And I ask you friend, what's a fella to do

"Blood is thicker than water" has got to be one of the worst phrases in the world. I realised at about age six that it wasn’t true. I have family members who have never spoken to me because of things that happened before I was born, yet I have friends who have been in my life as long as my own sisters. And I had a wonderful grandad, who came into my gran’s life twenty seven years ago.

One of my earliest memories is of Frank. I was about three and he was looking after me and my sisters. They were both upstairs having a bath (supervised by my gran) and I’d already had mine, so I scuttled downstairs in a cloud of Johnson’s talcum powder. Frank had sneaked me a mini tube of Rolos, which I practically inhaled. My gran called me upstairs so off I popped and when I returned, my Rolos packet was empty.

To this day, Frank would have me in tears laughing as he described me looking around the room for my missing last Rolo. It took him weeks to admit he’d eaten it and I couldn’t find it in my three year old heart to forgive him, despite him repeatedly buying me additional packets of Rolos.

But I didn’t mind really. Frank was the sort of grandad that everyone wanted. He swung us around in the air and he patiently watched our puppet shows where we dangled a mop over the garden wall and he loved every wobbly painting or carefully crayoned picture we’d made at school. And as we got older, he shook hands with every boyfriend we brought home and tried not to wince on our maiden voyage in the car as we turned a corner just that little bit too fast.

He became a great grandad in 2007 and this opened a whole new chapter of his life, as he watched eleven great grandchildren come into the world. Frank was one of those people who children naturally adored. He could sit on a bus for thirty seconds and there’d be a baby waving a chubby little hand at him from a buggy.

Frank was one of my favourite humans. He was the only man I’ve ever loved who hasn’t let me down. In the last twelve months, I’ve faced some really crappy times and Frank was there throughout, holding me as I cried. I suppose there are some good things to take from being twenty seven and never having lost a family member, but I used to worry that the babies I've lost are on their own up there. Now Frank is with them, it brings me peace.

 

It’s a cruel world we live in that someone as good a person as Frank was has been taken from us. It saddens me that he’ll never see me bring a baby into the world or dance with me at my wedding. But I won’t sit here and mope (or I’ll try not to at least.) Instead, I’ll try to remember him for all the important things, like his cheeky sense of humour, his good heart and the fact that he still owes me one last Rolo.

　

Holidays are coming

Unless you don’t know me very well, you’ll know how passionate I am about Christmas. Anything to do with Christmas. Everything to do with Christmas. It’s my favourite time of year. I can quote my way through Love Actually (which, by the way, is enjoyed all year round at Casa Chriscoli and not just for the final thirty days of the calendar). Nothing gives me greater pleasure than when the shops start to fill with suggested Christmas presents and coffee shops bring out their special cups.

For the summer people reading this, you’ll already be rolling your eyes as you blow warm air into your hands to prevent them seizing up. No offence, but I don’t care! People say that winter is romanticised. It is. By me. I love cosy nights in front of the fire, the endlessly dark nights featuring twinkly lights and of course, the fact that it’s socially acceptable (and even expected) to gain at least half a stone in a two week window.

We’re currently on 13^th November and I’ve already bought 90% of the presents I need to buy. Roll your eyes all you want, summer people, but when you have as many children in your life as I do, you have to stretch your bank balance – and not your patience! I’ve had Michael Buble’s Christmas album playing in my car on the way to work and my diary is chock-a-block full of festive plans. I can’t stress this enough: I love this time of year.

Like most people, it only truly feels like Christmas once you start seeing the festive adverts on TV. In recent years, it’s become a battle of the ads as everyone from Aldi to M&S do their best to impress. I don’t think anyone can deny that the most anticipated Christmas advert of all is from John Lewis.

This year’s features a (really cute) little boy who discovers he has a monster under his bed. Life with Moz the Monster is causing him sleepless nights.

While he is initially apprehensive of this giant under-the-bed lodger, he slowly begins to warm to him and we watch an undoubtedly heart-warming friendship spark between them. The little boy eventually finds a hastily wrapped Christmas present under the tree, which we know that Moz the Monster has left there for him. It turns out to be a night light, which, when he uses it, he realises the monster has gone. The advert ends with “For gifts that brighten their world” as the little boy enjoys his first good night’s sleep in donkey’s years.

Now, this may be an unpopular opinion but I’m going to say it anyway. I was disappointed. And since writing this blog entry, I’ve become aware that John Lewis are now facing an accusation of plagiarism from a children’s writer, Chris Riddell, over his incredibly similar picture book: Mr Underbed.

I don’t think it helped that the night before the advert launched, there were rumours that it had been leaked. Ever the Christmas nerd, I eagerly watched what I believed to be the legitimate John Lewis Christmas 2017 advert. It wasn’t. But I did fall in love with the story of a fox and a mouse, and their unlikely friendship as they survived in the snow against all odds.

There was one bit where I actually cried as both animals went underwater and the fox swam away, watching the mouse fall to his death, before plunging further underwater to retrieve him and ultimately save his life. He then protected the mouse against predators. By the end of the advert, I was emotional and thought “bloody Nora, they pulled that back”. (If you’re intrigued, click HERE to watch it).

Because the bottom line is: John Lewis’s Christmas adverts have deteriorated massively in recent years. Think back to Christmas 2010 where all the parents tried desperately to hide Christmas presents while their children played on, blissfully unaware, as Ellie Goulding crooned “Your Song” in the background. Or Christmas 2014’s effort where we met the adorable Monty the Penguin.

2015’s John Lewis advert undoubtedly divided opinion as we saw a little girl communicating with the man on the moon. I get the idea behind it, and I thought they were brave for attempting it. But I didn’t like it. Call me crazy. Call me a conspiracy theorist. But I thought it was strange – and dare I say, creepy? - to advertise a little girl keeping secrets with a stranger.

However, it was a much better attempt than last year’s advert, which was an outright disaster. Look, I love animals probably more than most people. Buster the Boxer had all the right ingredients for an excellent Christmas advert – cute children and (even cuter) animals – as we watched foxes play on the trampoline, which was then overshadowed by Buster pushing his owner out of the way to play on it. In theory, it was cute. But I just didn’t buy into it.

Was it because the advert was lame or was it because, out of nowhere, the other retailers were fighting back? Whereas normally John Lewis is the giant of Christmas adverts, we’ve seen Sainsbury’s, Asda and even Lidl giving us a run for their money. And even more surprising is that the other retailers are doing a better job than John Lewis.

I heard an interesting fact that the media whizzes behind the Sainsbury’s adverts refuse to post theirs anywhere until Remembrance Sunday is out of the way, which I immediately fell in love with. I read online that Aldi want to make people laugh with their adverts, which certainly worked with Kevin the Carrot.

