Invisible Woman

Last night nerves and a Festival First

thegalrita@pgate.demon.co.uk — Sat, 17 May 2008 11:38:00 GMT

Ooh, ooh, oh --- twingle twangle twingle --- that's my nerves, that is, as I try to spend an hour of two in constructive relaxation in anticipation of a rather fraught afternoon. This evening I shall be in the Cathedral singing with the massive choir known collectively as The Voice Project, finishing the N&N Festival with the world premiere of 'In Tsegihi', a specially commissioned piece from American composer Jon Hassell. Even the soothing background burble from Lord's isn't helping.

It's safe to say that this is a style of music which very few of us have encountered before. Hassell has combined contemporary electronic instruments and techniques with vocal parts based on a Navaho healing ritual, part composed and part improvised. After three months working away in the restrained panelled surroundings of the Friends Meeting House, we are now undertaking the final rehearsals in the soaring Gothic massiveness of the Cathedral. The composer himself - reassuringly laid-back and quietly-spoken, despite his reputation as a 'God-like genius of contemporary music'! - flew in last week and with him came The Musicians plus much cabling, control desks and electronica.

It is a fascinating process, learning a really big and complex piece like this, involving a choir which sometimes is singing eight separate parts (and then there are the five soloists). From stringing together the first phrases, working on coming in and out at the right times, pitching without the assistance of a note, learning the correct sequence for a whole section when you are basically singing "Ah ah ah", then building sections and finally the great moment when "OK let's go for it", singing it right through. A couple of sessions where different cock-ups emerge each time round; trying to keep the pulse without sounding mechanical, trying to work in expressiveness of the meaning. As a seasoned amateur performer, I am a great believer in a dreadful dress rehearsal meaning a good performance - hence the nerves now, as last night was a bit of a pig's ear because there hadn't been any power available for the musicians to have a proper sound check and not quite enough staging for the size of the choir, so it was all a vital few hours behind and we couldn't sing it all through and to be honest I came home wondering if there was still time to get a ticket for Hesperion TwentyOne!

So I've had my moment in the wilderness and I shall shortly be taking in a small plate of slow-release carbs, filling the water bottle, checking the chewy mint supply, finding my smart black outfit and strolling collectedly down to The Close, in preparation for what will no doubt be a few fraught hours of final rehearsals. But We are Professionals, or at least those of us who aren't will be acting like professionals when it's time for the audience to come through the doors. We will be doing the swan thing - singing serenely and ethereally while counting the beats (is this note 4, 8, 12 or 16?) - making the hours of practising all worth while and greeting the last section with a mental sigh of relief and a fervent wish to go on singing this wonderful music for ever. 'It is finished in beauty'. Here's hoping.

Sunday morning, slightly dozy .....

We couldn't believe how quickly it went! We were filed neatly away in the transept pews during the band's first set, entertaining ourselves and trying to keep warm with sporadic Mexican waves (this part of the building giving a new meaning to "cross draughts"). Then on to the stage and trying to remember all the stuff we go through in warm-ups - feet firm, knees soft, head up, make space inside your throat, lift your voice into the front of your face and breathe on the second beat of the lead-in bar. Focus. GO. Sian is such a lovely conductor, absolutely clear and giving back little beams and thumbs-up when we've come through a section particularly well (and some bloody funny faces, which the audience doesn't see, when not, but thankfully there were very few of those!) and the whole piece took off and flew. Given the structure of the building and the size of the choir you cannot hear all the other parts, so it was good to be reassured by friends who joined us for drinks afterwards that we sounded lovely. What's next? Sing for Water - performance at the Thames Festival in London in September, workshops start in June. Addictive stuff, this singing.

'Old Bags' are doin' it for Themselves

thegalrita@pgate.demon.co.uk — Sun, 04 May 2008 21:32:00 GMT

Good to see that Aylsham's first Plastic Bag Free Day passed without any of the unpleasantness generated by Sainsburys' "Take an Old Bag Shopping" campaign last month. The company blandly denied intending to cause offence after mild protests from Age Concern. Hah. What these smart young suits need is a visit from GUERRILLA GRRANZ!

