Dolly

Here we are again. That time of year when I start to notice just how few chunky knits I have in my wardrobe. For someone who grumbles about the "cold night air" from July onwards, this is clearly an oversight. Moreover, it's one that could be remedied without so much as trip to New Look on Victoria Road West or the even easier excursion to their website. That's because (little known fact) I'm not too bad at knitting and crochet--or even sewing for that matter. Not brilliant (let's not go overboard here), but kind of all right. For my skills, such as they are, thanks are due mainly to my mum, but also, in part, to a doll.

I'm sure I wasn’t the only small child to have experienced mixed feelings about dolls. The angel-faced, glossy-haired, frilly-dressed collectors' pieces with their sightless, fish-eyed watchfulness ensured that walking past their glass cabinets in the homes of relatives and family friends was an ordeal surpassed only by stepping over the missing floorboard in the attic: there was always the sense of having narrowly escaped some obscure horror. Nonetheless, at the age of eight, something possessed me with the urgent desire for a doll of my own. Not any doll, you understand, and (happily for my parents) not a doll that could be bought in a shop. No, this was the doll I had set my heart on:

I'm sure you understand. I mean, look at her. How cool is she? And light years from those judgmental ornamental dolls which glared from the dust-free splendour of their display cabinets. And the grimoire that had inspired me with a longing for this doll? None other than the legendary Golden Hands Encyclopedia of Crafts--that handsome, seven-volume collection of partwork titles, each bursting with secret knowledge of skills as diverse as quilting, pebble painting and découpage.

Over the years the Encyclopedia inspired many of my, often ham-fisted, attempts at creativity, but my pretty rag doll was the first. I was practically a beginner at sewing but I diligently followed the instructions in the partwork, tracing the pattern for her arms, legs, head and body and cutting them out before pinning them to the thin canvas I had cadged to realise my creation. Sewing her together seemed to take forever but somehow I found the patience to see my project through, embroidering her features and looping the strands of wood that served as her hair. The doll pictured in the Encyclopedia had red hair, but my Dolly was a brunette. It's possible that this was a deliberate choice to make her in my own image, but I suspect the reason was simply that mum had some spare brown wool on hand. It was, after all, the 1970s.

Finally my Dolly was complete. Now, even as her proud and less-than-critical creator, I could see that she wasn't quite as expertly crafted as the doll in the Encyclopedia. Nonetheless, I was overjoyed and promptly embarked on a new sewing project: one to ensure she had something to wear! Dolly has long since disappeared, most likely a casualty of some move or other and, as mentioned, she may not have been the most robustly made doll to start with. Still I think of her when I pick up a needle and thread or a crochet hook or pair of knitting needles for that matter. I improved my skills with all these implements in the pursuit of creating clothes for Dolly. Perhaps this winter I'll get those knitting needles to work on a bigger jumper, one for myself. When that happens, there's no doubt I'll remember the times I spent making clothes for Dolly.

Thanks for reading, Alison.

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Winter Ghosts

It may be the fault of that famously flimsy veil between the worlds of the living and the dead which is reputed to exist over Hallowe'en. From that point on, as temperatures drop and the brittle winter sunlight crumbles to ruins by mid-afternoon, so the ghosts gather in increasing numbers--if only in the stories we read and the films we watch.

Tales of spectral visitors have long been associated with the wintertime. "Scary ghost stories" even get a mention in Andy Williams' classic Christmas hit (linked here) It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year, which, unless you're a latecomer to the blog and reading this in July, you may have heard a time or several recently.

When we think of winter ghost stories, we may think first of 'A Christmas Carol', that tale of the haunting of a rejected and rejecting man, which first appeared in 1843. Or perhaps of the stories of M.R. James, which followed almost ninety years thereafter and which the author read at Christmastime to his students at Cambridge.

However, winter ghosts have made their presence felt long before and long since, from the three sons of the (linked) Wife of Usher's Well, who paid their mother a visit around Martinmas (11th November), to the residents of 'The Shining's' snowbound Overlook Hotel.

What is it about a season in which we huddle together for warmth, indulge in the comforts of rich food and remind ourselves of the importance of peace and good will that draws the ghosts out from the shadowy corners of our homes and our minds?

Banquo's Ghost

The brighter the lights and the warmer the hearth, the darker and colder those shadowy corners seem. One way to consider a ghost is as a manifestation of something that has been rejected, neglected or ignored for too long and is now compelled or determined to be acknowledged by the world. That something could be a person--perhaps, as in many classic ghost stories, a departed person whose wishes have been over-ridden by their living relatives. Or the ghost might be nothing more or less than a truth that is being ignored. It might even represent a living person who is in some way unwelcome or outcast, the proverbial (linked) ghost at the feast. In that sense, unhappy Mr Scrooge had already much in common with his chain-rattling visitor; despite his nephew's well-meant invitation, no-one truly relished the prospect of the miser's company at their Christmas table.