This year, when Moz the Monster was unveiled, I watched the outpour of disappointment on social media. People were unimpressed. No, it was more than that. People were pissed off. For years, we’ve had it drilled into us that it isn’t Christmas without the John Lewis advert. Well, what’s changed? Do they have new management? A lower budget? Less people contributing ideas? (I’m aware that John Lewis use their longstanding agency Adam&Eve. Has someone at Adam&Eve headquarters stopped believing in the big man?) Whatever it is, I reckon they’ve got another year left before people switch off altogether.

Remember how the X Factor used to be the epitome of winter entertainment? You’d get a text off a mate inviting you on a night out and you’d literally laugh out loud as you switched your phone off (okay, onto do not disturb) as it was inconceivable to you that you’d venture outside when the X Factor was on. I actually remember being in a bar the night Joe McElderry was crowned the X Factor winner in 2009 and instead of music playing, they had the sound turned right up across six tiny TV screens dotted around the bar. We all sat in total silence as we drank our orange VKs and tried not to jangle our neon pink plastic beaded necklaces, completely glued to the screens as we watched poor Olly Murs coming in second place.

Can you imagine that now? Exactly. Times change. People move on. And if John Lewis don’t realise that and subsequently up their game, they’re going to turn to shit. With this in mind, I’ve made a list of the top ten British Christmas adverts of all time. Feel free to criticise or offer your thoughts.

10. For those fossils among us, you might be able to remember the Yellow Pages advert from the 90s. For the youth reading this, I’ll explain. The Yellow Pages acted as the original form of the internet, where you could find the contact details for local businesses and families’ landlines alike. It was a massive hefty book which the 1992 Christmas advert showed a little boy standing on to reach a little girl holding out mistletoe. The nation fell in love with the cute pair as they shared a Christmas kiss. Can you imagine that happening today? Oh the outcry! The advert was so popular that they played it year after year. I know this because I remember watching it and I certainly don’t remember any TV I watched when I was two. See it yourself: HERE

9. John Lewis’s 2009 entry hits my ninth top spot, mostly because I love the song (Sweet Child o’ Mine) and the fact they used all real footage of children playing. It actually just drew a little lump in my throat as I watched it then. Watch it yourself: HERE

8. A fabulously overlooked advert for 2017 is Debenham’s entry. A modern day fairy tale starting with a hectic journey on public transport during rush hour and ending with a (slightly predictable but still totally cute) love story. Plus, it features Ewan McGregor. What’s not to love? See it: HERE

7. John Lewis’s 2012 entry makes it into the top 10 with the gorgeous tale of the snowmen love story. I particularly like this advert as I love Gabrielle Aplin’s cover of “The Power of Love”, which is one of my all-time favourite songs. See it: HERE

6. An unlikely choice perhaps, but it just tugged on my heartstrings as I described it to my mum (and gasped over long ago it was). Boots Christmas advert in 2013 featured a young chavvy looking teenage boy who went storming out of the house, much to his family’s annoyance, to buy Christmas presents for his teacher, his crush, his best mate, his mum and the nurse who looked after his nan. See it: HERE

5.  An overlooked entry without a doubt, the Co-op’s 2015 Christmas advert was the heart-warming tale of a thuggish looking double act trying desperately to source the right items for their house party. When the elderly chap next door can’t leave the house due to the ice, one of the lads nips to the shop and picks up the necessary bits and bobs for him, before leaving them in a bag on the doorstep. See it: HERE

4. I’ve mentioned it already but John Lewis’s 2014 advert featuring Monty the Penguin definitely has to make it in the top five. I mean, come on, it shows the unbreakable bond between boy and real life penguin, before boy introduces said penguin to new penguin. Oh, and it features the lovely silky voice of Tom Odell. See it: HERE

3.  It could be argued that it isn’t really Christmas unless you’ve seen the Coca Cola advert with the van. Even just the beginning few rumbles of festive music and the hushed tones of “Holidays are coming” is enough to excite the Christmas fiends among us. I remember watching Blind Date after church one Saturday evening (good Catholic family) and me and my sisters screamed: “IT’S ON! IT’S ON! THE COKE ADVERT’S ON!” To which my mum ran in shouting: “IT’S CHRIIIISTMAS!” We’re a daft bunch. Have a look at the original Coke advert: HERE

2. This was almost my number one and it only missed the top spot because of its length. It was undoubtedly a very long advert (although it was usually a shortened version which was played),. However, it was also one of the very best as it recreated the truce between the English and German troops on Christmas Day in World War One. Yep, that’s right. I’m talking about the 2014 Sainsbury’s advert. As I mentioned above, Sainsbury’s appear to be very respectful of the armed forces and our veterans, so it was lovely to see this tribute. You can see it: HERE

1.      1. And my personal favourite is none other than John Lewis’s advert from Christmas 2011, where a little boy is desperately counting down the days to festivities. When Christmas Day arrives, we see him struggling to carry a huge present – only to give it to his mum. I genuinely remember watching that for the first time in the adverts of the X Factor, and right up until the end, I thought God, what a greedy little shit. Then burst into tears at the sight of his love for his mum. I’m welling up now. I think it’s the combination of The Smiths acoustic cover and the bond between mum and son. God help me. I’ve got a lump in my throat. You can see my chart topper: HERE

If reading this has put you in the festive mood, then I’m thrilled. If you’re not really a festive person for one reason or another, then don’t forget that ultimately, Christmas is just one day out of 365. If you find Christmas an unhappy or lonely time, please speak to those around you. As much as I adore Christmas, I’ve also had some really unhappy years where I’ve just wanted to get through the festivities as quickly as I can without too much hurt. If this is you this year or your plans have somehow fallen through, send me a message and we’ll go out for a drink. Look after yourself x

Tea, cake and stiff upper lips

Can I just start by saying that I wasn’t intending to write a blog entry for Baby Loss Awareness week but my friend Jemma came round for her favourite meal (breakfast for tea – always a winner) and asked me if I was going to acknowledge it. Of course I intended to acknowledge Baby Loss Awareness week. I’m planning on lighting a candle at 7pm on 15^th October like I do each year. 

But I hadn’t planned on sitting down and writing about my experiences of miscarriage.

In the last few years, I’ve shied away from putting pen to paper (or finger to keyboard) when it comes to talking about my own experiences. I was very vocal at first and this helped enormously. It felt easier to explain my absence from work, my lack of commitment to plans, my silence on social media by saying “have you read my latest blog entry?” and directing people to that than saying the words that brought a lump to my throat and a wobble to my lip.

For those of you who don’t know, Baby Loss Awareness week is every 9^th – 15^th October where we remember all the babies lost during pregnancy and birth.