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is this: Meet at a smallish branch of Sainsburys at 4.30 on the Friday before a Bank Holiday. Those with 4-wheel shoppers, bring them, all others choose a big deep trolley, preferably with one wonky wheel. Fan out across the shop floor and target all shelf fillers with requests to reach things down or locate an obscure item the other side of the store. Follow slowly and leave trolley in situ. At the deli, buy two ounces of everything. When it is your turn at the fish counter, engage person immediately behind in prolonged reminiscences about Snoek. In the cafe, ask the assistant to carry your tray; if no help available, allow pot of tea to slide to floor. Leave dentures wrapped in a paper napkin on the table when you go. At the checkout: join the 'Baskets Only' queue and feign deafness if anyone points out error. Ensure you have at least one item without a bar code from the furthest section of the store so someone has to be called to find the price. Either (a) refuse offers of help with packing and sort things slowly into six different colour-coded bags, or (b) accept help, but make sure all the breakable/squashable stuff is first off the belt, so you can stop at Customer Service Desk to complain about damaged goods, When bag/trolley is full, tip it out again because your purse is at the bottom. Those confident with technology can use the self-service tills and try to pay with a Co-op divvy card. Try to go out the emergency exit. As a final flourish, push two trolleys out together and block the 'Do not take trolleys past this point' gate.

That should concentrate their minds wonderfully next time they wish to find a catchy way of reminding customers to re-use carriers.....

All on a Bright May Morning

thegalrita@pgate.demon.co.uk — Thu, 01 May 2008 05:19:00 GMT

A Merry May Morning to you. Bright Phoebus is making a valiant attempt to rise high over Mousehold, where the combined Morris talent of Norwich should be doing their stuff right now, and I am getting on the right side of a pot of hot tea before going off to the Cathedral to meet up with them.

The initial peek round the bedroom curtain is never invested with such significance as it is on May Day. I would like to say I'm there come rain or shine, but have to admit there have been years when sense has prevailed in the face of unremitting rain, although a couple of years ago we did set out in the middle a short but vicious thunderstorm!

For many years locally Kemp's Men were the keepers of the tradition of dancing in the May, but we can now usually expect Golden Star Morris and Fiddlestix Ladies Clog. Last year was an exceptionally good turnout - Kemps fielded two teams, Star and Stix were there, as was a small but energetic side from UEA resplendent in tatter coats, and a local Scout side put in a very creditable performance. Morris, despite appearing to be an undertaking for drunken fools, actually demands a fair level of fitness and discipline, particularly when using sticks, and there's always a combination of encouragement and a keenly critical eye from the dancers watching. For the Scouts it was a special project of researching and taking part in a tradition, but we all hoped that at least some of them would catch the bug and want to carry on.

Why is it special? Why does it matter so much? It's the lovely feeling of everybody bursting out of the box after the winter - all that noise of fiddles and squeezeboxes and bells, all that colour of ribbons and wildly decorated hats, all that stamping and whooping, to confirm that we're all still here and what's more the spirit of anarchy has not yet been regulated out of the English! And the sense of being part of a virtual community, knowing that an aerial view of the country would pick up similar little spots of noise and colour and energy. They'll be there, in Cornwall, in Sussex, in Kent, in Devon, going 'Whose idea was this? We must be mad. Cor, my knees. When's breakfast?" and noisily celebrating the simple fact of being human.

Several hours later .....

Well, a bit low key this year, no Scouts and only a sprinkling of Golden Stars (plus hobbyhorse) but I must say Kemps are looking full of vim these days, with Son of Bert ably representing the upcoming generation. The Lord Mayor always gets hoicked out of bed to come and spectate, poor man, he starts the year with these riff-raff whiffling in his procession and there they are again at the end of it! Somebody should contrive a specially embroidered scarf and gloves as part of the civic regalia - it gets chilly standing around at that time in the morning.

Never mind, it didn't rain and we kept the tradition going. Now all I have to do is digest my 'ceremonial' breakfast - the one morning in the year when a great big plateful of all the Wrong Things is justified - and snooze on the sofa, dreaming of following the Old 'Oss through the streets of Padstow, the small Cornish village which for twenty-four hours each May becomes every good folkie's spiritual home.