Merry Christmas, Alison Raouf

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A Night At The Movies

While I enjoy company, I’m not the kind of person who’s ever felt uncomfortable about going places by myself. Whether it’s a gig, a restaurant or another country, it’s never been a big deal if I couldn’t find anyone who wanted to share the adventure. However, I realised a long time ago, that other people could feel awkward about my solo presence, as if it were a problem that they were expected to fix. This was particularly noticeable in restaurants; when I used to travel for work, I sometimes felt inclined to eat somewhere other than my hotel room. On several occasions, the discomfort of the servers was unmissable. Whether they were unhappy that I was taking up a table that could have accommodated two people or, as I suspect, they were dreading a moment when I would burst into noisy and unhygienic tears at having been stood up, the solicitude of the repeated “Are you all right?” was not conducive to good digestion.

By contrast, the shadowy, half-illusory world of the cinema has no such qualms about opening its doors to visitors, whether they arrive in ones, twos or severals. That, together with the allure of disappearing into another world for a couple of hours has long ensured the popularity of a night at the movies. But are the pics set to become the pastime of a bygone age, as quaint as musical evenings around the family piano or hitting one another with quarterstaffs? With the availability of large screens and movies on demand, do the cinemas offer enough to compete with Netflix (plus optional chill)? Troublingly, my visits to the local cinema often find me the sole viewer for a showing; unless other screenings are filled to capacity, I wonder how long it will be before board meetings take place in which phrases like “economic viability” and “margins on concessions” hover gloomily around the table like harbingers of the theatre’s doom.

Sadly, for many cinemas it is, of course, already too late. In them, we have not only lost access to local movie screenings, but also, in many cases, we have lost beautiful and historical buildings. This was the case with one cinema close to my heart - the lovely art deco Coliseum, which graced the town of Porthmadog, north Wales, since 1931. Since that time, it was a focal point for entertainment in the town, as well as being the venue for the screening rushes of cult TV show The Prisoner, which was filmed in nearby Portmeirion. Despite a spirited campaign - which began shortly after the Coliseum closed in spring 2011 - to restore and refurbish the Coliseum, it was recently confirmed that its demolition would now go ahead.

Alison Raouf

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An Act of Inaction

Certain things prove difficult, even though their accomplishment requires that we do less, not more. Dieting, at its simplest, demands that we consume less food than is our habit. Forgiveness, that we release enervating anger and resentment. And secrecy? All secrecy asks is that we remain silent.

However much we may bemoan or boast of laziness, doing less can feel like a kind of torment. Achieving a desired outcome requires action, not inaction. Doesn't it? If we want to lose weight, launching into an fitness routine can assuage that need to do something, but the important step of inaction—of not having that cupcake—is often where we fall down. Not just because cupcakes are delicious, but because steps that require inaction do not feel like steps at all. As for forgiveness, it is often achieved, not by letting go of rage, but simply because that rage has fizzled away over oxidizing months and years.

And secrecy? How difficult could it be to keep opinions and deeds and stories—those of our own and those of others—locked away from general view? Keeping secrets—like restricting food intake or offering forgiveness—can have far reaching consequences, good or ill. Information withheld or divulged may harm or heal, preserve or break reputations; the decision to speak or remain silent may even spell life or death in some circumstances. Practically anyone can keep a secret. Claims to perfect transparency are the claims of liars or the foolishly indiscreet; everyone holds some information back although the reasons can be as varied as self-interest, compassion or simply the desire to generate an air of intrigue. And yet, for many, secrecy is difficult. An urge to speak the unspoken calls to them with the siren sweetness of a cupcake in the fridge and the counterpoint to that siren song is the human desire to lay bare the secrets of others.

While careless talk can cost lives, an apparently uncaring silence can cost relationships for those whose lovers are unable or unwilling to share their secrets. Tantalizing though the possibility may appear, the desire to fully know another person may be as unwise as it is unattainable. Just ask Carly Simon.

Alison Raouf

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Object

You want a mind-blowingly open-to-interpretation prompt for the latest batch of Dead Good blog posts? Try this...

Object

(BOOM!)

 

If you can overlook the disconnect that comes with considering “object” as the subject, it’s still tough to think of a word better equipped to transport the imagination. You only need to look at other recent posts to see examples of how “object” might impact writers.

 

As you may have figured, something that fascinates me about “object” is that--just like  “overlook”, “disconnect”, “subject”, “transport”, “impact” and (gosh, they’re everywhere) “figure”--it’s seemingly just a mild-mannered noun, but also a word that can step up, take names and kick ass as a verb.