When Jemma asked if I planned to blog about Baby Loss Awareness week, I immediately dismissed the idea. My blog doesn’t really focus on me so much these days. When I can drag my lazy arse to the computer to start writing, I tend to write about anything other than me. TV shows, plays, musicals, actors… anything. But nothing personal anymore. However, now I’m in the multiple miscarriage camp, I feel it’s more appropriate than ever to break this rule.

Don’t worry. It’s not going to be an emotional read. Well, it probably will be, because the chances are if you’re reading this, you’re either in a similar camp as me or you know someone who is. It’s a crap camp. Quite a lonely place. One miscarriage makes you doubtful and frightened and broken. More than one and you start to question everything you thought was a given.

What if you can never carry a baby to term? Is it something wrong with me? Do people stop understanding as much when it’s the fourth, the fifth, the sixth loss? Do the flowers stop arriving? Does the sympathy dry up? And what on earth do you answer when someone asks “Do you have children?” Well, actually, Barbara, I should have a whole herd of children running around like the Von Trapp family by now.

Thankfully, as always, I had so many lovely people around me who have been terrific. (Who says the word terrific anymore? I’m aware I sound like an Enid Blyton character.) But I know that not everyone has that support.

So, my intention for this blog is to give advice, guidance, support, instructions – whatever you want to call it – for people who don’t know what to say or do when someone they love suffers a miscarriage.

First of all – and this is probably the most important one – talk to them about it. Yes, I know it might be difficult to strike up a conversation with someone who is physically and emotionally hurting. But you know what’s worse than striking up that initial conversation? Not saying anything at all.

I’d recommend steering clear of calling but why not drop them a text message to let them know you’re thinking of them? You don’t have to say much. Just the thought of you making the effort to speak is more than enough. I remember two very memorable texts from two totally different people when I’d miscarried. One was like War and Peace: reams and reams of chatter about how cruel the world was and how one day it would be my time. The other simply said: “I don’t really know what to say but I’m thinking of you”. Both were fine. Both meant a lot.

Try to avoid any of the really cliché phrases. People mean well but it isn’t always the nicest thing to hear. I remember a kind nurse patting me on the shoulder and saying “never mind, love. You can always try again”. This is in the same band as: “But it wasn’t really a baby yet, was it?” “Were you actually trying for a baby?” and “It just wasn’t your time”.

Check out this video from the Miscarriage Association, where it points out what not to say. It’s only about a minute long but it’s brilliant. Click here to see it. 

If you’re stuck for words, just say: “Look mate, I’ve heard what’s happened. It’s so shit. If you fancy a cup of tea (or a glass of wine), you know where I am”. Or, when the dust has settled, offer to bring round cake. Everyone likes cake.

What you mustn’t do is ignore the miscarriage altogether. There’s a common misconception with us Brits that anything slightly emotive requires a stiff upper lip. Balls to this. If your friend is hurting and you don’t offer to talk about it with them, you’re letting them down. The truth is, she might not want to talk about it but the fact that you offered is what counts.

On a similar note, act how you normally would do around your friend. Especially after a bit of time has passed and she's just getting herself back into a routine again. If this is the mate you're normally crying laughing with over Gemma Collins memes, tag her in one. If she's the one you'd tell about your romantic mishap, text her. Just because she's had a miscarriage doesn't mean she isn't the person she was before. Yes, things have changed, but I remember feeling so relieved when I'd get a text from someone that made me laugh - or even better, if they came round to see me and had me laughing. Don't be shy around her. She's had a shit enough time as it is without worrying that you're too frightened to be yourself around her anymore. 

Don’t trivialise what’s happened. I remember someone saying “God, I was only off work for a week with one of mine” as I handed in my sick note for my fourth consecutive week off work. People cope in different ways. Some people find it easier to get straight back into work and throw themselves into the norm as a distraction. Other people need weeks of lounging around in their pyjamas watching TV and eating multipacks of crisps. And some people can be in and out of hospital for weeks at a time.

Don’t be fooled into thinking that a miscarriage is “like a heavy period”. Each miscarriage is totally different. I lost a baby at thirteen weeks and had to have surgery to finalise the miscarriage. I lost a baby at eight weeks and was hospitalised because I was having contractions. Even the most straightforward miscarriages (and by that, I mean the ones where no medical intervention is required) are painful, horrible, frightening and seemingly never-ending.

A woman going through a miscarriage doesn’t need to be told that it isn’t a big deal. It is a big deal. It’s astronomical. She was carrying a baby and now she isn’t. Her entire future has changed. She planned things for that baby. She’s been excited about something lovely happening to her and now it’s been taken away from her in the most abrupt and intrusive way. That’s massive. Acknowledge that it’s massive. She’s a bloody warrior.

It isn’t a competition. Over the last three years, I’ve realised that a huge amount of women have had miscarriages. Some people tend to compare their loss to yours: “I was a lot further along than you were, so it was worse for me”. That type of thing. Each loss is life altering. While it’s great to talk about your own experience so your friend doesn’t feel as isolated, hearing about your loss might be a bit too much for her. Try to bear that in mind when offering support.

Remember her loss. It might be a month, six months, a year or a decade down the line, but she will remember the day she lost her baby. Please make a mental note to check she’s okay on any trigger days. By this, I mean – “would be” due dates, anniversaries of the loss, Christmas, “would be” first birthdays etc. If she’s doing well, that’s great. Wonderful, in fact. If she’s not, bring out the cake.

Please don’t forget that men hurt too. If your mate’s partner has just lost a baby, that means that he’s lost a baby too. He’s probably being a pillar of strength for his Mrs, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t do with a friend. Drop him a text. Check how he’s doing. Take him out for a pint. No stiff upper lips needed in this camp.

Don’t live close to your friend? Send flowers.

Don’t want to disturb your friend? Send a text to her partner/her mum/her sister.

Don’t want to pry? Don’t. You don’t need to know the specifics, but let your friend know that you’re thinking of her.

Want to do something amazing this Baby Loss Awareness week? Light a candle at 7pm on Sunday 15^th October 2017 to remember all the babies gone too soon. If you want to, take a picture of the candle and upload it on social media with the hashtag #waveoflight to show your support.

If you're wanting to help a friend, a relative, a colleague or a partner through a miscarriage, then you're a very decent person and you deserve the best in all you do. It may be difficult at times, but supporting someone through the loneliest time in their life is one of the very kindest things a person can do. 

Finally, if you’re reading this and you’ve suffered a miscarriage, you’re an absolute warrior. I know first-hand how much you’re hurting. I’m sorry this has happened to you. Some days, it will seem impossible to pick yourself up and carry on. But you’ll get there, I promise.

