if one of them leaves me for any reason at all (Damn you Karon and your glowing baby growing betrayal!) I will take it in much the same vein as I would being dumped. Three of my girls used to work with me at my last job and I brought them with me as a sort of security blanket. There's Janna who handles all my ailments with the stock phrase “Here, drink some water.” There's Sam who can answer most questions with “Yup, did it already.” Sophie who does one shift a week is basically a mum from the 1980's trapped in a 20 year old body “Everything looks better with a bit of parsley on top.” And now Ben has joined us. Ben and I worked together for a few years a while back and we compliment each other in that

everything I hate doing he quite likes and vice versa. He is also growing a magnificent red beard which you should really come and see. Laura is with us for a while before going travelling and Hannah is back for a bit before heading off to Canada. They are young and free to come and go but Ali, Karon, Simon and Ben are not allowed to do that. I'm trying to find a way of putting that in a blood signed contract.

It would be remiss of me not to mention the chefs at this point.

There's this joke about how all chefs are basically pyromaniacs with a knife fetish who work in kitchens because its the only place their tourette's is considered par for the course.

Our chefs are NOTHING like that. 

They skip in to work every morning fresh as a daisy and rearing to go. They often wear flowers in their hair and listen to Joni Mitchell whilst prepping. They all drink nothing stronger than camomile and can be found weeping in butchers shops. Show them a 14 hour day and they will show you a heart giddy with anticipation.

I've enjoyed writing fiction from an early age.

Something you won't know unless you've worked in a kitchen or its vicinity is that chefs suffer the most physical ailments of anyone you'll ever meet. One chef sleeps with breathing apparatus stuck to his face because for the brief few hours he gets to be unconscious his body decides to try and kill him. It thinks its doing him a favour. Don't get me started on the varicose veins from constant standing, the burns, the scars, the high blood pressure. They can move seamlessly from humour to a towering rage and back again before you've had time to whisper 'Aneurism'. And no, being a chef does not mean that you eat wonderful food all the time. They all eat like 14 year old boys.

That said, if you show them a little appreciation, make them a coffee or take them a cold beer at the end of a long shift they will always have your back. They wear their hearts on their sleeves and care enormously about what they produce and how. The Corner House uses local produce wherever possible. They're passionate about cooking, all of them. If you ever meet an indifferent chef he won't be a chef for long. The positive feedback from a table means a lot. You know how it is when you're throwing a dinner party for say eight people and you're fretting that your soufflé won't rise? Now imagine there are between forty and eighty coming for dinner and a few people you weren't expecting might rock up too. And some of them have deathly allergies. It's important to love your chef. There's no magic in that room at the back. Just a lot of hard work, heat, and a stunning amount of preparation.

Over two decades of working in this environment on and off I've watched gangly monosyllabic kitchen porters become confident talented chefs. You have to learn to be disciplined, take criticism and praise (both can be equally hard) and be part of a team.

They always play tricks on the new kitchen porters. Always. You will have heard about those. Doe eyed kids being sent off to find glass hammers, tartan paint, salmon feet, or walking down to the hardware shop to ask for a 'long wait'.

They're a bit tribal really. The nature of the job means they often spend more time with each other than they do their families.

The Corner House is small by restaurant standards but it produces a vast array of different dishes and all of our menus; breakfast, lunch and dinner cater generously for the gluten intolerant and those that prefer not to eat anything that once had a face.

On the 18^th we're having our first pop up vegan and vegetarian night and the bookings are flowing in.

Tuesday's Acoustic night is slowly finding its feet too. Charlotte was magnificent with her sax and Alex continues to make us swoon a bit with his pirate good looks and covers of Jolene.

I've been sticking posters up around town and handing out flyers but I find asking a guest face to face if they'll pop in one night works best. Usually whilst holding their plate a food just out of reach and staring at them balefully.

People think of us in terms of food and I want them to know we're a bar too. We have an array of bottles that would give the most hardened of drinkers pause. I've been cataloguing our spirits. There's stuff I've never heard of. One chocolate liqueur called 'Mozart' baffles me. I tried it and its really nice. Trying everything is a very very important part of my job. At the moment I'm suggesting it as a shot or something to pour over ice cream as a boozy dessert. Unless you have any better ideas? Simon and I are compiling a list of cocktails. He's already done a few and he's laminated them so he means business. He has been quietly biding his time by the coffee machine waiting for someone to let him off the leash and have at it. He loves the cocktails and he's really good at them. They'll be on the menu next week so you should really pop in and try one. Because y'know, we're a bar too.

A few weeks ago the owner printed off a ten foot X reading from the till and told me to study it as it would really help me understand what we we sell, how much, what that means etc.

After a particularly long day I took some scissors to it and made one of those banners of paper men holding hands. I then strung it up and took a picture of it which I sent to her saying “I really feel like I'm getting my head around these figures.”

She texted back: “We need to talk.”

Probably about how hilarious I am and that humour is a perfectly good substitute for business acumen.

Everything is going to be just fine. Every new job comes with a learning curve and so what if that curve is more of a bell curve? I now know the difference between gross and net profit. It's 20%. Right? I'm fine. This is fine.

