When the lights went out ...

THERE I was on Saturday, fresh from the shower and looking forward to a day of recreation. Then the lights went out. And it wasn’t just the lights. The house was silent. No chugging fridge or whirring Sky box. Nothing. And, judging by the twitching curtains down the road, the rest of the street was in the same boat.
It turned out that Pylons-R-Us, or whoever controls our electricity supplies these days, had decided to switch off the power without so much as a by your leave, a card through the letterbox or a polite knock on the door. This was not particularly helpful, especially to the neighbour who had been enjoying a leisurely shower when the deed was done.
Meanwhile, I had my own mini crisis because, towel wrapped around my head, I had been about to blow-dry my hair. OK, to most people having soaking wet hair might not rate very high on the scale of human suffering, but if you’d ever been unfortunate enough to see my hair without the aid of volumising blow-drying and ceramic straighteners, you’d think otherwise.
And, the thing is, until all the power goes out, you don’t realise just how hamstrung you are without electricity. And I don’t just mean the discovery that nowhere in the house do we have a mirror placed near any natural light source, hampering my attempts to put in emergency Velcro-rollers.
You soon discover it’s very near impossible to do anything in a modern house without the aid of electricity.
Now I’ve experienced plenty of power cuts. Back in the 1970s, when I was very little, power cuts were a regular occurrence. In fact, thanks to a long and drawn-out power worker’s dispute, we had regular, even scheduled, power cuts. You’d look in that day’s paper to find out at what time, and for how long, yours would be. And then you just got on with it.
You lit a few candles and played Ludo – it really wasn’t that much of a hardship and was quite an adventure for a toddler. But we’ve come a long way since then and we rely on electricity for practically everything. Back in the 70s, you might have only had heating on one floor but it was a gas fire lit by a match and unaffected by power cuts.
So, on a Saturday morning in 2008, not only do we find ourselves with no lighting and – heaven help us – no television, we also have no heating. There’s no chance of a cheering cuppa because we have no way to boil a kettle. Even the hob needs electricity to light. Although the laptop is charged, there is little point in switching it on; no power means no Internet. And with every minute that passes, you can just hear your frozen food thawing out.
As it turned out, the power was out for less than an hour so I didn’t have to break out the Trevor Bayliss wind-up radio/torch/beacon/siren combination we had bought “in case of emergencies”. Quite what this emergency might be I’m not sure – perhaps an 8.3 earthquake hitting Mickleover? But, with the first-aid box, tins of soup and bottles of water stashed in the pantry, it constitutes our emergency kit as suggested by that government booklet sent out a couple of years ago. Of course it didn’t suggest just how we are supposed to heat said soup. But then I am beginning to suspect that the real point of the leaflet was to give us something to do rather than actually help us.
What I really needed on Saturday was a leaflet entitled: “20 Ways To Style Your Hair When the Power’s Off.” Or, better still, a wind-up blow-dryer.
I might just drop Mr Bayliss a line about that one.

Remember the days of the old school yard?