Spend your way out of the 'ten per cent blues'!

thegalrita@pgate.demon.co.uk — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 16:33:00 GMT

Well, it's been a tense few days out here in the sunny pastures of Pensionland, as we waited for our April payslips to see what the damage was. After a bit of pencil chewing and calculator prodding, Invisible Woman can proudly announce that despite a 50% rise in income tax, she is no "low pay loser" - no, from a total pension increase this year of £306 I have been permitted to keep £88, or £1.69 a week!

I decided this should go on little treats - I'm worth it - and you would be surprised what £1.69 will buy, out there in Websville: Delphinium seeds, an inflatable parrot, bent nose pliers, a samba whistle, a Linda Barker Dream Mug, a policeman's notebook, a beechwood lemon reamer, a ball of proper jute string, a black flock cowboy hat, Venetian style glass beads, a half-inch female Swivel Bent Connector, an old gold tarnished horn, Shrink Plastic Shrinkles Cream, a packet of pasta rabbits, a Dormy Reliable Dater, a heavy duty soft grip stripper/scraper, a Pontiac Firebird headlamp socket, a thousand staples, a tonic for birds in the moult, 75 ml of Vinyl Matt, a packet of embossed hearts iridescent confetti, a non-abrasive scrub pad, a masonry bit, a car window St. George's flag, a concise guide to American Aircraft of WW2, 200 gr. of tamarind powder, a collective pitch rod, one person's share of a St. Patrick's Day Irish Eyes party pack, a hygienic woven plastic wicker-look basket, A Yu-Gi-Oh! Japanese Struggle of Chaos card, a roll of Ilford black & white film, a Hi Fin Platy fish, a self-adhesive Fire Door Keep Locked sign, a US Basic Harvey cap, and a John Player Cigarette card of Lieut. the Hon FHS Roberts from the 1914 Victoria Cross Series.

And I'll e-mail Gord every week and let him know what I've bought. I don't want him to think I'm ungrateful.

With Sandy on the shore

thegalrita@beeb.net — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 07:54:00 GMT

This serene spring morning is filled with thoughts of Sandy Denny, not that it needed the 30th-anniversary reminders in the media. Sandy's death hit me hard: we were born in the same year and damn' nearly died in the same year. I remember looking at the dates on the obit in the Melody Maker and thinking, "Why her and not me?" I only saw her once, when Fairport played UEA in the spring of 1975, this lovely luminous woman, the flowers on her dress the same tawny gold as her hair.

I sang "White Dress" at the Nelson last week but it was the following day when I had the real Sandy moment. She used to sing Richard Farina's song "The Quiet Joys of Brotherhood", which begins, "As gentle tides go rolling by, along the salt sea strand/The colours blend and roll as one, together in the sand". Now, I've heard those lines dozens of times without really stopping to think. What colours? Foam is white, isn't it?

Well, there I was in my favourite place, on the very edge of the salt sea strand, and even at Cromer with a brisk easterly there is a still moment when the outgoing tide pauses and yawns before beginning to edge towards land again. And there at my feet the foam was reflecting and refracting the light from a slightly hazy sun, with bubbles in all the colours of the rainbow lying briefly on the sand before winking out. I had never seen this before - was it unique, or have I simply been blind to it?

Whatever - it was a moment to cherish. Thank you, Richard. Thank you, Sandy

The true Norfolk tradition (woo-woo)

thegalrita@beeb.net — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 16:43:00 GMT

The Wednesday acoustic sessions at the Nelson seem to get madder and madder. This week I rolled up to find an Executive Decision had been taken (because someone had brought along a US-loco woo-woo whistle) to have a theme, viz: "Trains". Result: instead of Joyce Grenfell and Anne Briggs, I ended up singing Leadbelly and Frank Crumit.