Fine.

Hi I'm the Manager...no, really.

I've been the Manager at The Corner House for almost four months now and no one has asked me to leave yet.

When friends come to see where I work they comment on how very 'me' the place is and I know what they mean. If I had the doors taken up I could probably wear it as a coat.

It's often described as 'shabby chic' an expression I don't much like. It's like telling an overweight woman she has a really pretty face. I'm allowed to say that because I was on the receiving end of it for twenty years. I don't think its shabby at all. Nor do I think its chic. It would be more accurate to describe it as; 'Pleasantly eccentric with a tongue in cheek approach to décor and a steely eyed determination to make every singe visitor feel as though they've stepped through the front door of a much loved but rarely seen friends house. Who has a lot of booze. And some nice cakes.' It just doesn't trip off the tongue like 'shabby chic' does it.

When I first got the job I imagined myself plumping the cushions and throwing the curtains wide. I'd always have on red lipstick and exist in a Darling Buds Of May halcyon dream of gin and cake and charming sun dappled afternoons.

The scales continue to throw themselves lemming like from my eyes.

Yes, the building has charm. It's a crooked house with beer mats keeping the tables from wobbling and unusual artefacts dotted around, the usage of which in some cases is still an arcane mystery. (There are these wooden roundish blocks that a customer recently informed us were the bit milliners used to shape the hats they made. Live and learn live and learn)

But what holds it together, what makes it inexplicably magical, is its staff. Sone of whom have been here for decades as far as I can make out. I suspect Alison may have laid the first brick. And she would have done so with great but stretched patience (this is a metaphor for how she deals with me). Without them I would be a wild eyed Miss Havisham staggering around the place pouring ribena from a tea pot and begging people not to disturb the dust.

Please don't tell them this as I'm trying to create an illusion of utter capability whilst keeping them on a knife edge of terror. With mixed results. The mission is occasionally knocked off course when I throw my arms around one of them and beg them never ever not never to leave me.

Karon (no that's not a spelling error) has of course gone and ruined everything. She has very inconveniently decided to grow a baby. I can't be certain of the ins and outs of it but knowing Karon it'll probably arrive in a three piece suit with not a hair out of place.

Karon makes everything look right. That's her job. No one that works here is just a waitress or a bar person. I can spend hours lighting candles, polishing tables and rearranging cushions only to have Karon stroll in, cast her eye across the devastation, move one table a quarter of an inch and transform the place in to a cosy paradise.

It's INFURIATING.

She's tiny. The size of a rice crispy with bright blue eyes and a cheeky little bob. When I ask her what's going on with her tables during a busy service I expect her to say: Table 2 is on mains, 7 on desserts etc. What she actually says is: Table 2 just met their first grandson, his name's Henry and he's 6 pounds. They really like daffodils and he's got a gippy leg as a result of cycling incident in 1976.

INFURIATING.

And then there's Ali. Ali can carry 27 plates whilst chatting about her puppy and operating the coffee machine with her left foot. She makes the inventor of multi tasking look like a rank amateur.

Interestingly I knew ALL about her puppy and its proclivities for several months before she even mentioned she had kids. In the words of the great late Victoria Wood:

Did you ever love us Mummy?

-I didn't know what love was until I bred my first Afghan.

I jest. She's really fond of her kids. Really fond. I just suspect she'd prefer them with a shiny coat and a wet nose.

Ali orders everything. To maintain an illusion of control I text her weekly on her days off and check very officiously that she has remembered to order toilet roll or cake or coffee beans. She rarely responds.

She has the look of chaotic capability about her until you take pause and really examine her features. She has the kind of classically high cheekbones you can eventually cut your wrists on when she hands her notice in.

Simon. Ah, Simon. It's pronounced Simmon by the way. It's because he's from Chile. I sometimes speak Spanish to him with a heavily accented Mexican inflection which really makes us laugh.

He laughs on the inside. It's a Chilean thing.

Simon works the bar diligently and when anyone thanks him for anything he always says 'you're welcome' in a way that leaves a lot of room for flirting.

These are the longest serving staff at The Corner House. There's a fair few more that I'll tell you about next time. And the regulars of course. And then there's the chefs, some of whom haven't seen daylight for 27 years. That's a blog all it's own.

But in the mean time you should probably come and have a look for yourself. And if you're not a cake sort of person we do have a really substantial arsenal of hard liquor that you just don't seem to be taking advantage of as much as you should.

Why don't you come Tuesday next week? I just picked that day randomly. If you can't THAT'S FINE. I'm really busy actually.

Oh, hang on. How silly of me. We have a live music night on Tuesdays. There's this really beautiful young woman called Charlotte who'll be playing the saxophone for a bit whilst we serve lovely wines and cheese boards. It's a very casual affair at the Corner House that could at a push be described as 'Pleasantly eccentric with a tongue in cheek approach to décor and a steely eyed determination to make every singe visitor feel as though they've stepped through the front door of a much loved but rarely seen friends house. Who has a lot of booze. And some nice cakes.'

Or shabby chic. Whatever.