Grafting

In December of last year, my work mum, Linda, said she had a feeling that 2017 was going to be my year. Spurred on by this comment, I got caught up in the midst of the hype and let myself believe it. For the first time in years, I was very content with my love life and as a result, everything else seemed to tick by quite happily. A classic case of the rose tinted glasses. 

I should've known better. Things went from perfect to crap to "is this real life?"

Why is it when you hit the age of twenty seven suddenly everything seems to be falling apart? I’m not the only one. I know I’m not. I know because I’ve asked out of sheer desperation and concern for my life which, from the moment the ball dropped on my twenty seventh birthday, spontaneously and unexpectedly turned to shit. I’m not exaggerating either. This spontaneous and unexpected whirlwind of shit led to me being a familiar face in Warrington Hospital a grand total of seventeen times in eight weeks.

I was off work, very poorly, for weeks on end and with each day that I stayed in bed (gaining weight), I could feel a little bit of my usual sparkle dwindling away.

I won’t bore you with the dramas that unfolded from 9^th April 2017 onwards (my friend/bodyguard/life coach Jade always says “God, there’s never a dull moment with you, is there”), but it was four months ago to this very day and only in the last week or so have things started to improve somewhat. Or that was what I thought, until I went round for my weekly cup of tea with my grandma and Frank.

As usual, the conversation turned to how I still live at home with my mum and our menagerie of pets. Immediately, I sighed. The question every singleton loathes the most. "When are you moving out? Will you be living on your own?" 

This never bothered me until very recently. I’ve mentioned this before but I get on with my mum more than other people get on with theirs. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure the vast majority of people you could survey would immediately say that they love their mum more than anything. But I’m very fortunate that my mother was blessed with the same sick and sarcastic sense of humour as me, and she’s as besotted with the aforementioned menagerie of pets as I am. Ever since my dad walked out three years ago, it’s just been the two of us and it’s fine.

I’m lazy and she’s crazy and we both love watching the same TV shows and so it just works.

So why am I itching to move out, you ask? Well, I don’t think that I am. I remember posting a blog entry when I turned twenty four, talking about what a strange age it was. Half my friends were married and actually trying for a baby and the other half were still nursing a hangover in the box room at their mum and dad’s. If I thought that was hard to swallow, I had a rude awakening when turning twenty seven. In every single one of my birthday cards, there was some reference to me being old and past it. 

I laughed it off, but then I thought am I?

Surely not, I thought. Twenty seven is nothing. I mean, okay, it is closer to thirty than I’d like to be and okay, I’ve not achieved some of the things that I would’ve liked to by now and fine, maybe I'd always pictured that by twenty seven, I'd be married and setting up camp with two point four kids. But is it really old? As in, should I have my shit together by now?

Apparently I should. My grandma laughed when I told her I’ve been saving every last penny for my deposit for a mortgage. “You won’t be able to live on your own,” she said, chortling. She didn’t mean it in a bad way. She was quite literally telling the truth.

I can see what she’s saying, don’t get me wrong. I’ve only ever lived with my mum (with the exception of university, where I surrounded myself with people who could take care of me). But aside from the odd relationship here and there, I’ve been pretty much on my own for the last four years and it hasn’t done me any harm. In fact, being in those relationships made me see just how important it is not to settle. 

A while back, I was with someone for two years and it was one hundred percent settling. I’m sure he won’t mind me saying this if he was ever to read this but we were just two mates who hung out and had sex. It should’ve ended after about a year of being together but it didn’t, out of fear of the scary transition from university to full time employment, and rather than growing some balls and saying “you know what, this isn’t working”, we tried to cling on to what we had left. Pretending that it’s okay to just see your partner as a friend. Convincing yourself that you do get butterflies around them still. I remember genuinely panicking once, thinking is this it? Is this all I’m going to get? As fond of him as I was, I didn’t particularly want to be with him but the fear of being without him was all consuming. So I settled. We both did.

And with this in mind, I've cast my beady eye around so many of the Insta-relationships. For those of you unaware of this term, it's used to describe the picture perfect lives of those more fortunate than ourselves. Good looking, great jobs, nice houses and adorable children all splashed out on social media for mere mortals such as myself to ogle whilst crying into our tube of Pringles or Tesco's Meal for One.

Are they all they're cracked up to be? Maybe. But - and I've learned this more and more lately - the mega Insta-relationships, where every move is anecdotally displayed for us to lap up, can sometimes be based on a lie. What I have to ask myself is this: if someone is genuinely happy with their life, would they be spending two to three hours a day seeking approval from strangers on the internet? Maybe, but probably not. 

Maybe the people who seem like they've got their shit together haven't. I slept easier when I realised that. 

Since turning twenty seven, I’ve listened to everyone’s comments and judgements and opinions on why I’m still single and why I’m still living in my family home and why I’ve done nothing with my degree in the six years since I’ve graduated. And while I’ve smiled and nodded and agreed and held my tongue, a small part of me has genuinely started to think: what if this is it?

Six years ago, when I graduated from university, if you’d have said to me: “where will you be in six years’ time?”, I certainly wouldn’t have said anything other than working on the stage or on TV. It was incomprehensible to me that I wasn’t going to “make it”. I wanted to be on the front cover of every newspaper and every magazine, giving interview after interview about my latest starring role. 

In fact, here's an embarrassing confession for you (one I'm sure I'll regret saying publicly at some point). In 2010, a naive twenty year old me auditioned for a brand new ITV show. It was The Only Way is Essex. I know what you're thinking. This bird's from Warrington. Well, you'd be right, but the initial audition was just a question and answer session on a video link. Some of the questions were pretty racy but I managed to put a funny spin on them, so I got through. 

Plus, even though I'm a northerner, I've always been really good at accents and putting on different voices (three years at uni not totally lost on me) so I sounded spot on and no one knew any wiser. Please don't ever ask me to do an impression. 

I had no idea what the programme would entail. In fact, The Only Way is Essex was probably one of the very first reality TV shows of its time. Nowadays, you can't switch your TV on without seeing someone who got through the judges' houses on the X Factor presenting a piece on This Morning about a group of people who've tried to find love in a Spanish villa, who then go onto present a piece on This Morning about... you catch my drift. But The Only Way is Essex really was unique. In fact, the advert for auditions was very vague, asking if you were funny and confrontational and up for a laugh. 

Before I knew what was what, I was being filmed in Essex in a nightclub called Faces and being asked the most revolting intrusive questions about my personal life. 

Here are some photos from the second round of auditions. I'm the little one with a brown top and black jeans on. Kudos if you can spot Charlotte Crosby's latest beau, Bear.

The more outrageous characters (including the guy dressed as Snow White) got through to the next stage. I didn't. I wasn't disappointed. I was actually relieved as I grabbed my coat and ran to the car to begin the five hour journey home with my dear friend, Sensible Katie. It was just another witty anecdote to report back with. Another string to my bow. Plus, it was the very first work I'd ever done in front of a camera, so I put it down to experience.