As we went around the room things took a distinctly North American turn - there doesn't seem to be the romantic element about British railways to inspire songwriters, with the famous exception of Paul Simon's "Homeward Bound", which, tradition has it, was composed on Runcorn Station. "Romney Hythe & Dymchurch" simply doesn't have the same ring as "Canadian Pacific", does it? So the chaps with the guitars came up with lots of stuff about love and loss and loneliness and headin' on down the track and leavin' your baby behind - they were very keen on this in the seventies, I recall, it was always him going and her staying, it never seemed to occur to them while they were wallowing in pleasurable guilt by their lonely campfire that she'd just changed the sheets and put the "Vacancy" sign out again. Coming fundamentally from the English tradition in its broadest sense, I could only think of Flanders & Swann's exquisite "Slow Train" and you don't do that with ten minutes notice, full as it is of place names. Apart from that I know two songs with a railroad man in. One is "Careless Love" and the other one isn't, so off the cuff I did "Black Girl", which followed on nicely from Ron's Frankie Laine song about a girl in the woods - two points to me in the mental Tennis Elbow Foot game, for getting woods and trains in one song.

It wasn't all trains; there was a very nice song about bringing in the May, something ineffably silly with a ukelele, Keith played a couple of Morris tunes and Andrea sang "Surabaya Johnny", introducing Theme Two, The General Unsatisfactoriness of Men. We all belted out "Cigareets and Whusky and Wild Wild Women" then from the depths of memory I dredged "Frankie and Johnny" (encore deux points). I don't normally sing songs without preparation but there is something about this session, everyone is very welcoming and knowing that anything goes, you can just relax, inhibitions vanish and some ace performances result. It is in fact in the true spirit of the Norfolk tradition.

Anyway, Mr. Kiwi is gracing the River Gardens at Thorpe this Sunday evening with his band plus his "rolling roadshow" of Nelson regulars, including me and Jimmur, provided we can work out where to get off the bus. It's a long time since I went along that road in the dark. I wonder if the phantom shade of the legendary Mac's Caff will reappear in the twilight? Ah, those greasy chip butties and slightly curdled frothy coffee, served under lurid neon lights, the perfect sequel to an LCR gig. The winner was the one who got furthest back towards campus before throwing up. Nowadays they have a burger/ice-cream van parked right outside the door. Young people today, don't know they're born!

P.S. Oh dear. Didn't check buses. Missed the River Gardens - never mind - there's another skiffle night at the Nelson this Friday. I might even have made the little chap his spiffy new waistcoat by then (Jimmur, I mean, not Kiwi ....)

Skylarks, George Orwell and me

thegalrita@beeb.net — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 17:01:00 GMT

Just logged on to the 5-day forecast and wished I hadn't, since it reads: Cloudy, Light Rain, Heavy Rain, Heavy Rain, Heavy Rain. After some good jaunts out since the start of the year, I am getting cabin fever. Apparently science has proved that Spring advances from the south-west at approximately two miles per hour, walking speed, oh wouldn't it be lovely to take boots and staff to Padstow May Day and keep pace with it all the way back home.

The brisk breezy days in February did yield some very satisfying walks on the coast. I even managed to get myself off the default setting, which is: train to Cromer, follow the water's edge to Overstrand and back along the clifftop path, or vice versa, depending on the state of the tides. Either way, there's always time for a nice pot of tea and a scone in the Rocket House at the end. Just for a change I stayed on the train till Sheringham - what a nice bustling friendly little town it is, no wonder they don't want Tesco squatting at the top like a giant cane toad - and headed off along the cliff path to Weybourne Hope, into a stiff north-westerly which made me glad I had nipped into the Sally Army shop and invested 50p. in an emergency woolly hat, albeit one that made me look like Care in the Community (as my best friend said darkly, "There is a reason why hats end up in charity shops"). I had forgotten how attractive this area was, with ragged clay pinnacles at the edge of the cliff and quite a respectable line of surf beating the pebbles below, the dark smudge of the wooded ridge inland and the lovely long curve of the bay at Weybourne stretching into the distance. Memory had also erased the rather steep hump with the Coast Watch lookout on top, but I thought I coped very well considering I was carrying the extra weight of a Denby coffee pot! (that's charity shops for you). A very popular route, this; I briefly enjoyed the company of a dear little bright-eyed dog whose owner said, "He's a real Norfolk terrier". "Does that mean you can't tell him anything?" "M'mmmm......"