The Coven

'Every Monday and Thursday I listen for the phone long after I know it won't ring. And even if it did I would not hear it. But those were the days you called me, before my hearing went. I think of you every day.'

A German man called Meinhart sends me this message in a whatsapp. These are not Meinhart's feelings, they are my Grandmother's; Mutti.

We've been pen pals since I was four. She always lived abroad, adventurous and clever like a witch. When I was very small her letters would rhyme and she would decorate them with stickers. Over the years they changed shape and form but always came with a small gold sticker on the back with her address printed on it, a tiny palm tree etched on the side.

A few years ago her sight started to go and the font on my letters became bigger and bigger until every page had about seven words on it and was as thick as a phone book. Her writing which had always been so distinctive became scratchy and hard to decipher.

We'd always spoken on the phone from time to time. Usually when I was drunk late at night and decided that whatever friend I was with simply HAD to speak to my Mutti. And she'd always laugh, sit up in bed and be terribly witty in her beautifully modulated (think Judi Dench) voice.

And then more recently her hearing started to go.

'How are you Mutti darling?'

'SO fucking old!'

'But you're immortal, yes? We agreed.'

'Ha! Maybe. I think you're a premature reincarnation of me.'

My calls became louder and louder until I would be screaming down the phone and she still couldn't hear. She would become distressed.

And so now a German man called Meinhart, a physiotherapist who goes round twice a month and gives her a massage (because frankly when you get to 99 years of age a massage is a divine right), sits next to her on the sofa and bellows my emails in to her left ear. She then dictates a response which he sends to me. It always amuses me to think of polite reserved Meinhart typing “Dearest Darling” to me on his phone.

Because of the timing the messages often come when I'm in the middle of a busy service at work. I'll see his name come up always assume it's him writing to me with news of her health and then I'll see the first sentence;

“My darling. I doubt I'll see you in the flesh again but I have so many happy memories...”

I stroll in to the toilets, sit in a cubicle and cry. I send a rushed message back “Don't say that. I'm always with you. I love you.” I blow my nose, put on my glasses which are a great disguise, walk in to the restaurant and pretend that I am a grown up and everything is within my control.

The women in my family are all without exception fabulous. And each one as different and unique as a snowflake.

My mum is small and foreign and if you cut her down the centre you'd see the rings of an oak with the word 'mother' written over and over again in ever decreasing circles. She is strong and stubborn and will feed anyone that gets within a twenty yard radius of her. My cousin Hester has memories of being a child and coming round to our house.

'It would always smell of something delicious cooking and your mum would be in the kitchen, impossibly glamorous and sexy, like a tiny Sophia Loren, in very high heels.'

My mum is cups of tea and the smell of Chanel. Cigarette smoke and a raised eyebrow that could instil terror in child and adult alike. She's an accent that won't go despite sixty years in this country. We all imitate her badly. She says 'Darlink' instead of 'Darling'. She has stared down cancer twice and never took as much as a paracetamol after the mastectomy. She can move fridge freezers twice her size and she heals like its some kind of mild super power. She has green fingers and everything within her purview flourishes, including her children and grandchildren.

She is kind but without sentimentality and I have never known her to suffer with depression though there were times she had good cause. She is my mother.

My sister has mum's fierceness, her protective instincts. I sometimes fear that she'll happen to someone who has unwittingly upset one of her kids, or me, or mum, or anyone she has unexpectedly taken a liking to. She can be prickly on the outside but she is soft hearted and though she has literally the least patience of anyone I've ever known, she is wildly empathic. Her sense of humour borders on the vicious and when she really laughs she stops breathing. If you try to hug her you might get punched but she'd almost certainly buy you a piece of cake afterwards. She is not a people person though she hides it very well. I have seen her sarcasm silence the boldest of opponents and I have seen her inconsolable at the death of a hamster. She is my sister.

And she gave me two incredible nieces (two glorious nephews too but this blog is called The Coven for a reason).

There's the first born who at twenty five is by far the more emotionally mature of the two of us. She watches Buffy with me when the real world becomes a bit overwhelming, she has me saved in her phone as The Dude and whenever I'm feeling insubstantial she tells me I'm the prize.

'You're the prize dude. Prize comma The.'

She is the shyest in the family and quietly the funniest. I remember things she's said weeks later and burst out laughing. We have in jokes that no one else in the world would understand but can leave us helpless. She is solid and rational in a way that I have never been and she keeps me sane. She has endless patience, she's practical, she's kind, generous, loyal and she can plot a revenge with the dead eyed calm of a psychopath. She is the least selfish person I know. She's strikingly beautiful. She is my niece.

The second born is more like me. More like me than I am actually. Her heart seems to be on the outside of her body. She'll cry because she's tired or a bit cold or because, well, she doesn't know why, she's just a bit emotional right now. She's romantic and utterly lead by her heart. She loves to be in love and she is happiest at home, curled up with a book or in the arms of the person she has chosen to love. Like first born she is strikingly beautiful, though they don't look anything alike. She likes a nap and will happily take to her bed at any time for a few hours. She's really good for relationship advice because at twenty three she has had significantly more long term relationships than me. Beneath that soft slightly ethereal appearance she understands some things about life. She is my niece.