 

Like many such double-identity words, it has its accent on the first syllable when it’s wearing its geeky noun specs and accented on the last syllable when it changes into the cape and spandex of its verb identity.

 

Even if you remain unconvinced that a word can fly, consider “object's" many, seemingly disparate, meanings--several of which suggest some kind of challenge or conflict: It’s a goal! It’s the recipient of an action! No—it’s an unspecified visible thing! Or if you object to something, your response may involve going all out in your protest against it or perhaps weakly expressing your mild distaste for it.

 

The dictionary will tell you that the Latin roots of “object” (whether as a noun or verb) refer to something thrown in one's path--an obstacle to be acknowledged and, if possible, overcome. An unexpected illness that changes the plans of a day or a lifetime. A rival in love or in the workplace. Or perhaps just the lure of that gooey chocolate brownie when you’re trying to drop a pound or six. Such conflict is the stuff of drama and, of course, the stuff of life itself. All too often, the first difficulty lies in recognising the true nature of the objects that crowd in on our lives and those of people around us; thereafter, the challenge, how best to respond to them?

 

Thanks for reading, Alison Raouf

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Reimagined Dragons

I’ve been called a handful of less-than-flattering names in my time (with varying degrees of justice), but it occurred to me when I was casting round for ideas for this post that I’ve never, ever, not once been described to as a “dragon”. At first, that struck me as somewhat of an omission on the world’s part—after all, when I was a small child, television comedies and cartoon strips seemed replete with women who were described as “dragons” (for the most part, by hilarious coincidence, married to maddeningly ineffectual blokes called George). Was I not as fearsomely exacting, exhausting and exigent as those ladies?

 

OK, maybe my fire-breathing skills could use a little work, but perhaps a more persuasive reason is that the role of the dragon has always been trickier to pin down than the shifting shimmer of iridescent scales. Reimagined time and again as greedy guardians of coveted treasure, oppressors of princesses (and other edible maidens), adversaries of knights, emblems of wisdom, of benevolence of longevity—wait! What? Yup, let’s not forget the important role of dragons in Chinese mythology, where they are often the good guys. Today, in film and television, the adventures of Hiccup, the young Viking of How to Train Your Dragon and Daenerys Targaryen, Game of Thrones’ very own Mother of Dragons, depict the dragon’s role as less that of adversary and more that of a powerful ally to understand and befriend.

 

Nor is this a case of a monster being stripped of its terrifying aspects to make it more palatable to modern audiences; while vampires may have undergone pop culture makeovers, transforming them from blood-bloated shambling corpses into sparkly studmuffins, dragons have been complex critters from the get-go, sometimes to be slain with a sword and sometime, as in the case of the Laidly Worm, to be rescued from enchantment with “kisses three”. In all cases, however, the dragon presents some kind of a challenge which cannot be ignored—and often one that must be tackled not only with physical strength and courage, but also with intelligence, insight and compassion.

 

Thank you for reading, Alison Raouf.

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The Answer is Clear - What Was the Question?

For a long time, it seemed obvious that I had no aptitude for maths.

 

It was a reasonable inference for a seven-year-old. No matter how strenuously I tried to grapple with the mysteries of addition, subtraction and long division, the squared pages of my exercise book would always come back to me decorated with enthusiastic red crosses. Evidently, these number problems were only deceptively simple; their solutions lay frustratingly beyond my grasp.

 

However, when the new school year brought with it a new teacher, a new explanation shimmied into focus.

 

“Young lady, I would have been able to give you full marks for your work… had the problems you answered on this page been the ones I’d written on the board.”

 

In that moment, the clouds parted and I saw the world in a new light. I could say goodbye to being a maths dummy forever. However, the price of doing so was a lifetime of wearing that '70s badge of shame: a pair of NHS glasses. Being seven or thereabouts, I didn’t think in terms of Faustian bargains—but how much more of a bargain can you get than “free”, am I right?

 

 

Shortly thereafter, I began attending school wearing a pair of hideous glasses. At the same time, my ability in maths improved dramatically. Thus, I played a small part in reinforcing the stereotype that glasses are not merely a marker of intelligence, but somehow, magically, have the power to confer it.

 

Years later, of course, those NHS glasses would become the last word in style. Remember, guys, I was rocking those hideous frames before they were cool and, occasionally, getting punched for it. Such is the lot of the fashion trailblazer; I may have been getting my maths problems right, but I was getting '70s preteen style tragically wrong.

 

Had I been metaphorically less short-sighted, I might have taken comfort in the fact that, any time-travelling hipsters from the twenty-first century who had arrived at my junior school would have judged me the most fashion-forward kid in the class. Just another instance of coming up with the right answer to the wrong problem…

 

Alison Raouf

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