Anyway, the really magical thing about this walk was that once clear of the golf course there were suddenly skylarks soaring and singing and diving into the rough grass at the field edges. I know they are merely braggart males in search of a mate but to stand and follow that little twittering speck as it flutters higher and higher against the sun and then tumbles into the graceful swoop back to earth, well, it just gladdens your heart, to be free and out in the open and not chained to a photocopier and worrying about the Board agenda!

So let us give a cheer for George Orwell, writing in April 1946 after a run of almost unendurably long and harsh winters:-

'At any rate, Spring is here, even in London N.1., and they can't stop you enjoying it. This is a satisfying reflection. How many a time have I stood watching the toads mating, or a pair of hares having a boxing match in the young corn, and thought of all the important persons who would stop me enjoying this if they could. But luckily they can't. So long as you are not actually ill, hungry, frightened or immured in a prison or a holiday camp, Spring is still Spring. The atom bombs are piling up in the factories, the police are prowling through the cities, the lies are streaming from the loudspeakers, but the earth is still going round the sun, and neither the dictators nor the bureaucrats, deeply as they disapprove of the process, are able to prevent it.'

I'll drink to that.

Balls (winning)

thegalrita@beeb.net — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 10:02:00 GMT

Oh the joys of retirement, ten past nine and still in my dressing gown, watching other people work, viz: the team of chaps putting replacement windows in the flats opposite. Mine were done in January, which is why I can pretend I am Noel Coward of a morning instead of having to don several layers of warm clothes before coming in to the study to digest tea, breakfast, e-mails and the morning papers. Except Noel probably didn't have porridge stains on his lapels, or perhaps he did and just kept the silk gown for when Gertie was going to pop round.

I rose at a civilised hour this morning, the chaps in NZ having wrapped up the Napier Test not too long after midnight. Got it totally wrong yesterday, woke up to what seemed a lightish sky (it was of course a white landscape), flicked on the bedside radio, caught the final few overs of the day and then made a pot of tea, forgetting stumps were at 5.30 p.m. their time and 4.30 a.m. our time. Did not realise mistake until I switched on the computer to look at the photos on the BBC website! I adore Ryan Sidebottom's mad hair, it takes me back to the desperate winter when I was 30, convalescing after a serious illness, no job, living back with parents, and the only bright spot was the cricket highlights and watching Willis's chestnut curls bobbing as he tore in for the slaughter.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry yesterday when I heard a news item about the 25-year old lottery winner who has returned to work in MacDonalds because he has had enough of relaxation. There are factors I can understand - isolation from your peer group being the major one - but how sad to have no dream or ambition which would not be facilitated by a great big pot of money. I know what I'd have done at his age, because I did it anyway - broke away from my stultifying boring home town, a dead-end job and a rapidly deteriorating social circle as all my friends paired off, and came to UEA. Those being the days of grants, we were all equally broke so there wouldn't have been much flashing of the wad but it wouldn't half have made a difference in the years afterwards, and indeed I might not have had to spend Year 2 in the spacious flat with the marble fireplace and hot and cold running mice. Of course, any job is made bearable by the lovely knowledge that you have the running-away fund already set up. When the Lottery began, we used to sit and fantasise what we'd do: "I wouldn't give in my notice - I'd wait till the first time they annoyed me and then just walk out". The favourite dream of the syndicate was coming on the Sunday after the draw and shredding the entire contents of our offices, leaving the black bags piled up along the corridor for the managers to find on the Monday morning! That kept us going through many a weary hour.

What would I do now? Well, it wouldn't make me thinner or healthier or cleverer. But I know one thing, I'd have been watching the cricket in the balmy breezes of New Zealand and not listening on fuzzy long-wave in a frozen Norwich dawn!

And words can do so much!

thegalrita@beeb.net — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 15:40:00 GMT

I do love words. It's the way harmless-seeming letter-combinations dropped on to paper in all innocence or seriousness have the potential to explode into multiverses of delight. There's been a particularly fine crop this week.