I have them all on a group text on my phone entitled 'The Coven.'

Since I lost weight I find it hard to buy clothes. I still pick up stuff that's two or three sizes too big. Or I'll get something that fits but have no idea what I look like in it. I stand in the cubicle and take a picture of myself in some concoction and send it with “Coven Assemble”.

Within minutes they are all giving their opinion;

'I like it.'

'Do they have another colour?'

'What size is that?'

And twenty minutes later when my mum has finally single digit replied;

'Yes darlink very nice xx'

I recently bought my first proper handbag which caused about 60 texts of mirth.

'Finally!'

'Nice teal colour.'

'How much was it?'

'Sixty quid!'

'Haha! Oh Thea, you rank amateur.'

'whatzzhe oh bloody,,,stupid ting'

'HAHAHAHAHA'

'Aw leave nan alone she's trying'

These women are the fabric of my life. My lighthouse, the thing that keeps me tethered and makes me loved and loveable. They fit around me perfectly, sometimes an audience to my performance and sometimes the fortress that keeps out the world.

She is my grandmother. She is my mother. She is my sister. She is my niece. She is my niece. They are my coven.

Actual Size

Mackay, Me, Jay, David, Sally, Sally's tit, Dillie, Hatchet faced mermaids

I have just arrived in Edinburgh and am sat in the vast kitchen of the house on Albany street that 

David, Mackay, Jay and Spud the dog have taken residence of for the month of August.

David is telling me about a show they'd been to see the previous night.

'There's this man moving about mid air and he has the most perfect body – and no tattoos which we thought made it even better really. The woman next to us is screaming her appreciation and we're all very impressed -

'You were screaming too,' Mackay interjects.

'I was just joining in,' David mutters. 'He really is quite godlike. And then the other performers join him on stage and we collectively pause. He's about four foot tall. I hear the woman next to me say 'Oh.''

They show me the flyer and point out the tiny perfect specimen. Over the course of the next couple of days a note is stuck under the image with the words 'Actual Size'.

It's hot and sunny in Edinburgh and everyone's suspicious. Based on last years experience I'd packed a winter wardrobe. No one really trusts that this weather will last and so we broadly ignore it and continue to wear our coats certain that it will rain at any moment.

Mackay and Jay

They have a number of guests who pop up for a few days here and there over the festival and in addition to me they currently have Jane Beese staying. I've met her a few times in passing over the years but this is really the first time we've ever spoken properly. She is a constant vision entirely clad in black (I don't know why but the black she wears is somehow blacker than usual blacks. Raven like.) Her lips are red and a vogue cocktail cigarette is elegantly draped in her fingers. Whilst clearly a very successful woman with an impressive career Jane's sole responsibility whilst visiting is to make a full cooked breakfast for everyone, every morning. She does so gracefully whilst sipping tea and frying individual eggs in a tiny one egg frying pan which she so loves that Jay actually makes a trip to Peter Jones to buy her one of her very own. Jay isn't as loud and dramatic as the rest of us. He quietly observes the madness and

is a sort of behind the scenes angel who keeps everything in the house running smoothly with constant trips to the shop for more tobacco, bacon and anything else anyone mentions even in passing. I spend a bit of time alone with him chatting and discover he's very funny and has a sort of light in him that makes you feel good just to be around.

The only chink in the house is the wifi which is running at dial up speed and intermittently sends David in to a giddy fit of rage. He holds court in the kitchen anchored behind his computer with an overflowing ashtray and a cup of tea or a screw driver that we have renamed The Jab - Johnson's All day Breakfast. He works, plays us music, chats and smokes whilst Mackay leans against the counter sipping coffee and making arid comments. We're a happy little group.

Jay and a dog that isn't Spud

After a couple of hours of catch up Mackay whisks me off to see Dillie Keane perform in The Cow. I hear her before I see her, she has the most recognisable voice. We go over to say hello and there's a quick hug and a 'drink later?' before I find a seat and watch the audience file in. I like that bit between pre show final checks and curtain up. Everything transforms in an instant and you're cocooned in the world that's been created for you for an hour or so. That's where the magic is. Dillie moves seamlessly from funny to tragic and back again. She sings a song towards the end about people of a certain age attempting adventurous sex and I see couples nudging each other in the audience “You do that.” She is performing without the rest of Fascinating Aida this year but she mentions them frequently and it feels as though Adele is with her watching the proceedings. Her accompanist, Gulliver, compliments her. He's posh and sweet and sings wistfully about the benefits of being a lesbian.

As soon as it finishes David is there telling me to hurry up if I need the loo because the next show is starting in minutes. We go in to The Box, a tiny space, to watch Alfie Brown do stand up. It's an intimate space and I spend the first five minutes sat rigidly with my bag clutched in front of me like a barrier but he's funny and charming and I soon forget how close he is and just enjoy his clever set.

We all head to The Abattoir for drinks afterwards. I've been given a pass to get in to these places. Well, actually it's the dogs pass as evidenced by the rather smart photo of him on it. I wave it at the man on the door and he stops me.

