The Omega Man

It's funny what you can discover when you're packing up to move house.

I've seen that author's name somewhere before...
no idea what happened to the the illustrator, though

For decades I have carried around two A1 sized boxes stuffed with select work I'd produced at Design School in the mid 1980s, to freelance illustration in Scotland in the early 1990s.

Most of it is horrible and finally needed to be got rid of on a bonfire of inanities. But a few exceptions also exist, a tiny stack of scribblings which, more through accident than design, manage to hold up. By my standards, at least.
Among these are some illustrations I did for an Edinburgh-based magazine called Scottish Field, established in 1903 and despite publishing some of my work in 1993/94 are still going strong today.

These commissions came at a time when I really needed the money, and confidence boost, and were for a series of whimsical short stories about a retired butcher called Bodie who becomes a private investigator.

I'd supply two black and white roughs, then a colour rough for my
own reference, and finally the finished art in watercolour and ink.

I realised that I'd actually kept some copies of the magazine itself, and turning to one of these stories was struck dumb by a realisation twenty-five years after the fact (I can be slow on the uptake, but a quarter of a century for the penny to drop has to be a record).

The author of these stories was a man called Jack Gerson. And this might not have even meant anything to me now, if I hadn't written blog post about a television series and book which I took into my sad little geek heart so many years ago:
http://fasmatodea.blogspot.co.nz/2015/08/the-omg-factor.html

I had been illustrating stories by the writer and creator of The Omega Factor and hadn't even realised it.

It won't mean much to anyone else, as my wife's rather bemused expression conveyed when I shrieked this discovery. But this 'one degree of separation' rather rocks my world, sharing 'journalistic real estate' with a storyteller who's skill fired my imagination as a teenager and still does even now. And made all the more poignant by the fact that I was gormlessly unaware at the time.

But perhaps it's just as well, my Fanboy reaction and inevitable stalking of Mr Gerson might have only earned me a restraining order and termination of contract.

Finding an obituary, I discovered that Gerson passed away six years ago, leaving a huge body of work to the world.
The last writing he did was a radio play called Bodie’s Occupations, featuring, yes, the very same character whose earlier adventures I had illustrated.

The connections don't end there. As anyone who has to listen to me for longer than 5 minutes knows, I am currently writing a book about Hammer films, which has absorbed a huge part of my life recently.
The concept of 'Hammer Horror' really began with a 1957 film called The Curse of Frankenstein, starring Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee in their first film together. Second billing went to a Scottish actor called Robert Urquhart, who played Frankenstein's tutor and eventual accomplice, Paul Krempe.

Urquhart himself had a long and illustrious career, and one of the final things he did before his death in 1995 was a certain radio play by his old friend Jack Gerson, where he took the title role of a private detective called Bodie.

My preliminary sketches for Bodie's appearance and
(inset) actor Robert Urquhart, who eventually played him on radio.

Bear Pits

When is an unemployed graphic designer NOT an unemployed graphic designer?

Answer: When he's a freelancer.
I spent my first couple of years in Scotland in the recession-ravaged early 90s scraping together a living as a self-employed illustrator/artist.  Times were tough and it was hard, but I gradually built up a network of clients who would never make me rich, but supplied me with steady-ish work.

Unfortunately, on those rare occasions when I did land a prestigious agency job; like buses to better opportunities two or three seemed to arrive at the same time, and I could never give each the time and attention they demanded. I never invested in equipment, charged enough or tried to come up with anything approaching a business plan. I just alternated between worrying about not having enough work to worrying about getting it all done when commissions did come in.
As a result work suddenly dried up towards the end of 1992, just at the time when we needed funds more than ever for our much looked-forward-to visit to New Zealand at Christmas-time.

It was a desperate situation requiring desperate measures and I had no alternative but to swallow what was left of my pride. I contacted one of my clients, an Events and Promotions company who I knew were busy with festive engagements requiring unskilled labour and told them that I'd do anything.

I wouldn't have imagined this would lead to me prancing about in a bear costume handing out balloons in some of Glasgow's roughest Shopping Malls, but I was grateful for the money. Bear- baiting had been outlawed in Britain centuries ago but the evil mall rats I encountered obviously didn't know this. A costume gives you welcome anonymity, but I found it also removes your normal human boundaries and respect.  You become an object, and a target for foot-stamping, zipper-yanking pre-pubescent thugs.  This bear found that the law of the jungle reigns in shopping malls, but you can barely see your attackers through the giant smiling head, never mind defend yourself.