First on to the doormat, notification of the potential re-launching of BT's residential telephony Calling Plans - no longer a plain old Option 1, from April I'm on the Unlimited Weekend Plan! Damn! Why couldn't they have done that when I was still working? My ISP meanwhile is going to launch a C-Bill platform with the aim of enhancing my customer experience with them. Very Star Wars. They'll be despatching my log-in credentials closer to the time of launch, apparently. I visualise these as a sort of heat-seeking Cadburys Flake, but this may be down to Lenten hallucinations.

I just bought a folding step-stool to enhance my spring-cleaning experience, imagine my joy on perusing the pan-European leaflet in the box to find I now have my very own KLAP TRAP! Top marks for inducing uncontrollable laughter, however, go to the Lakeland catalogue: "Do you have to de-fluff yourself before leaving the house?" They say you need their Sticki-Mitts. I think you need a word with the Tao Clinic ...

People get paid for writing this stuff. Where did I go wrong?

Rejoice! my sock has come to me

thegalrita@beeb.net — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 00:18:00 GMT

Regular readers (oh yes there are -- and I know where you live) may remember a discussion last year about the essentially untrustworthy nature of supposedly inanimate objects, with special mention of the migratory nature of socks.

Well, post-holiday I was rather cross to come back from the laundrette minus one of a pair of brand new socks in a distinctive pattern which made it impossible to substitute something similar which would fool the casual observer. This week I almost cracked and threw the survivor away. Just come back from a rather wacky session at the Nelson, switched the electric blanket on and as I straightened the duvet noticed a dark grey shape peeking out from under the bed. It was the missing sock. Normally this would be a shaming exposure of my lackadaisical housewifery, but no, in the course of having replacement windows fitted last month the bed was moved across the room and the carpet hoovered twice, once by the lad from Anglian Windows and somewhat more thoroughly by me.

So I crooned over it and restored it to its mate in the sock drawer, where it can lie in the dark and tell tales of derring-do.

I don't know whether to feel reassured or very, very nervous!

Norwich - three times as cultural as Liverpool!

thegalrita@beeb.net — Wed, 23 Jan 2008 17:41:00 GMT

Surprisingly little trumpeting seems to have been done about the news from listings website LocalLife that when it comes to arts and entertainment, Norwich knocks the new European Capital of Culture into a cocked hat. They calculated that we have approximately ten cultural outlets per ten thousand of the population and Liverpool has approximately three. (And that's without counting all the pubs the Lee Vasey Band has ever played in.)

This probably wouldn't have come as a surprise to anybody who was in Chapelfield Gardens last Saturday. Klang's Entourage was there to support the protest against the seemingly arbitrary funding cuts from the Arts Council which threaten the future of our own wonderful and practically unique Puppet Theatre and also Eastern Angles, who travel around the region working miracles with minimal props and maximum inventiveness. I took Kevin the glove puppet dragon, an engaging little chap who sports a blonde quiff and diamond earstuds in homage to his cricketing namesake (yes, I know Pietersen doesn't have the quiff any more but if you shave plush it doesn't grow back) and was I glad of him as a handwarmer, as we got pretty bored and chilled hanging around while speaker after speaker chuntered away quite unnecessarily from the bandstand. Still, it was a great opportunity to catch up with people from the Maddermarket and Crude Apache and Big Sky and the Playhouse and there was the wonderful stately Nelson puppet towering over us all and a dinosaur who had a brief squirmish with Klang and a cluster of caballeros or were they pistoleros in huge black sombreros, like a low-flying thunderstorm, and children in carnival costumes and a Whiffler and lots of balloons and the inevitable earnest person trying to sell the 'Socialist Worker' and in fact if this had been July rather than January it would have been a really nice place to hang out.

Smiles and waves as we followed the Samba Band down to the Walk and up past the Forum to City Hall steps, good bit of consciousness-raising, though I am always amused and amazed at the bovine ability of some people to totally ignore anything in the slightest bit unusual, not so much as an eye flicker. We were a bit tired and cold so sloped off to doff dragons and huddle round soup, cake and hot chocolate in the Greenhouse, where a mysterious force drew several upstairs to the booksale and I came down a v. happy bunny with a beautiful Folio Society edition of 'Mistress Masham's Repose' for the princely sum of four quid.