'That's Spud.'

'We're here together.'

'I see.'

I say we're here together but he has been completely ignoring me since I arrived. Until the third day when he starts licking my neck which I take as affection but turns out to be the most cursory foreplay before he tries to violently stick his penis in my ear. You get what you can.

I'm aware that I have a very blinkered view of the Fringe. People pore over the program, queue for tickets, look for a free space anywhere to sit and eat their wraps and drink their pints. I only go to see the shows David and Mackay are producing. I see them free of charge. I'm driven from place to place. I don't queue and I get to drink in the cordoned off little enclave set aside for artists and professionals. And that is absolutely fine by me. David and Mackay are so good at spoiling you that you quickly forget how privileged the position is and become vaguely shocked that your bed hasn't been made by some invisible force whilst you were out having fun. This is why I'm not allowed to have nice things all the time. I'm fairly certain I'd become a despot within weeks. I text my mother:

“Everything is splendid. I have my own room and a very comfy bed.”

She texts back:

“That's good. Pity no men to share it. Ha. Ha. Ha.”

I tell the others and they talk (a little too earnestly) about the possibility of getting mum up next year to do a show.

'Have you and your mum watched Grey Gardens together yet?' Mackay asks.

'Fuck off.'

It's my birthday the day after I arrive and despite my phone being broken I somehow receive an email from 'Weight loss surgery support' wishing me a Happy Birthday! This is followed quickly by another from 'Pre arranged Funeral Insurance.' I'm not feeling too celebratory by the time I roll down for breakfast (Pot of tea, 15 fags).

No one up here knows it's my birthday which I don't mind at all because, let's face it, they flew me up here and treat me like a queen. I'm already having the best birthday by virtue of location and company and I don't want for anything. Except possibly a martini at some point during the day.

But David finds out via Facebook pretty quickly, tells me I'm naughty and after a brief discussion with Mackay books us all a table at Ondine for supper.

I tell Mackay I feel a bit guilty about all this expense on my account to which he responds:

'Don't be a cunt. David loves any excuse for a celebration.'

Dinner is perfect. We have a private dining room and are joined by Jane, Dillie and Sally who is Stewart Lee's PR. I get my martini and am levitating with happiness. Dessert arrives and there are candles and Happy Birthday is sung.

Birthday dinner

I have a strange little moment when I remember finding a Fascinating Aida CD in the library aged about 14. I took it home and learned all the lyrics to Dillie and Adele's songs which I can still recall instantly. And here I am at 41 being sung Happy Birthday to by a group of lovely people including Dillie. 14. 41. Ha. I think I actually grab Dillie's arm and sing part of 'Saturday Night' which she tolerates graciously.

As we leave we notice a criminal piece of art on the wall. A huge and terrible painting of some very skinny mermaids thrusting their breasts out whilst staring at us with hatchet faces. We pose beneath it for a photo and it isn't until later when I upload it on to Facebook that I notice Sally has whipped out a tit in protest. It quickly spreads like wildfire on Facebook. Sally calls the following morning and speaks to Mackay.

'She says she took her tit out on the understanding that this was a private joke to be shared amongst intimate friends,' Mackay conveys.

'Tell her Graham Norton 'liked' it,' David says.

Mackay tells her and there's a seconds pause before he confirms:

'She says it's fine. Leave it up.'

Me and Mackay

The following day is David's party celebrating 25 years at Edinburgh. His friend Fiona hosts it at her house and we all dress up and make our way over to be greeted by young men brandishing cold champagne. A rumour quickly circulates that the hired chef is gorgeous and so in small groups we make excursions to 'admire the garden' which is only accessible through the kitchen. He is quite gorgeous but in a slightly 'actual size' sort of way.

Jay and I are hiding in the corner with an ashtray chatting when David sees us from across the room and subtly screams: 'Get up and Mingle!'

We both shoot up like Jack in the boxes and frantically throw ourselves at some guests. I take lots of photos and chat to people and it's a fab evening. About halfway through I notice most of the single women are 'admiring the garden' in a very blousy way.

David makes a speech in which he forgets to thank anyone he'd intended to thank but it's good and fun and everyone whoops and claps and raises a glass to the joy of it all.

The time, as always, flies by too quickly and now Richard and James have announced they'll be arriving the following day for a visit.

'Change your flight,' Mackay says.

'You have to stay,' David says. 'Jane is leaving and who the hell is going to make us breakfast?'

The flight is changed for the following day at great expense and I hear David say drily to Mackay:

'Perhaps it's time we got Thea her own Amex card...'

Richard and David

Mackay, Jay and Spud

Richard and James will arrive to a big lunch cooked by Jane. Whilst everyone is out doing other things I run the hoover around and over David who spends the entire time screaming 'Turn it off! Infernal noise! Bloody hell!' The boys arrive and James immediately sets about fixing the wifi whilst Jane cooks and we drink and exchange stories. Chicken is eaten, champagne drunk and the afternoon glides by in a hazy alcoholic blur of laughter. Mackay observes that I seem to have gay men secreted everywhere who host and indulge me. In fact he and David have been referring to me as: 'Around the world in 80 gays.'