THEY say you should never go back. Well, I’m glad I just did. What a pleasure it was to attend the open day at Dale Community Primary School, Normanton, held as part of the celebrations to mark the school’s 100th birthday.
I was at Dale between January 1974 and July 1980, and with many talented teachers who made lessons fun and inspiring, we looked forward to each new day. Without doubt, it was the happiest time of my childhood.
On this open day there were lots of reminiscences about our wonderful headmistress, Miss Clarke, and her colleagues. Of course, there was sadness as we remembered those who’ve passed away, but mostly there was joy at meeting familiar faces from the past, and making the acquaintance of former pupils from other eras.
Barbara Brocklehurst, now one of Dale’s teaching assistants, used to be a “mum at the school gate” when I was little and it was good to catch up with her. And I was so pleased to be reunited with Mrs Bowen, one of Miss Clarke’s deputies, without whom the annual summer fairs just wouldn’t have been the same.
It was also lovely to have a good long chat with Mrs Fox, who, together with Mrs Salmon, helped to run the school like clockwork. Together we looked at old photographs gathered by former staff and pupils, and by Living Derby. We shared memories of some of my favourite teachers like Mrs Smith, Miss Roberts, Mrs Wilson and Mr Odell.
Mrs Fox’s most important task, as far as the children were concerned, was taking care of our bumps and scrapes. She was always there with a comforting word and a kind smile and, of course, a dab of “magic” – tincture of iodine. It stung like crazy, but we all wore our yellow-stained skinned knees with pride. No school year would be complete without a few visits to Mrs Fox’s room.
Ian McMahon was there, as always. He joined Dale when I was in the third year of juniors, right at the beginning of his teaching career. The driving force behind much of the school’s sporting success, he also happens to be a darned good teacher and, during the day, was the butt of quite a few jokes; a sure sign of respect and affection. Present-day Dale pupils were fascinated with tales of his platform shoes. Well, sad to say, I am old enough to remember their debut at a school disco about 1979.
Accompanied by current headteacher Linda Sullivan, I took a tour of the school. Going back into those little classrooms, almost 28 years to the day since I last walked through the gates, was certainly an emotional experience; but it was also fascinating. There’s a new dining room and hall; an old hall divided into classrooms; blackboards replaced by interactive white boards; and even indoor plumbing.
But it was the similarities that struck me most. There’s no doubt that formal education is taken very seriously at Dale, but still evident among present-day staff and pupils is that sense of shaping a new generation of young people, socially as well as intellectually.
And that balancing act can be no mean feat. The school’s catchment area has never been one of Derby’s wealthiest, and many of its pupils come from homes where English is a second language. But Dale always provided its own very close community and continues to do so. It’s a happy school, and it was a delight to go back. I hope it won’t have been for the last time.
Living Derby is helping Dale compile a book to mark the centenary and encourage anyone with memories or photographs of their days there to get in touch. They can be contacted through the school, or by emailing info@livingderby.com.

ENDS

Wheezy come, wheezy go?

I’VE never been one to run to the doctor’s at the first sign of a sneeze. In fact, I could manage for years without going near the place. But now a reluctant trip to the surgery has given me a new lease of life. After years of assuming that the wheezing and coughing that I’ve intermittently experienced was part of the allergies from which I’ve suffered since I was a baby, I was beginning to suspect there was something else going on.
Occasionally, you see, the coughing would result in puffing, and louder wheezing, and a breathing pattern that would run away with itself. If I’d been honest with myself, I’d have realised that these “dos” were triggered, not just by exposure to pollen, but by a range of other things like traffic fumes, wet paint and cigarette smoke.
But a long-standing, if irrational, fear of the doctor’s had helped convince me that, even if I did have the condition I suspected – asthma – then I could look after it myself. Besides, I was doing the NHS a favour by not placing a further burden on its already creaking system. In its 60 years, the guardian of our healthcare has remained largely the pride of the nation, but in many ways it’s been a victim of its own success: more people cured means more people around to need other treatment. In truth, of course, I was being far from altruistic. I’ve inherited my paternal grandmother’s anxiety about doctors. She would probably have removed her own appendix if she’d had to.
Two months ago, matters were taken out of my hands when I had what turned out to be a proper asthma attack in front of assembled loved ones. With witnesses, I knew I could avoid the doctor no longer. Once my appointment was made, I managed to fill in the intervening three hours winding myself up into a panic. What if I was wrong? What if my extensive trawl of the internet had failed to reveal some terrible disease? I could have Blackwater Fever, Ross River virus, or some other dreadful illness.
Of course, I am a typical victim of the information age. Inundated with medical information from television dramas and documentaries, the internet and newspapers, I daren’t even look at health articles in women’s magazines. Because, less than 24 hours after reading the symptom checklists, I’ll have developed four or five of them. This time, despite my legs wanting to walk in another direction, I made it to the surgery.
And there’s really nothing like sitting in front of a doctor to make you face the truth: which was that I struggled so much, and so often, that I automatically avoided spending much time outdoors, taking long walks, or doing anything very active when the pollen count was high or the wind blustery. Without realising it, I was missing out on many of the things I’d previously loved.
After a detailed consultation, measuring my peak flow each day, trials of anti-asthma drugs, and a couple more visits to the doctor, my amateur diagnosis was confirmed: I officially have asthma.
Initially, I felt much better just knowing what was wrong. I did research and became an asthma bore to everyone who made the mistake of asking how I was. Then I had a wobble. I started to worry that I had become one of those characters in Victorian children’s fiction: the invalid weakling cousin forced to spend her days indoors. Of course, this picture is entirely outdated. Modern treatments, many pioneered right here in Derby, mean that most of this country’s eight million sufferers can live almost normal lives. For me, it’s transformed the way I feel, live and act.
Rather than being the one hiding indoors, I’m now the one suggesting meals in the garden, walks to the supermarket, even trips to flower shows. I curse myself for not going to the doctor’s much sooner. Because yes, having asthma is scary. Yes, it can be debilitating. But in all likelihood it can be easily controlled – you just have to respect it and then you can go on living.