Anyway, whether or not the protest succeeds in changing things (and sadly, in my experience this rarely happens) it reinforced the fact that this city contains a very high percentage of the kind of people who are actively involved in doing the stuff that makes life worth living, and will continue to do so long after the bunting has been taken down in that Other Place!

Round Yarmouth with Bosoms and Besoms

thegalrita@beeb.net — Mon, 07 Jan 2008 13:02:00 GMT

Praise be - after a horribly dull week, Plough Saturday dawns brisk and sunny and off goes I with the Norwich Kitwitches on their now-traditional visit to dance the Molly for the citizens of Great Yarmouth.

Serious traditionalists will explain that Molly dancing is a uniquely East Anglian form of other centuries-old ritual dancing like Morris, Sword, Border and Clog, possibly linked to pre-Reformation community celebrations around the Twelve Days of Christmas and particularly Plough Monday. The dances are simpler and slower than Morris and there's none of that fancy business with bells and clean hankies. (It has been cruelly said that if Morris is danced a foot above the ground, Molly is danced a foot below it!) Common features are blacking up of faces, dressing in women's clothing, and the collection of money - a vital supplement to the household economy at a thin time of the year for agricultural workers. Possibly the simplest explanation for its abiding popularity, however, was given by the Kitwitch who looks like unnervingly like my Auntie Annie: "All the best hobbies involve alcohol, violence or cross-dressing, and Molly dancing gives opportunities for all three!"

Kitwitches sprang (or lurched) from the collective loins of Golden Star Morris around fifteen years ago, inspired by a reference in an eighteenth-century document in the NRO to a Norwich custom, around Christmas and Plough Monday, of men dressing themselves in women's clothes and going from house to house dancing, playing music and begging. There must have been something in the air generally in East Anglia, because Old Glory (East Suffolk) and Ouse Washes (Lynn area) also rediscovered their roots around this time. Kitwitches dress up as women, though with Golden Star being a mixed side, some of them are actually women dressed as men dressed as women. (It is at this point of the story that people start to look nervous and edge further down the bar.) Visualise a group of pantomime dames doing a very vigorous country dance in cords and hobnail boots and you'll get the basic idea.

Anyway, after alarming the regulars at a nice pub near Yarmouth station, which was pressed into service as a dressing room for the donning of wigs, gowns and pinnies, the inflating of balloon bosoms and the trowelling-on of make-up - some of the younger ones looking worryingly winsome - off we went to the Market Place, where they stomped and twirled with great vigour and passers-by were most generous with contributions to the potty. Pitstop in the Mariners - now that's what I call a proper pub, real fire, splendid selection of ales and home-made pickled eggs! I Shall Return. More dances outside the Co-op, including the one where ancient brassieres do service as garlands ("And Turn! and Lift! and Separate!") then we head across to the Feathers, where the usual warm welcome and lovely grub await after a final set outside the Help the Aged shop. Where the young man behind the till is about to have a Very Bad Afternoon. He holds it together reasonably well until the last of these strange people - the one whose orange Ma Larkin sweater reveals shiny boobs in Canaries colours - waves a pink lacy bra at the middle-aged woman waiting quietly to pay for a paperback - "Do you think this will fit me? I need a bra, this string arrangement doesn't really work." So I peer at the label, tell Howard that a 44DD should be fine and hook it up with mutters of "It goes round OK but am I squashing your balloons?". Off he prances, bra on the outside, leaving the young man saying weakly, "What an afternoon, they all came in at once, there must be a party somewhere..."

A bit of a session and a bit of a dance in this nice cosy pub, then we walk back to the station. "Don't fancy yours much, Kev" cries a voice, but we didn't stop to find out which one he did fancy!

Kitwitches will be joining Ouse Washes tonight for a Plough Monday celebration at Northwold, but for me that's it until May morning. See you then, lads and lasses (without the dresses) and thank you for starting the year right.

The Tenth Lesson and Carol

thegalrita@beeb.net — Sun, 23 Dec 2007 13:37:00 GMT

Do you, gentle reader, include yourself in that seventy-seven per cent of the population who expose themselves as once-a-year churchgoers by not being able to remember an entire Christmas carol? Fear not, Cinders, said she, you shall go to the Watchnight Service, for I bring you tidings of great joy - Invisible Woman's Universal Carol, which fools ninety-nine per cent of all known vicars.