The day before I leave Jay and Mackay take me and Spud for a walk up a lovely hill with views of all of Edinburgh and Arthur's Seat. It's hot and sunny and I'm so happy to still be there with them. Mackay knows a shocking amount about the history of Edinburgh and points out castles and streets and tells me about them.

Richard and James

We head back and I make breakfast for everyone. Richard who has been welcomed back in to the arms of inebriation after two years dry had gotten phenomenally drunk the previous evening and adopted an angry scotsman persona that was luckily caught on film and played back to him as he morosely tried to shovel bacon in to his mouth.

All too soon it's time to go home and I crawl to bed at 3am with an alarm on either side of my head to wake me for the taxi 2 hours later. I haven't gone to bed before 4am for the entire visit. Most people head off to bed by two and then there's just David and me in the kitchen talking for hours, listening to music, dancing with arms only, smoking endless cigarettes and having one more Jab before bed as the sun rises.

'This is my favourite bit,' I tell David.

David

'Me too,' he smiles. 'Now listen to this...'

Bast and Bertie's

 

'I like your name. Love Sx'

That was the first of many emails I would receive from Bast over the following two years.

I only met him a handful of times but he was quite the gentleman of letters.

I had been helping Richard on an opera he was writing about the life of Anna Nicole Smith when my cousin called and invited me to an exhibition of Bast's paintings in Soho.

'There'll be lashings of Absinthe!' I'd never heard of him but she had me at 'lashings.'

I enjoyed the exhibition and I really enjoyed the steam punk contraption dribbling green liquor through strategically placed sugar cubes in to small glasses. But the real piece of art was Bast himself who arrived to much fanfare wearing a red sequinned suit, black hair spiked up, tall and very handsome. A crowd of people cocooned him and I watched at a distance as he made his way through the room acknowledging everyone individually with kindness and charm.

'He's a Dandy,' my cousin said.

'I didn't think they existed anymore.'

I never approached and after we left my cousin told me he had written an autobiography which had been recently published.

'I think you two would get along,' she said.

I bought a copy the following day and saw that it had been signed by the author:

'I'm good between the pages of this book but I'm even better between the sheets.'

Apparently if you can find a copy he hasn't signed it'll be worth an absolute fortune.

I devoured it in one sitting. It was hilarious and disturbing in equal parts. His world compared to mine was fearless and nihilistic. He painted, wrote, wore only the finest bespoke clothing, spent an absolute fortune on prostitutes, had an on off love affair with drugs and lived his life philosophically as a Dandy.

I wrote to my cousin: 'His life is fit for an opera.'

She forwarded him the email without my knowing and an hour or so later I received the first of many brilliant letters from him. He was excited about the idea of being an opera.

“The opera,” he wrote, “is when someone gets stabbed in the back and instead of bleeding, he sings.”

And he liked my name. I learned over time that he held a lot of stock in names. He was very fond of his own and always addressed me without abbreviation.

After a week or so he invited me to his home in Soho for tea. Ostensibly to talk about the opera.

“I live on Meard Street. Yes, Shit Street. Black bell. There's a sign on the door but don't believe everything you read.”

I knew from the book that he loved sunflowers and Quentin Crisp. I owned a first edition of Crisp's How To Become A Virgin and wrapped it in brown paper, bought a bunch of sunflowers and made my way over at the appointed time.
Once I was actually stood on his doorstep I was suddenly gripped with unease. His emails had never been less than utterly charming but the contents of his life made him appear like a wolf, someone dangerous to be alone with. I rang the bell. A moment later a head appeared through an upstairs window wearing a gigantic black top hat.

'Do come up!' The buzzer rang.

I walked in to find him resplendent in a three piece suit. Behind him a wall of shelves lined with human skulls, the floor beneath him covered neatly with newspaper reviews of his book and other sundries.

'What lovely flowers!'

'They're for you.' He had the grace to look pleasantly surprised, as though it wasn't screamingly obvious. I handed him the book.

'I thought you'd like this.'

He unwrapped it and looked suddenly very moved.

'How absolutely wonderful of you! You must sign it for me.'

That was the thing about Bast. He was clearly and always the brightest thing in the room and yet he made you feel as though it was you that provided the colour. You could judge him by the contents of his book but he did himself a disservice really. I think it was impossible to meet him in person and not love him. There are a million people I'm sure who were closer to him, knew him far better than I but we all knew what it was like to bask in his kindness. He was one of the few people I've met who really listened to you.

The flat was tiny but exquisitely decorated.

'Would you like a tour?'

I nodded toward the skulls.

'What's going on there then?'

'I collect them. Only ones with holes in – gun shot, trepanning, that sort of thing.'

He took the flowers in to his tiny kitchenette which looked as though it had never once been used. The idea of him stirring a pan was ridiculous.

His bedroom contained a tiny antique looking double bed that was too short for his tall figure.

'I sleep at an angle.'

On the bedside there was a small revolver.

'Is that loaded?'

'Yes. I keep it there because I'm a firm believer in safe sex.'