Desperately wading back to the store-room for more balloons, dragging four or five jeering primary school hard-men hanging onto my tail, I decided enough was enough.  I pulled myself through a set of double doors and then heaved them shut behind me with all my strength.  With a sudden chorus of surprised squeaks and grunts the weight on my costume immediately vanished, as did my attackers for the rest of that day. Not into ambulances hopefully, but as I say, 'law of the jungle'.

The worst invasion of my personal space was by a couple of grandmothers who decided the bear needed his 'tummy' rubbed (urgh), but it wasn't all bad. During  gig as the Easter Bunny the following year I was mobbed by a group of young Irish women who had their picture taken pawing me in an altogether far more pleasant way by the Mall security camera. I met a brilliant group of people who opened my eyes to a more down-to-earth side of Glasgow than I'd encountered before - and speaking in squeaky voices after a gulp of balloon helium was a joke which never got old. As I say, I was bringing in money (and Easter eggs).

I made the best of it, but there was no denying that this was the nadir of my career. However, I couldn't know that a dream job leading to full-time employment as a designer lay just around the corner, and I'd soon never have to 'suit up' again.  But I'll always be grateful to John, Pearl and Anne at J&B Promotions, who gave me a role to perform and a warm fur coat to wear when I was at my lowest ebb.

Glasgow Kiss

"That great old place I miss so much, has seen much better days..."
sang Billy Connolly in a rare, sincere tribute.
 But surely none better than this...

I work in a newsroom, which has various enormous TV screens suspended in corners, usually flickering silently except at newstime.

On the morning of July 23 many staff were to be found staring at these soundless screens in a mixture of disbelief and irresistible morbid curiosity. In New Zealand, if it isn't a breaking news story of national importance only one other event can capture this much attention - sport.

But this wasn't quite sport, more of a prelude to - but so many other things at the same time. Spectacle: kind of, song: definitely, dance: in a manner of speaking - and a giant bunnet-wearing Loch Ness Monster.

'Nessie, I believe in you...'

It could only be the Opening Ceremony of the Glasgow Commonwealth Games. I passed an open mouthed, transfixed Editor and remarked "I was born there, you know!"

"You must be so proud...", he drawled even more drily than usual.

"Prouder than you were of the last Air New Zealand in-flight video" I thought wittily, in retrospect, several days later. (actually, make that every Air New Zealand in-flight video)

The world has been introduced to Glasgow and the belief that frenetic enthusiasm, a lethal over-dose of tartan and dancing Tunnochs tea cakes can overcome all budgetry and choreographical deficiencies. It has also witnessed the unabashed purple-tartan suited exhibitionism of John Barrowman - his indestructible self-confidence supporting the entire dodgy structure of the ceremony in another world-leading feat of Scottish engineering. Not only that, but he also sent a message to the 42 participating nations who still outlaw homosexuality in one way or another, which will be talked about for years to come.

John Barrowman, about to become the purple people eater...

And this was only the beginning. A bizarre musical interlude where performers seemed to pass the words of a certain prehistoric rocker's ballad (which appears to have nicked the tune from 'Loch Lomond') back and forth to each other threatened to summon the dread presence of the 'ancient one' himself. And sure enough: London-born Rod Stewart manifested to take the stage and finish it off. Stewart has always looked and sounded crusty, so he got away with it. Elsewhere, Susan Boyle warbled nervously, Ewan MacGregor and James McAvoy purveyed charismatic pretty-boy earnestness in the worthy name of UNICEF and Billy Connolly proved he could still spin a good yarn, even from behind comedy blind person shades.

The often grumpy Celtic weather gods appeared to be in a very good mood, and the glimpses of familiar landmarks showed them at their very best. The copious iconography of the city was well-used, particularly this gentleman who I was delighted to see still sports his traditional traffic cone.

The Duke of Wellington in customary attire.

I believe the 'organisers' missed a trick in not giving us a Police Box, however - as Glasgow was the last city in Britain to still have them on the streets for many years - and maybe throw in Peter Capaldi, as well. But of course, images of both are now copyrighted within an inch of their lives by the Beeb .

 A wee dug.