It took about two years and a big wake up call to make me realise that that isn’t what I wanted anyway. I didn't care about reality TV. I never have. I was going along with it, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with each question I was being asked in front of the camera and the room full of people, purely because I was desperate for anything that would get me recognised. Known. Put me on a platform so that when I was ready to release a book or write a play or whatever it is I wanted to do, I already had some exposure. 

I might've only been twenty but I think I had a good head on my shoulders. In fact, what I thought back then regarding building my own platform, is spookily accurate to how the majority of "today's celebrities" became household names. 

As time has passed, I think I’ve naturally retreated into my shell too much to ever be comfortable in the spotlight anymore. When I'm at my happiest, I spend the least time glued to my phone. I’ve even put less and less on social media as time has gone on. In fact, I had a notification from Facebook earlier this year telling me that I'd not posted for exactly a year. I used to be obsessed with social media, so this really took me by surprise.

The bottom line is, I feel I've changed so much as a person in the last few years. Even this blog itself started out describing my bid to crack the acting industry and organically developed into me reviewing things I've seen on stage and screen. Funny how things turn out, isn't it?

If you were to ask me now what I think I'd be doing in six years time, I'd have to say "I really don't know". History has taught me that you can't predict anything. I actually had a bit of a weird spell of going to see psychics over and over again, hoping one of them would give me the news I craved. They didn't. 

I just want to write, be good at it and get paid for it. 

So how do I go about that? 

Option number one: I can settle, and just accept that it isn’t likely to happen so I’ll spend my time moaning about it. Like the grandma in Billy Elliott: “I could’ve been a professional dancer”. I can focus my energy on something completely different and try not to dwell on the fact that I was once a talented, keen writer with a good eye for characters. 

Option number two: I can keep at it, even when some months are particularly dry, and never ever settle. That sits well with me. Although it’s a daunting process and almost scary that I’ve accepted being rejected over and over again. It’s sad but I expect nothing from anyone and anticipate the worst in every situation. I have developed into the most cynical old witch, but it keeps my feet on the ground. I can work and work and work again until one day, everything miraculously falls into place.

Option number three: I can attempt to crack the world of the Millennials. I utterly despise that word. We aren't Millennials. We're adults. We're people in our twenties who've grown up in a world where everything is completely overshadowed by social media and Apple gadgets. If I were to pull a Montana Brown, I could apply for a ton of reality TV shows to get some exposure, build a reliable platform and fan base, then drop my latest book. Look at Marcel from Blazing Squad. He's just released his first book. I'll eat my hat if he's actually sat and written it. 

Annoyingly, option number three seems the easiest and most acceptable way of building any sort of platform. Seeing the immediate success and wealth of the Love Island contestants once they’d left the villa was astounding. I was speechless when I found out that Jess (who was booted out by her fellow islanders only a couple of weeks into the show) charges up to £10,000 per sponsored post on Instagram. She earns more than I earn in one year by posting three pictures a day. And for what? What did she do to deserve such financial success? She went on a popular TV show, had sex and is now approaching her first million pound paycheck. Say what you like about her but she's not daft.

And she isn't the first and she won't be the last. I saw it all when I first watched The Only Way is Essex. Joey Essex, who couldn't read or write properly, was buying his first home for £300,000 outright. Then he bought another. And another. Now he's a millionaire. Amy Childs opened her own salon. Then she bought a house for £1.2 million. Then another.

It seems, sadly, that unless you plump for option number three, you're unlikely to be successful in this day and age. But - and maybe this is the cynical old witch in me - I can't help thinking that what you gain in exposure, you lose in credibility. 

So, I have to plump for option number two and hope that slow and steady wins the race. I'll keep writing and applying for writing opportunities and keeping my eyes peeled and my ears to the ground. It's bound to pay off eventually, isn't it? Because good things happen to good people, right? Right?

Ah well, I'd better wrap this up pretty sharpish. I've got a numb bum from sitting at my desk for so long and besides, I've got a Love Island application to send off...... 

Musings, if you will.

I can normally only write when I’ve drank a lot of coffee and dipped a lot of biscuits in said coffee but the current weather is making me switch off from anything remotely warm. I’m currently on week four of being off sick from work and having had an operation twelve days ago which has resulted in an infection following that operation, I’m really struggling with the heat.

Actually, I’m really struggling with everything right now. I hadn’t driven or been in my car for three weeks and when I finally ventured behind the wheel, I discovered a bag containing a half-drunk fruit smoothie in it. Let’s just say pineapple, banana and coconut repeatedly warmed to the point of boiling in a place with a distinct lack of air absolutely stinks.

Because I’ve been poorly, I’m bored. When I realised I was going to be off sick for a long time, I splashed out on a load of original British drama box sets which were polished off within a week. Now that the weather is glorious, everyone is rejoicing and firing up the barbecues whilst I huddle in front of my fan and sob because I have a temperature from my infection and the heat is killing me.

I’ve also resorted to type and started re-watching Friends. I say “re-watching”. What I actually mean is I broke my usual comfort blanket of watching the show over and over on Comedy Central while I was watching my box sets and now I’ve gone back to the norm. During one of my many freezing cold baths lately, I read an article on Buzz Feed about Friends and what the writer described as the “catalogue of errors” presented by the show.

While I don’t necessarily agree that the show hosts a “catalogue of errors”, I do agree that there are several mistakes, mostly continuity based, which I’ve picked up on over the years. I’m not so bothered about the really basic filming errors, some of which resurface on social media every few years. These errors range from the apartment door number changing to a different actress filling in for Monica when the camera isn’t focused on her to the actress who played Joey’s agent, Estelle, also multi rolling as a midwife who delivers Ben.

The majority of these tiny errors were most likely teething problems, which arose from the show being very new and the fact that the writers, directors and producers had no idea just how popular the show would be. As a writer, I’m more interested in how the storyline itself has crumbled with too many tiny errors.  Plot holes, if you will. How can you write something and forget you wrote it? Hell, I can still quote my way through a play I wrote six years ago. 

Maybe I’m just sad. Anyway, I digress.

Firstly, let’s take a look at the age of the characters. Ross and Monica are brother and sister, therefore we know there is at least nine months age difference between them. Yet if we think about the flashback episodes, we see Ross and Chandler at college while Monica and Rachel are still at high school. Therefore, I think it’s pretty safe to say there’s at least one year between the Gellar siblings, although it’s most likely more. So, in the episode where Rachel turns thirty, why are all the Friends aged thirty (Phoebe aside) with Rachel seemingly being the youngest?