It came about in this wise: some years ago, a Norwich chippie advertised "Deep Fried Battered Christmas Pudding (with Custard)" and it was revealed unto me, possibly by an angel, who can say, that these words can be adapted to fit almost any known carol tune (the custard, being in brackets, is optional).

'Deep fried battered Christmas pudding with custard' - repeat until all lines of Away In a Manger have been worked through, then try The First Noel.

'Deep fried battered Christmas pudding, deep fried battered Christmas pud' - Once in Royal David's City.

And my favourite:

'Deep fried battered Christmas pudding,

Deep fried battered Christmas,

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Merry dingdongs, one and all. Three o'clock on Christmas Eve will never be the same again!

Upstaged by a piece of wood!

thegalrita@beeb.net — Thu, 13 Dec 2007 12:34:00 GMT

Oh, but this is so galling. I brought Jimmur the Jig Doll home from Traditional Music Day because everybody loves a dancing doll and it was a way of joining in sessions rather than sitting waiting to asked for a song while the musicians had a fag break, but I did not expect the little blighter to get a gig in his own right!

A jig doll is a small, jointed wooden doll which is held lightly on a board so that he dances when the board is tapped rhythmically. Sounds simple, but the fascination is that once it really gets going, the doll seems to develop a life of its own, largely because its arm movements are outside the direct control of its operator. I usually take mine to the acoustic session at the Nelson on Wednesdays, where he is very popular (vulgar cries of "Get your little man out!") and displays his versatility by dancing to all sorts of music from jigs to Johnny B. Goode. Last week he got so excited he finished one set by leaping in the air and doing the splits, which was very impressive, and possibly due to having been given a sip of James's beer mid-dance (as I said, they develop a life of their own....).

Anyway, last night Pete asked me specially if I was coming to his skiffle night on the Friday before Christmas. I was most flattered, until he said, "Oh good, bring the doll and we'll give him a couple of solos!"

So there you are. If you want a old-fashioned riotous night out, come to the Nelson on the 21st, enjoy their special seasonal offers on beer and whisky and watch Jimmur tippy-tapping his way to stardom.

Get stuffed! I in't no turkey

thegalrita@beeb.net — Mon, 10 Dec 2007 13:25:00 GMT

As a long time singleton and far beyond the stage where you have to Do It for the Kiddies, I remain fairly immune to the more hysterical elements of the festive season. (Perfect tree! Perfect wrappings! Perfect sprouts! Perfect dress!) However, it would appear that this year the bastards have penetrated even my defences with their constant battering to buy, buy, buy. With two weeks still to go, I was alarmed to catch myself momentarily panicking this morning, when a leaden sky induced the postponement of a walk into the city in favour of coffee, cricket commentary and catching up with correspondence.

Has it ever been as bad, as nakedly venal, as this year? The usual shops no longer seem to suffice - people have to be herded into seasonally dedicated spaces, much as flocks of turkeys and geese were once driven down to Smithfield. I was too busy with other things to get drawn into NORWICHRISTMAS, although I did glance across at City Hall in the hope that justice had prevailed and whoever coined that particular vile elision would be spiked on the top of the tree, but alas no. Yesterday I actually paid to get into Dragon Hall and spend money at the Medieval Christmas Market, as it is quite jolly to see the great hall used for trading and full of bustle. I have to say I wasn't much impressed; same stalls as last year, the only music was someone dismally tootling nineteenth-century carols on a recorder and as for Mistress Myfanwy and her herbal lore, first of all madam if people have paid to get in you bloody well learn your lines instead of reading them off a card, and secondly if you are talking about house leeks, brandishing a large specimen of the vegetable variety makes you look a right tit. It seems Mammon has even infiltrated the Cathedral, where a Historic Christmas Fayre will relieve you of £2.50 for entry to the cloisters so the usual collection of costumed traders can get after your pelf. There is a hog roast, but that's not much of an inducement for a vegetarian. Perhaps the Bishop could re-focus our priorities by dressing up as Jesus and overturning the stall of anyone taking a credit card? I'd gladly pay to see that.