Our attention wavered as the nations were paraded into Celtic Park, led by a wee Scottish terrier which we hoped wasn't the the same one reused for each country (but given the apparent budget of the spectacle, we couldn't quite dismiss the idea). The best was past: Barrowman was off to ComicCon, Boyle back to the studio for her next Christmas album and as for Nessie and Rod... maybe deflated and put away until the closing ceremony?

Personally, I'm a great supporter of brazening-out cash-strapped ventures in pure panto style (I've been a Doctor Who fan all my life, after all), provoking the world to shout "Oh no it isn't..!" when sniffy detractors like most of Britain's Press attempt to condemn the Glasgow Opening as a 'Scottie Dog'.
I think the whole event was best summed up by an on-line comment which suggested that what we actually witnessed was the pilot for a new television series called 'McGlee'. Hoots, Crivens and help M'Boab - I'd watch it!

Made in Scotland, from Girders... unpronouncable too;
Made in Scotland from girders... it's called Barr's IRN BRU!

(With thanks to Bridget and Peter, without whom we wouldn't have seen this McExtravaganza)

The dark side of the Sun

Although we’ve just suffered another southerly blast in this most disappointing of summers, it’s always wise to use protection.

Showing more sense than I did, this Phasmatodea shelters from the sun, on our pod chair.

Summer used to reignite a love affair for me every year. It was an all-consuming passion which usually led to abandoned clothing scattered about prostrate, perspiring bodies. There was often a distressing amount of publicly exposed flesh, and sometimes whole groups of people were involved. The object of this obsession was spectacularly unfaithful, bestowing favours to any old passer-by, but it was only when this relationship literally tore a strip off me that I realised that my love affair with the sun might finally be over.

It certainly wasn’t love at first sight – quite the opposite, in fact. My family arrived in the early 1970s, fleeing the jaws of a Scottish winter to land squinting in the fierce summer sunshine, on the shimmering, bubbling tarmac of a Marlborough airstrip. Like many of my country-folk I was what is now known as a ‘‘ginga’’, with a milky-white complexion which instantly burned under the Pacific sun. It’s fair to say that Blenheim edges out Glasgow in terms of sunshine hours, and so a whole new world of hurt awaited me if I didn’t take precautions.

Although this was an age when parents cheerfully lathered their kids in coconut oil and flung them outside to get ‘‘nice and brown’’, my childhood summers were spent sensibly covered up or inside, never feeling that I was missing anything beyond stinging, peeling skin.
With adolescence came summer holiday work – always outdoors in baking temperatures – and an awkward new sense of self-image. Try as I might, long-sleeved skivvies could no longer cut it as either a summer fashion statement or practical agricultural work wear, and I had no choice but to grimace and bare it.

It wasn’t easy, but towards the end of my first summer spent working and socialising outside I remember glancing down at my own forearm and noticing with shock that it was darkening from the usual pink to a kind of orangey- brown – and I liked it. I felt like a newly born denizen of summer, no longer scorched and rejected, but finally accepted and welcomed into a bright new world. My days of cringing from the sun like some pale invertebrate clinging to the underside of a rotten log were over, and the following summer saw me hitting the rays hard. Endowed with a physique that once had well-meaning student nurses use me as the model for a skeletal system quiz, I now found that brown skin quite literally covered a multitude of sins. I looked healthy and felt healthy – sunlight gives you vitamin D and that was good for you, right? The real clincher was falling asleep outside and then finding later that the sun appeared to have dried up my teenage acne almost overnight. There was surely no end of benefits which our all-generous life-giving star bestowed and I basked in the rays whenever possible.

Years later, while preparing for a period living overseas I became aware of a shift in attitude to the sun. There was talk of something called melanoma as we left New Zealand, but that seemed to be a condition only older people got – whatever it was.

Living among the pasty Celts of my birth country once again, I found that the peer pressure to be brown made my devotion to the sun look positively indifferent.
When summer arrived – usually for a couple of mid-week days each year – sun-starved Scots would practically drop where they stood, instantly surrendering to the elusive rays. Parks would be strewn with inert bodies, like the aftermath of a sudden massacre, rapidly reddening expressions suggesting an attempt to tan through sheer force of will.
This compulsion was most obvious after the holiday season, when chocolate-brown workmates would make proud returns to work amidst a chorus of tan-envy, after immolating themselves for two weeks on a Spanish beach. And if these startling changes in skin colour sometimes looked suspiciously streaky, and a little orange, nothing was ever said. The fear of striking disappointing weather on a package holiday haunted everyone, as did the sense of defeat in having to apply a bottled tan, once home.