In fact, if we cast our minds back to the earlier series, Ross says he is 29 years old on three separate occasions: in series three, four and five. Ironically, his birthday changes throughout the series. When Gunther asks Rachel when her birthday is, Ross chimes in with his birthday, which is in December. But when Joey and Ross are in the hospital after Ross punches Joey, he says his birthday is in October.

Ironically, the same thing happens with Phoebe. In series three, when talking to Frank Jnr, Phoebe says that her birthday is February 16^th (I remember so specifically as this is my sister’s birthday), yet in the ninth series, Phoebe’s birthday dinner is on Halloween.

Similarly, in the episode where Monica fights for the bargain wedding dress, she says her wedding is being held on May 15^th. We know that on the morning of her wedding, Rachel discovers she is pregnant. Presumably, she is around four to five weeks at this point, perhaps a little further on maybe. It’s fair to assume that Rachel conceived in April, roughly, which would mean her due date would be approximately January. That’s all well and good until we remember that when Rachel was towards the end of her pregnancy, she and Ross were attending a hospital appointment and she says “it is 100 degrees outside”. Really? In New York in January?

Also, on that note, when Rachel and Phoebe met Dr Green for dinner and he grills Rachel about his first grandchild “not being a bastard”, she reassures him by saying she has a wedding booked for February 2^nd. So, was the phantom wedding intended for when Emma was a month old? Or was this a mystical pregnancy that lasted a year and a half?

Speaking of Rachel’s pregnancy, when she’s in hospital after giving birth and Monica spies the engagement ring allegedly given to her by Joey, alarm bells should’ve rang for Monica as this is the same bloody ring that Ross used to propose to Emily. Perhaps she just didn’t recognise it, although she grew particularly attached to this specific ring and put Emily off wearing it by informing her that it was inside a duck’s colon for days. Or maybe their grandmother had several expensive looking engagement rings knocking around, despite the fact that when she moved to America, she had just the one ring and “the clothes on her back”, implying that she was very poor. Ah well. Maybe Monica is just forgetful.

Let’s move back to Ross for a second. In the first series, the guys make quite a big deal out of the fact that Ross has only slept with one woman: Carol. Yet, if we fast forward to the Thanksgiving episode featuring Brad Pitt, we discover that he in fact slept with an elderly librarian when he was in college. As he met Carol in college, we can only assume that either he was dishonest in the first series (possible – he seemed embarrassed when people found out about Mrs Altman so maybe he lied to avoid losing face) or he cheated on Carol, the woman he was with for eight years, married and had a child with.

If it’s the latter, it takes a whole new glance at Ross as a person. Sleeping with the girl from the copy place was meant to be a one-off thing that was so out of character for Ross but if he repeatedly cheats on every significant partner he’s had, sorry but it makes him a wanker. The alternative is that the writers forgot about the earlier confession that he had only slept with Carol and therefore, it falls into the ever-increasing category of “continuity errors”.

Still on the “Rossatron”, it’s crazy how throughout the series, he maintains that he has an allergy to shellfish, yet he has no objectons to gobbling down those crab cakes when the shit hits the fan.

Moving swiftly forwards to Rachel and Chandler. How many times did those guys meet “for the first time”? We know they met at the Geller’s during Thanksgiving on two consecutive years but we also see them meet at a college party where they end up kissing, yet apparently are totally unaware of each other. Let’s not forget that they meet again “for the first time” in the first episode where Rachel runs out on her wedding. It’s possible that as time has passed, she wouldn’t know who Chandler was (maybe) but then to back up this third meeting by saying in her potential maid of honour speech that she met Chandler for the first time when he was a “twenty-five-year-old”. 

No. No, you didn’t.

Speaking of Rachel, her surname repeatedly changes how it’s spelled throughout the series. We see her name listed as Rachel Green in the credits to the show, which is corroborated when Rachel has Rachel Green written on the top of Emma’s first birthday cake. However, it’s spelled as Greene on her office door at Bloomingdales and also on her invitation to Ross’ wedding.

Let’s move on to Ross and Monica’s parents: Jack and Judy Geller. In the episode where Jack gives Monica his Porsche, we hear that there were suspicions that Judy couldn’t conceive. The doctors then referred to Ross, who was conceived unexpectedly, as a “medical marvel”. This is also mentioned in another episode where Ross explains that doctors thought “she was baron”. Yet when Chandler and Monica meet Jack and Judy for lunch following their engagement and Jack talks about how he proposed to Judy, he explains that he’d gotten Judy pregnant and he still wasn’t sure how it happened. Okay. So far, so good. But then Judy says “your dog used my diaphragm as a squeeze toy”.

Hang on a minute. If medical practitioners believed she had no hope of getting pregnant, why did she use contraception? Without going into too much detail, I’m aware that certain methods of contraception also act as something else e.g. the contraceptive pill can help with periods etc. But a diaphragm is a complicated little bugger that you have to put in and out of yourself each time you want to have sex. Which would imply that, as the diaphragm was Judy’s preferred method of protection, she perhaps hadn’t been told she wasn’t able to conceive. Which means the whole “medical marvel” gag was total bullshit.

Bearing the Gellers in mind, remember little Ben Geller? Sorry, Ben Geller-Willitt-Bunch, to be exact. He didn’t turn up to his own father’s wedding, yet was present at both his mother’s and his aunt and uncle’s. Now, I have my own theory on this. Ross’ wedding was in London, therefore a long way to travel for a young child. He would’ve needed accompanying and presumably the person to do that would be his parent and maybe it was just a bit awkward for either Carol or Susan to come along to Ross’ wedding, not to mention costly. So why couldn’t Ross be responsible for him? Or, failing that, his own grandparents?

In fact, Ben’s role in the series deteriorated massively. In the earlier series, he was at Ross’ apartment – and even Monica’s apartment – all the time. Ross had him overnight and even begged Carol and Susan to let him have Ben for longer than just one night. Yet towards the end of the series, we hardly see him at all and we never once see Ben meeting his younger sister, Emma.

Right. Monica and Chandler. When Monica puts the Thanksgiving turkey on her head and dances for Chandler, he laughs and unexpectedly tells her that he loves her. It’s clear that this is the first time, as Monica is astonished and says “you said you love me. I can’t believe it”. Yet later on when Phoebe has rumbled their budding relationship, Chandler declares his love for Monica by saying “I’m in love with Monica. That’s right. I love her. I. LOVE. HER”. 

Yet Monica, overhearing this conversation from where she’d hid in the bathroom, is astonished once again that Chandler has said he loves her. 

I’m willing to let this one slide though, as it’s clear that the turkey time was obviously blurted out unexpectedly and the time with Phoebe, he obviously intended to say it.