He goes on to tell me an hilarious anecdote in which he accidentally got shot with the damn thing.

'Pop it in a drawer would you, its making me nervous.'

He smiles and hides it.

'Shall we go out?' He asks.

We step out in to the sunny streets of soho and walk along to Madam Bertie's, a tea shop he frequents. Tourists stare but everyone else seems to know him and greet him affectionately. It's wonderful walking down the street with Bast and I'm relieved I had the presence of mind to wear my reddest lipstick.

As we sit ourselves down outside Bertie's to wait for our tea I notice two American tourists (fanny bags and sports caps) staring at him open mouthed from across the street. He seems oblivious but they're irritating me. Eventually they approach.

'Hey, why you dressed like that?'

Another thing about Bast. The moment you meet him you feel oddly protective of him. I want to tell them to fuck off but Bast, much lovelier than me, smiles and says 'Well, why ever not?'

They wander off looking confused and our tea arrives.

We talk about the opera. In August of 2000 he was preparing to do a series of paintings about the crucifixion. He traveled to the Philippines where an annual religious event took place in which you could be crucified yourself. You can watch Bast being crucified on youtube. I can't. As soon as I see them hammer the first nail through his hand I have to switch it off. I tell him that I have this image of the opera starting with him on the cross saying to the audience: 'You may well ask.' This makes him roar with laughter. We're getting on so well he suggests we pop to his favourite haunt, The Colony Rooms. It's one of those old parts of soho that now sadly no longer exists. Tiny, hedonistic and deeply eccentric. I drink red wine and he drinks nothing. He tells me that Tim Fountain is writing a play of his book, Stephen Fry wants the film rights and I can have the rights to the opera. Just like that. No business savvy at all.  He once wrote to me saying:

“Kindness is the only thing you can give without having.”

After about three glasses of red in which we talk about everything under the sun I state, in that tipsy declaratory way, that I believe he is the kind of man that separates women in to two categories: Sex and Mother Figures.

I say this because he asks me lots of questions. He looks uncertain and wants to know if I think he's right or wrong. I feel like a mother around him and I'm drunk. He lets my statement sit between us for a moment and then he leans over very slowly, sticks his nose in my neck and smells me.

'You're wearing Chanel,' he breathes. 'Delicious.' He leans back stares at me intently and says 'And what kind of man am I now, Alethea?'

A wolfish one, I think. And then it's gone. And the gentle, sweet, vulnerable Bast is back.

We part ways and I head home full of ideas for the opera. Richard asks to borrow my copy of his book. I say no.

'Don't be ridiculous I'll return it!'

'You'll lose it. You know what you're like.'

'I won't! Lend me the fucking book.'

I lend him the book. He loses it. At an airport.

The next time I speak to Bast I tell him and when we meet again he gives me another copy, this time inscribed personally.
He called me one evening whilst I was in a supermarket.
'Where are you, Alethea? I'm having a crisis of confidence.'
'I'm in Asda.'
'Oh my god, are you okay?'

Another few weeks pass and the three of us meet to discuss the opera at Bertie's and he and Richard hit it off fabulously. He wrote to me that night:

“It didn’t surprise me that Richard and I got on. There are chains of beauty aren’t there? Me, You, Tim, Richard, David Johnson, Mr Fry … we are linked together like mountaineers heading for the summit of beauty. If you like someone I will like them and if I like someone you will like them. Aren’t we clever! I wish we could sleep with ourselves.”

Over the next two years we wrote frequently, saw each other rarely and he occasionally signed his letters off with:

'Where's my fucking opera you cunt? Lots of useless love, S x'

His book was being published in America and he flew out there with painted nails only to be held in customs for several hours before being put back on a plane to England on grounds of 'Moral Terpitude'. They'd googled him. “There is nothing worse, Alethea, than being rejected by a country you wouldn't be caught dead in.”

The play was opening in Soho and life became a whirl of activity but he always found the time to write and offer advice, kind words, hilarious anecdotes and great ideas.

On the night before the opening of the play he sent me a missive:

“Darling. Bad news. I have got you a ticket for the show tomorrow. Will you come? Definitely. Sx”

I wrote back that I couldn't wait but that I was sure the actor wouldn't have an ounce of his beauty.

He responded: “That was the right thing to say. Flattery has to be pretty thick before I object.”

I saw him after the show and he put his hand on the small of my back, he always did that, and led me to Stephen Fry and made introductions because he remembered me saying how much I liked him. So thoughtful always.

Twenty four hours later he was dead and a horrible gaping wound was ripped into the fabric of life. Two weeks after that I sat and listened to Stephen Fry's eulogy. His funeral was packed. He had so many friends and he was so loved. I knew almost none of them, I was by no means a big part of his life. Soho felt abandoned and all those whose lives he'd poured colour and light into knew that it couldn't be replaced. Sometimes lovely things are just lost and there's nothing to be done.

A Star Is Born

 

Only yesterday I discovered Judy Garland, and more importantly, Judy Garland in A Star Is Born.