Returning to New Zealand in the mid-90s , I saw that change was obviously in the air. Everyone spoke of the ‘‘hole in the ozone layer’’ with dread, and beaches were noticeably quieter during the heat of the day. Sun hats and full-body swim suits for kids were everywhere, as was marketing for sunscreen. The Coppertone girl had been replaced by a milky slime which, we were told, could save our lives.
It’s not that I chose to disregard these near-hysterical messages; it was just that old habits die hard. Now living in the countryside with a large property to maintain, I was probably spending more time out in the sun than ever, and still never believing that the sun’s rays, now harmfully affecting almost 67,000 New Zealanders every year, could ever hurt me.
My long-overdue, Icarus-like plummet from the sun’s fiery influence probably began in the same way as it did for many thousands of people – with my partner noticing an odd patch of skin on my back. Even then, the area being out of my sight and therefore mind, made me delay another year until eventual bleeding finally led me ashen-faced to my GP.

I was lucky – the area was diagnosed as basal cell carcinoma, the most common and least dangerous sun-induced form of skin cancer. Still it’s not to be taken lightly. An oval portion of skin and muscle 3.8 centimetres in length was promptly cut out of my back. 

The resulting scar is as pale as I was when I first arrived in New Zealand, and would probably burn very quickly in the sun, if I was foolish enough to give it the opportunity. I still love the sun, but clearly you can love something too much. Self-destructive relationships can leave scars, or worse. It’s better to learn and live.

 

Who's turning fifty: Part one

Another anniversary, for another famous fictional icon,
is materialising fast

(With apologies to the Radio Times)

Most of my writing about Doctor Who (and there’s a vast embarrassment of, well embarrassments, really) has been for other fans, (and can be found here:http://doctorwho.org.nz/ and here: http://www.zeusblog.tetrap.com/) and is therefore pitched at a certain level, for an often very specific brief. ‘Niche’ might be the word I’m looking for, or ‘geeky’, if you prefer.

But a piece which hasn’t been published before, and is hopefully a little more accessible than usual, is this speech I delivered six years ago for a Speechcraft course.

It’s not a spectacular example of public speaking, but it did force me to try to explain my love for Doctor Who to people who weren’t already converted to the same cause, and possibly even suspicious or dismissive of the programme.

Whether my captive audience found the following three minutes entertaining or not, I couldn’t say, but I found it a useful exercise in questioning what to me what is unquestionable, and asking why anyone should watch this wonderfully-silly little programme..

Why the Doctor is Good for you (2007)

I have a secret affliction. 

It’s been described by some as the social equivalent of a venereal disease, with symptoms which include being very unlikely to see a woman naked until you‘re well into your twenties.

It doesn’t so much break families up as ensure that they’re never started in the first place. Tap-dancing your way to social ridicule is so last century – this will do it for you in seconds.

I am a Doctor Who fan. 

Particularly since the unbelievably-popular revival of the programme a couple of years ago I now know that I’m far from alone, so I’m going to justify this affliction, and prove that it’s good for you.

1. General Knowledge

The programme is older than I am – 44 years old this November, in fact.

When it first began it was intended to be educational – oh yes! – because you see, the lead character, the Doctor, is essentially a scholar, an explorer and a scientist.

The programme may not always use ‘real science’ but when it does, it always strives to get it right.  Consequently countless gems of physics, chemistry and biology rattle about inside my brain because I’ve seen or heard them on Doctor Who!  These same gems have led some others to pursue careers in science, taking them in directions of  research which may one day benefit all of us.

The Doctor is also a Time traveller, which very intentionally opens up history to its audience.  We get to meet figures from Nero to Richard the Lionheart, to Charles Dickens and experience events from the eruption of Vesuvius to the French revolution first hand.  While being entertained we learn.  And I know this because with every crossword or quiz I’ve ever done in my life I’ve owed at least a couple of correct answers to Doctor Who.

2. Values

I don’t mean in a preachy US sitcom sort of way, definitely not.

The irony of Doctor Who is that it takes a 900 year old time-travelling alien with two hearts to demonstrate the best qualities of being human. 

How to be brave when the monsters come, but tolerant and gracious when encountering something different.

To be interested in everything and to abhore violence, cruelity and oppression.

To always try to use brains over brawn and wits over weaponery.