Moving on to Joey: did anybody notice that the amount of his sisters kept changing? He tells Chandler that his mother “gave birth to six kids”, yet in another episode he says he has seven sisters, which would mean there are actually eight of them. I guess it’s possible that two of the kids were adopted, which means Mrs Tribbani did only give birth to six kids, but it seems a little farfetched and unlikely.

It also annoyed me that when Phoebe announced her engagement, Joey proposes a toast but doesn’t know the name of her fiancé. Which would be all well and good – well, no, it would be completely crap if your best mate didn’t know your fiancé’s name – except Joey was the one who introduced them to each other! Admittedly, Joey didn’t actually know Mike as it was a total long shot that there was someone named Mike in close proximity to him when he shouted out “Mike?” in the coffee house but evidently, he did know his name. He’d even been on holiday with Joey, for goodness sake.

This one isn’t so much a continuity error but more of a complaint. Personally, it felt that the writers grew tired of thinking of interesting storylines and character development for Joey towards the end of the show, as his character went from “dim but sweet” to “bordering on serious learning difficulties”. Come off it. A fully-grown man who, when presented with very basic French read out in one word sentences, repeats gobbledegook back? It was cringeworthy.

And in series nine, he explains that he can’t use air quotations correctly, which is weird because he uses them throughout the series. Example: when Rachel is grilling him over Monica and Chandler’s new secret relationship, he says “Monica and Chandler are making love” and uses air quotations accurately. At times, it felt as though the writers were so focused on Ross and Rachel towards the end that Joey’s character was so dumbed down that it became unfunny and insulting towards the character.

On this note, I felt that the writers lacked inspiration with Phoebe too. She went from being a ditsy hippie who cleansed people’s auras and gave a huge sum of money to a homeless lady (not to mention being a surrogate for her brother) to being downright insulting and nasty. “Really? Chandler?” and “Don’t even get me started on Chandler” springs to mind. If one of my best friends was so unnecessarily rude about my husband – who also happens to be one of their best friends – I’d cut her out.

In line with this, can we just talk about Phoebe’s dismissive attitude when Rachel confesses that she kissed another girl when she was in college? Phoebe is so convinced that it just “isn’t like” Rachel, which is odd considering Phoebe watched Rachel kiss Monica for a whole minute in a bid to win back their apartment.

Finally, the biggest curveball of them all – Erica unexpectedly giving birth to twins. It’s ludicrous, outrageous perhaps, that a woman would be carrying twins without realising it, unless of course she’s opted out of having any ultrasounds. But we know that Erica did have an ultrasound that Monica and Chandler gazed at proudly. Come on. You’re telling me that a medical expert who performs ultrasounds day in, day out, didn’t pick up on two babies on that scan? Particularly because they were clearly aware that Erica was carrying twins, as Erica explains that a midwife told her that “both heartbeats are really strong”.

The only possible explanation is that her initial ultrasound was very early on when perhaps the second baby couldn’t be detected and that, as she’d decided to give the baby up for adoption, she chose not to have any more scans? Possible but very unlikely.

Regardless, I will still continue to watch Friends and love it for all of eternity. It’s quite literally the best comfort blanket a girl can have.

Goodnight Mister Tom by Encore Productions 31/05/2017

About three months ago, my grandma sent me a text message (all in capital letters because she is yet to discover that each message doesn’t need to be, which gives the distinct impression that she’s yelling at you) asking me to pop over. Over a cup of tea, she asked me to sort out the invitations to her upcoming eightieth birthday party, which of course I agreed to do. It was at this point that she made it clear she didn’t want any presents: “I’ve already got everything I want and need”. Instead, she asked people to make donations to the National Autistic Society.

Although I heard this – and subsequently created her invitations online – I also knew deep down that I would still buy her tickets to a play. In the last couple of years, my grandma and her partner of twenty-seven years, Frank, have become increasingly difficult to buy for. There’s only so many Christmases and birthdays you can buy an elderly couple bottles of Radox, novelty socks and a bunch of flowers.

It was about eighteen months ago that my mum suggested instead of buying them useless crap that they don’t want or need, we would take them to see a play. Me and my mum go to the theatre as often as we can (I’ve just asked her to work out how many productions we’ve been to in the last twelve months alone and there’s been twenty-one between us), but my grandparents don’t drive which immediately limits the amount of plays or shows they can see. So far, we’ve seen “Paddy” at the Parr Hall, “Foster and Allen” at the Parr Hall, “The Dubliners” at the Parr Hall and “Once a Catholic” at the Brindley in Runcorn.

My grandma is in a wheelchair and as she has COPD, she relies on an oxygen tank to breathe at all times, so we’ve had some tricky experiences in getting her in and out of theatres safely. We actually had quite a bad experience at the Brindley, which slightly dampened our evening watching “Once a Catholic” (although it was still fantastic), where there were no available disabled seats. We had been advised that the venue can only offer eight disabled seats but she would be able to be wheeled in to sit in a normal seat before the wheelchair was taken outside to be left in a corridor.

When we arrived at the Brindley, we were told that this wasn’t true and wheelchairs weren’t allowed inside unless the wheelchair user had a designated disabled seat. This meant my grandmother, who cannot walk unaided, had to be carried to and from her seat, which she found rather upsetting.

Last night, on 31^st May 2017, we went to see “Goodnight Mister Tom” at the Pyramid in Warrington. The performance was from local theatre company, Encore Productions, with chairman, Nick Cupit, overseeing the company and the production directed by Kit Phillips. Tickets cost £12 for adults and £10 for concessions, so for four of us, it cost £44 – not too bad at all, I thought. Doors opened at 7pm and the play started half an hour later. Following our “Once a Catholic” experience, we’d booked the tickets by going into the Pyramid a few months back and explaining that we needed a disabled access seat and three accompanying seats.

The staff at the Pyramid could not be faulted, so once we arrived (and found a disabled parking space immediately adjacent to the venue, which was really handy for wheeling my grandma in and out), we let a member of staff know we’d arrived and she advised us that our seats were on the second row with reserved signs on each seat. It was possibly the smoothest transition we’ve ever had in a venue, as we sat down quite comfortably after buying two programmes (£2 each) and a few raffle tickets, which my grandma went on to win!

It’s worth pointing out here that Goodnight Mister Tom is one of my all-time favourite books. I read it in primary school, then we studied it in Year Seven for an exam and my English teacher was at a loss for what to do with me, as the class were tripping up on some of the local folk’s way of speaking whereas I could quote passages from the book by heart. I like Michelle Magorian’s way of describing everything so vividly. I remember reading an interview with her years ago and she said Goodnight Mister Tom was produced after exploring the colours of the rainbow following a writing class. She wrote one story for each colour and Goodnight Mister Tom was the product of the colour green.