Being pale is not a crime!

WHAT is this obsession with getting the perfect tan? I don’t mean by roasting yourself in actual sunlight. Let’s face it, chances are that the long-term sun worshipper risks the permanent appearance of a wrinkled prune, never mind the well-documented health risks.
No, I’m talking about that WAG favourite: the fake tan.
Come on, admit it. If you’re a girl of Northern European complexion, you’ve probably been slathering it on by the bucket load. Now I’m beginning to think I may be the only pale woman left in Britain.
You see, this year I decided to go “au natural”. Not, you understand, that I’m in any way opposed to artifice. I rarely leave the house without a decent coat of make-up and my hair long since lost its colour virginity.
But, while I might, from time to time, assume the mane of a blonde or redhead, I’ve become bored by the weekly ritual of streaky ankles, orange fingertips and the constant aroma of digestive biscuits.
OK, I’ve never been what you’d call a natural beach bunny. At the first sign of sunlight I encase myself in layers of clothing and SPF50. But this year I’m content to be what I am: fair and freckly.
Yet this seems to bother other people. Just try being truly pale and buying make-up. Assuming you can find a colour that matches your ivory tones, you still can’t go to a beauty counter without the saleswoman setting about “warming you up” with her latest bronzer.
Why do I need to be golden to be happy? I’m not sad, I’m not sick. I’m just pale.
You might be wondering why my photograph shows me with a decidedly golden glow. Let’s just say that without the intervention of Photoshop, all you’d see would be a mop of hair and a pair of eyes.
Last year, The Year Without Summer, I’d gradually allowed my fake tan routine to slide. There’d been no sunshine, so absolutely no-one had acquired a natural tan. Everyone knew that all those golden girls were faking it; it didn’t seem necessary to go through all that rigmarole.
Until, that was, a young man promoting a new beauty salon stopped me in the middle of Derby. I say stopped, it was more like grabbed, but anyway, he kindly informed me that I looked “in need of a makeover” and invited me to visit the establishment.
Perhaps I’m being harsh on the lad. Perhaps he was showing refreshing honesty rather than relying on outrageous, if predictable, flattery. But it struck me that he might be a more successful salesman if he avoided insulting potential clients.
Could I possibly look that bad? I called on my so-called friend for moral support. She said I looked “a bit peaky” which is code for: “To be honest, you look so pale I want to bring you smelling salts.”
I protested: “But I’m not ill. This is what I look like. All the time. Underneath all that blusher – this is me.”
She looked confused and then her faux-glowed nose crinkled up in sympathy. It wasn’t the reaction I’d hoped for, but it was the moment I decided to stop pretending. To embrace my natural pallor and play the pseudo-sun-kissed game no more. To just be me: pale – and content.
And I’m not the only one rebelling: there’s even a Facebook group for those who refuse to conceal their alabaster skin. It’s not because we don’t care, or because we’re ill, or even that we’re being brave. It’s just that we’re, well, comfortable in our own skin.

No Henman - no summer?