To be passionate in your beliefs, to uphold the rights of the individual and to never lose your sense of wonder, no matter how old or well-travelled you are.

I think it’s better to have these things reinforced by a television programme than not at all.

3.  Creativity

Lets return to the nature of being a Geek  I’ll be the first to admit that the more extreme examples can be a little socially challenged.  In fact I’ve seen and heard sights you wouldn’t believe but I hope to keep this speech at an acceptable length, this week, so I’ll move on

With this unfortunate ‘nerdery’ also comes surprising intelligence, creativity and motivation.  Some call it the geek gene, some compare it to a strain of autism, but what geeks lack in social graces they seem to have in abundance creatively. 

I myself missed out on the intelligence, but over the last two decades have illustrated books and magazines, written and had published reviews, essays and a short story, and even drawn a couple of comic strips about Doctor Who.

A young relative, who’s interest has nothing to do with me, honest, struggled a little at school until he got his first ever ‘A’.  It was for a project on, well, I think you can guess.  This gave him a taste for the satisfaction in doing something well and his marks have stayed good ever since.

In another league altogether, the current production team and even lead actor of the new series are all top in the fields they work in because they grew up as Doctor Who fans.  The lunatics really have taken over the asylum, but it must be a good thing because the programme wins BAFTA’s these days.

So you see, watching Doctor Who can offer you brain food, a moral compass and a creative catalyst – it’s all there.

And I haven’t even mentioned what fantastic fun it is, the sheer joy of escaping reality for a while and getting lost in the lunacy and ingenuity of it all.

Thank you.

 

The Old One-Two

The new Doctor is actually anything but...

 

As much as I sometimes moan about my job, it does occasionally put me in a very privileged position.  My reputation, if not outright infamy for the interests highlighted in this blog mean that I sometimes get to interview stars and writers of genre TV.  These interviews are often drastically cut for space reasons, so fascinating, if more ‘arcane’ information is left undisclosed. I hope to remedy this and reproduce some of these fuller transcripts in future postings, but what I’m posting here is the result one of the rare occurrences when editors actually cared about my opinion.

Peter Capaldi was revealed to the world as Doctor Number 12 on August 4, and it was decided that a short piece from a life-long Doctor Who fan might be interesting.  Whether it was or not, I was only too happy to oblige, because I was more excited about this new Doctor casting than… well, probably ever.

Every new Doctor announcement through the decades was usually met by anxiety, resignation or utter confusion from me, but this time I wanted to punch the air – or at least the overhead luggage rack as I was commuting when I found out.

I’d been a fan of Capaldi’s since the exquisite 1983 film Local Hero.  Although the world now seems to know him as the majestically profane Malcolm Tucker from The Thick of it (despite a CV as long as a Who fan’s scarf) to me he will always be the awkward, besotted but determined young Danny Olsen, clambering over the rocks of a Scottish beach in his business suit and vainly pursuing Jenny Seagrove.

The fact that Capaldi acquitted himself so well facing the perhaps misguided BBC live announcement special in August, emerging from reality TV-tinged spectacle with dignity intact and some wonderful quotes to sustain us until his debut, speaks volumes.  This is an experienced and highly-regarded actor who’s going straight to the top of the favourite Doctors list, just you wait and see.

Here is the unedited piece which I submitted:

I was hiding behind the sofa from Doctor Who before I had even learned to walk and it quickly became love at first fright. 

Over the years I’ve managed to develop some awareness of when beginning a conversation with “So, who’s your favourite Doctor Who?” might not be appropriate, (answer: probably never), but yesterday it seemed that everyone wanted to talk about it.  Certainly there were more important issues in the news, but the item which had me searching online during my morning commute into Wellington was the announcement of the twelfth Doctor Who: 55-year-old Scot Peter Capaldi.

My reaction and it seems that I’m not alone, is that it feels as if the universe has finally come back into kilter.  Similarly-aged fan friends are happily posting that they are now younger than the actor playing the Doctor for the first time in eight years.  And perhaps for the first time since Peter Davison took the title role in 1981, (hot property at the time for All Creatures Great and Small), everyone seems to know who the ‘new guy’ is.  Many have seen his work (Local Hero, The Thick of It) and are excited about what he can bring to Doctor Who.

On the other hand, in the direct opposition to Davison’s casting (who at the time was the youngest Doctor ever); nay-sayers are now responding with: “But Capaldi’s too old!”