I won’t go into huge amounts of detail about the storyline itself in case anyone reads this who is going to see the production and doesn’t want any spoilers but if you aren’t familiar with it, I’ll just give a quick rundown. The story takes place at the start of the Second World War, when children from inner city areas were evacuated to safer places, such as the countryside. They were taken without parents to live with kind hearted strangers, often for months and even years at a time, despite some children being very young. The Goodnight Mister Tom story centres around one particular evacuee, William Beech, and the elderly man who took him in, Tom Oakley, and the unlikely bond formed between them.

As with any production featuring child actors, there were a number of children alternating the role of each character. Last night was the opening night for this particular performance and the child actors involved were Jack Radcliffe, Finlay Scott, Erin Eaves, Daniel Wilson, Poppy Williams and Callum Eaves.

In all honesty, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would it be a musical, where the local folk sang about “letting the townies stay” and would William express his frustration with being unable to read and write through contemporary dance? Well, no. It wasn’t a musical, although there were some terrific wartime songs played to fill the silences between scene changes, which my grandparents in particular really enjoyed.

As with any production involving children, I’m always a little dubious in case there are any problems. I’ve just been to see Billy Elliot at the Liverpool Empire and the children in that were phenomenal so the children from Encore Productions had a lot to live up to.

Ironically, there was a scene where the character Zach danced but it was in context and very funny. Finlay Scott, playing Zach, had an insurmountable energy throughout the performance as he played a very upbeat version of Zach, not unlike the version in the film adaptation. He was continually funny and without a doubt the comic relief of the play. (Poor Finlay had to wear a thick woolly jumper throughout the performance and I dread to think how hot he must’ve been under the stage lights but he battled through like a pro.)

Jack Radcliffe played the lost and lonely William and he portrayed an admirable performance. In fact, and I wouldn’t say this if I didn’t mean it, I think he gave the original William, Nick Robinson, from the film a run for his money. Jack was cute in a “I’ve been uprooted from my home and dumped in a place I can’t even pronounce the name of” sort of way but not too cute that the story couldn’t organically progress as the audience fell in love his with innocence and enjoyed watching him make friends for the first time in his life.

The programme was slightly disappointing in the sense that there was no information about the actors themselves – where they’re from, other productions they’ve been in etc – although I suspect that may have been because of safeguarding issues, which is completely understandable, but I would’ve been interested to know how old Jack is. I’d hedge my bets at saying he’s about eight or nine years old. In the car on the way home, all four of us were saying how blown away we were by his ability to learn, remember and deliver all of his lines without faltering once – and I’ve seen many a professional adult actor forget their lines on stage.

Although a non-speaking role, I cannot write a review on last night’s performance without talking about the wonderful Ewan Schooler, who orchestrated the puppet of Sammy the dog. Ewan was in virtually every scene (and the scenes where Sammy wasn’t present, Ewan doubled up as a school child or multi rolled as a civilian) and, similarly to Timone in the stage version of the Lion King, Ewan controlled the puppet whilst being on stage at all times himself. The extraordinary young performer was bent double for ninety percent of the production (I hope his back isn’t too sore today) and after a while, I almost forgot he was there because Sammy was so convincing, life like and endearing.

As we applauded the cast at the end of the performance, Ewan got a particularly loud and enthusiastic cheer – someone even whistled – and it couldn’t have been more well deserved. I said to my mum that it takes a special child to accept a non-speaking role in a production where his friends are all line learning, yet he was pivotal to the play. I don’t think we would’ve loved the growing bond between Tom and William without the faithful Sammy. Also, I’ve just scanned my eyes over the programme again, and I can see that Ewan doesn’t share his role with any other actor. Ewan, if you’re reading this, bravo.

In fact, all the children were experts at delivering lines and moving about on stage. Unlike some performances featuring children, their roles hadn’t been “watered down” so to speak, in order for the roles to be easier to grasp or perform. I can’t begin to imagine how overwhelming it must’ve felt for them to be learning lines, blocking scenes and following direction presumably after school and at weekends, in between revising for their SATs and doing their homework. Kudos to Kit Phillips for his exceptional directional skills. It’s no easy task directing children (and I worked in a children’s theatre company for twelve months, so I know it can be hard) but I was very impressed by how polished the performance was.

Moving on to the adults: Bryan Higgins was Mister Tom. He actually was him. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the late great John Thaw and thought his performance in the film was wonderful but – and this is a bold claim – I thought Bryan may have been better. He was just so likeable and his accent was spot on. He had a nice way with the children and he was funny in parts that I didn’t expect. Again, I won’t spoil the plot, but at the end of the play when there was a particularly happy moment between Tom and William, I had a lump in my throat and my eyes started to burn.

The other adult actors – Dawn Lloyd, Kayleigh Finch, Hayley Northey, Jane Newey, Jimmy Dean, Danni Steel, Rose Higgins and Chele Dean – were all great too but I particularly enjoyed Jane Newey’s performance as local busybody and mother to the five thousand Mrs Fletcher and Dawn Lloyd’s chilling performance of William’s mentally ill mother, Mrs Beech.

As for the production, parts of the storyline were particularly challenging and prior to the show, I was genuinely wondering whether they would skirt over some of the more upsetting scenes. No. I needn’t have worried. Just like Encore didn’t shy away from having a dog as one of the main characters, they didn’t shy away from embracing the difficulties faced during a war. Encore tackled the topics of mental health, abuse and death tactfully and I was very, very impressed.

Any downsides? The only things I can think of are very small but I’m always very honest when reviewing any episode, production or film.

Firstly, the venue itself was uncomfortably warm. I know, I know, how ridiculous of me to moan about the heat in May/June but at times it was stifling. I had an immediate flashback to June last year when a group of us went to see the Comedy Store in the same venue and it was so uncomfortably hot that people actually left halfway through. Once the Pyramid staff opened the doors, a gust of fresh air blew in and it was wonderful but there was obviously an exercise class in the studio opposite and the music and shouting was a little off putting.

Secondly, during a huge scene between William and Mrs Beech, I should have been glued to the actors but I was so distracted by the pitter patter of Mrs Beech’s high heels on the stage floor. If I was to give any advice, it would be for Dawn Lloyd to wear flats for these scenes as if Jack Radcliffe didn’t have a microphone, we may have struggled to hear him – and I was on the second row.

Finally, there were only two toilets in the entire venue which meant that there were long, long queues during the interval and, as with any overused public toilet, they weren’t in the best of condition.

But all in all, I would say these three small points were overshadowed by the success of the play.

To all at Encore Productions – bravo. After the atrocities in Manchester last week, I think we all needed a bit of light entertainment which made us all realise that in times of darkness, pulling together is crucial. I thoroughly enjoyed myself last night, as did everyone else in the audience. Break a leg for your remaining two sell out performances.