I had been having dinner with three friends who are all very successful in their fields. I have a lot of friends who are successful in their chosen fields and I'm very happy for them. And somewhat bewildered and ashamed of my own failure. There is the risk or fear perhaps of eventually becoming a person who is around success but that no one any longer expects anything from.

To get to the knot of the thing; I missed my last train and stayed at the house of one of my friends. A wonderful man in his early fifties.

I woke in the morning and my host put on some Dusty Springfield. He starts telling me an anecdote about when Dusty came out.

'She was gay?' I mutter.

'Are you FUCKING kidding me?' He screams. 'You are the worst fag hag EVER. I'm telling everyone on Facebook immediately.'

Which he does.

It's only a short skip from there to him remembering my admission, a year previously, of having never seen A Star Is Born.

'You're watching it right now,' he insists.

'But I -'

'Immediately.'

It's the original three hour plus version where all the lost scenes are replaced by stills photographs and what remains of the sound clips. Take my eyes.

At first I'm just humouring him. To me Judy Garland was the girl I watched every christmas day afternoon skipping up a yellow brick road with a bunch of hangers on and a can do attitude. I've always kind of loathed Technicolor. When I was very little I loved watching black and white films. I believed, for far longer than I'm willing to admit, that the world was monochrome until about 1950. And all the more glamorous for it.

As soon as the film starts I'm struck by how ahead of its time it is. There's a fly on wall quality to the filming that makes it feel more real than I'd anticipated. And then Garland's voice sounds a few moments before we see her. And there's no big entrance. Same for James Mason, he just kind of sidles in mid action and becomes a part of the scene.

As we're watching my friend gives me little snippets of Garland's biography. By the time this film was made she had already suffered a great deal. Divorces, breakdowns, problems with addiction. She was constantly haunted by the notion that she wasn't beautiful enough, a notion that had been firmly planted by the big cheeses who shaped her career. Did you know that the blue gingham dress she wears as Dorothy was specifically to 'blur' her figure? No, me either.
Mason, from the very beginning, touches her in a very moving way. He strokes her face, moves her around by her tiny shoulders with a distinct familiarity.

'He looks like he owns her,' I say. 'Or rather that she belongs to him.'

'Spot on,' my friend says.

There's a scene in the film where she's given a make over by three exasperated men who have no idea what to do about her problematic nose. She comes out to meet Mason looking like a Geisha in a terrible wig. He takes all the make up off and pulls a strip of rubber from her nose. She looks fine just the way she is as far as he's concerned. Whilst reading about her life later on in the day I discovered that she had been treated in the exact same way in real life; forced to wear rubber on her nose, something or other over her teeth. I remember her face in the film as she tells Mason that she's ugly, she doesn't look right, just before he scrapes all the make up off and disabuses her of the idea. She looks in the mirror desperately. She doesn't look in character. She looks real and so sad. This happens several times in the film. You see her experience the immediacy of love, its desperation, her unwillingness to give up on it despite the damage it wreaks on her life. She's a sponge, porous and vulnerable and utterly compelling. My friend says that she was one of those who could never fully be a person, she only existed within her art. Or something to that effect. Well, I thought, child stars, it so rarely ends well. A director once told me those moments of truth in acting are called 'leaking' and casting agents love them. Garland was one big leak. How can you not love someone who stares out at you from a screen and begs for you to really see her?

And then of course there's her singing voice. There's so much power coming from such a tiny vessel and beneath it the constant catch of a sob.

She produced this film and starred in it in 1954. She was dead by June 1969 at the age of 47.
Seven years older than me. I feel like my life is barely beginning and she was already on the decline, worn out by a world she had no clue how to live in.
Three hours plus later I get it. I finally understand why she is the icon she is. Why Rufus Wainwright re-created her Judy At Carnegie Hall show, why Somewhere Over The Rainbow is so tragic, why she is still so loved.
For me she had always been just another talented mess brought down by alcohol, or Liza's mum, or a gay icon because well, she was so camp! She wasn't camp. She was utterly sincere.
Obviously I was weeping like a sore by the end. For the sadness of the film, for the briefness of her life.

'See,' my friend says. 'I told you so.'

I'm thankful that no one made me live my life so fast, youth rushing past in a blur. No time to figure out who you are, what you want, who to love or be loved by. I was a terrible writer at twenty. I'm a better writer now. I'll be even better in twenty years time I suspect.

I wanted to be a success at twenty but I was a child. I couldn't understand why my peers seemed so much more able to navigate their worlds. I could never get going, move past a certain point. My twenties were spent moving from job to job treading water. My thirties were much the same. It's only in the last couple of years that things have started to make sense. I still have no idea what I'm doing most of the time but I am much clearer on what I want.

My friend Kate told me a theory the other day, though I may be recalling it inaccurately; We have four rings on the cooker. One is family, one friends, one career and one love. To be successful you have to disregard one ring. To be really successful you have to disregard two. If you become a success when you're still a child then those rings are decided for you aren't they? And then how would you ever get them back? I'm not successful. Not yet. But I know better now what is worth and not worth having.
Thirty five years ago I watched a pretty young girl click her heels together and intone that there was no place like home. And at forty I know what she means.