The programme is fifty this year, and has certainly been around longer than I have, but recently it has been making me feel like the old-timer.  Young floppy-haired poster-boy Doctors, adored by their female companions and famous women throughout history, have taken the programme to new heights of popularity and broken into that elusive female viewership market at last.  I’m delighted that there are now legions of teenage girls with Doctor Who posters on their walls; it was utterly unthinkable ‘in my day’.  But to be honest, I find it a little difficult to relate to the modern series sometimes.  My yearning for the days of a more patrician Doctor probably only makes me look outdated to contemporary fans.  And that’s OK, I was happy to turn the programme over to them, it didn’t really feel like mine anymore.  Screenings of Doctor Who episodes at the Embassy Theatre attended by young fans of both sexes dressed to the hilt as their favourite characters have taken place this year.  I didn’t go - somehow I think I’d feel like the embarrassing dad at a teenage party who doesn’t have the sense to stay off the dance floor.

But the programme has always been about change, and suddenly its makers have made an incredibly brave, but to me eminently sensible decision – the Doctor will be outwardly a man of experience once again.  I believe a versatile, seasoned actor can once again steer the programme in a new direction, but still take the younger audience it has worked so hard to capture along for the ride.  A tall order perhaps, but with Capaldi, I’m confident the TARDIS will be in good hands. 

The Mummy's Curse

A long overdue tribute to someone I could never get by without

Stick insects are cool, but I’m very happy to admit that I never have been, or will be.  But like all of us, there have been rare, fleeting moments when circumstances have conspired to allow me to be the one to say or do something which, if you squinted, could have been cool.  These brief flickers of mana have usually involved that elusive quality known as courage; something which I’ve learned is different for everyone and often as elusive as catching moonbeams.  But sometimes we might find that this abstract notion magically solidifies just when it’s really needed. Or not.

Keeping a blog like this won’t ever get me a ‘cool kids’ membership, and I’m now going to make that a further impossibility by talking about my mother.  Not only was she the bravest person I’ve ever known, in a Glaswegian terrier ‘take-no-crap-from-anyone’ kind of way, but she also first ignited my interest in fantasy films and television.

This startling fact occurred to me when I saw JJ Abrams' first Star Trek film back in 2009 - a perfect example of how to throw out decades of accumulated murky bath water and not only keep the baby, but also make it (here comes that word again) cool.  Hearing that glorious reprise of the classic theme over the closing credits, warm childhood memories came flooding back. And I realised just how much my mother, who had passed away after a long battle with medical incompetence only a few months earlier (possibly the only fight she ever lost), would have loved this film.

This pragmatic woman, who endured a childhood infinitely less privileged than the one she and my Father worked hard to give me, loved Star Trek and would have heartily approved of these sexy new iterations of the Enterprise crew.

‘Watch with mother’ for me included content quite different to the fare most kids grew up viewing in early ‘70s Britain.  Doctor Who was watched and enjoyed exactly in the way that the BBC had intended, with my whole extended family crowded into the living room.  Mum told me about prehistoric monsters (her name for dinosaurs which I still prefer), and later on more imaginary creatures.  She described seeing the beloved back- catalogue of the Universal and Hammer stalwarts, Dracula, Frankenstein’s monster, the Wolfman and others.  It would be a long time before I’d finally see them for myself, but I felt as if the introductions had been made years ago - they were already familiar family friends.  She bought me horror and superhero comics when I had to stay at home from school ill, and on another occasion I remember us both gurgling with glee the first time I ever saw the legendary skeleton fight from Jason and the Argonauts.  We cowered together with Doctor Morbius as the howling, invisible Monster from the Id burned through the final metal door, and she and Dad even let me stay up late (if not actually encouraged me) so that I could meet the mighty Kong for the first time.
 

The last fantasy programme we enjoyed together was the final of Life on Mars: watching Sam Tyler choose the life he wanted and taking the final plunge from reality to the strains Bowie’s haunting titular classic.  By this time mum’s concentration was severely tested, but she still enjoyed well-written escapism.  She made her own final escape from reality a few months later, her waking moments becoming less and less frequent.  Perhaps like me, the time she spent dreaming was occasionally coloured by some of the fantastic visions and characters she’d seen on screen through her life. I like to think so.  And if there’s a TV lounge in heaven, I know damn well who’ll have the remote.

Jean Raymond McLean Hughes Oct 3, 1936 – Jan 7, 2009