WHAT are we going to do without Tim Henman? As if having no England football team to support wasn’t bad enough, we now have the prospect of a fortnight of Wimbledon without Tiger Tim to cheer on/ anguish over.
Since our favourite tennis ace announced his retirement last year I’ve been wondering what on earth I was going to worry about all summer long. No more can I indulge in my annual ritual of initial optimism and excitement, followed by anxiety and eventual disappointment.
At least, I thought, there’ll be Euro 2008 to watch. That’s sure to end in a dramatic penalty shoot-out exit for the English at least. What more could we want? Of course, thanks to a dispassionate qualifying campaign, our brave boys were all sitting on the beach somewhere, while I tried to find solace in supporting Sweden and Spain
It’s not been a good year for us Brits. Eurovision was a disaster. It’s not a sport, but it’s scarcely a song contest either. And if we ever needed a reminder of just how few friends our country has, then Eurovision is it.
Not that we mind being up against it. We’re very comfortable with battling the odds, punching above our weight, and all the other clichés we love to cling to. It’s our thing. It’s what we do best and without someone to get behind, the Brits are lost.
We need someone to drive us to distraction and worry us silly. Especially those of us who follow the fortunes, or rather misfortunes, of Derby County. Let’s be honest, all the worrying, even the tension. was over by Christmas. After that, it was more of an endurance test as our beloved Rams tested the theory of “just how bad can it get?”
Soon, we’ll have the Olympics, of course, and doubtless we’ll find ourselves temporary experts of Greco-Roman wrestling if one of our own starts to do well. Remember how, for five days, we all loved curling?
But back to the tennis, where we do at least have Andy Murray. But then he seems a young man remarkably reluctant in his Britishness. Fair enough, if he prefers to be Scottish alone then that’s OK. I still consider Scotland part of the UK, and I do have Scottish blood.
But there’s something else that prevents me from wholeheartedly throwing my enthusiasm behind him. From his acquired mid-Atlantic drawl, to his hangdog body language, there’s something decidedly discomforting about him.
Something tells me that Mr Murray is not exactly enamoured with the sport at which he excels. It’s difficult to get behind someone, to live and die with every serve, volley and smash, when you’re not quite sure they care themselves.
We Brits like our sporting heroes to have old-fashioned gumption, to hold on to the very last, to fight, to work, to show that good-old bulldog spirit, whether they win or not. We want them to draw every last breath out of us, to tie our guts up in knots and make us gnaw on our nails. Somehow Murray has so far fallen short.
Perhaps I’ll have to rely on the world of motor sport. F1’s young Lewis Hamilton is a wonderful prospect - talented, successful, dashing, happy to be British. And, if recent weeks are anything to go by, he’s possessed of that essential trait of all true British sporting heroes: the ability to shoot himself in the foot from time to time.
Well, if there were no chance of him messing it up, it just wouldn’t be fun, now would it?

A degree of uncertainty?

Is someone trying to tell me something? In the last week I’ve received no fewer than four e-mails from educational establishments offering the “degree you’ve always deserved”. How do they know I deserve one? Or, for that matter, that I don’t already have one?
As it happens I was one of only four of our 40-strong sixth form not to opt for uni. I’d had enough of lectures and essays and attempting to cram 200 years of British and European history for a three-hour exam. Subsequently, I’ve gone through life degree-free and perfectly happy.
Until, that is, all these e-mails arrived. When four different universities declare you have “unfulfilled potential”, and offer courses especially tailored to the “requirements of the mature working person”, you just have to take a closer look.
But what course might I choose? I got a decent pass at A-level geography, and so began there. Now, come on don’t laugh, there’s much more to it than pointing out Dar es Salaam on a map. As it happened the universities were similarly unimpressed: not one offered any such degree.
The point I’d missed, of course, was that what these universities have in common – aside from having no campuses other than a computer server (that alone should probably have alerted me) – is that they offer “Life Experience” degrees based on the knowledge you already have.
I began to consider my own great bank of accumulated knowledge.
What kind of degree could I get? The history of Star Trek? Shopping telly? The long-term psychological effects of supporting Derby County? Unfortunately, none of these options were on offer, so I turned to the find-your-degree guide.
It turned out that five years of Sunday School entitled me to a bachelor’s in Bible studies. And successfully balancing my cheque book for the last 20 years should see me all right for a doctorate in economics. OK, it took me two attempts to pass my O-level, but I’ve never failed a maths test since.
But I was a little concerned by the reassurance that I had “worked for this degree no less than someone who sat in a classroom”. I mean, there wasn’t even an examination to pass. These degrees were intended for someone in search of an ego boost. Someone who felt they deserved recognition.
And recognition, of course, comes at a price. Although the precise cost was not readily displayed on any of the websites.
I wondered, then, other than providing that ego massage, what use a phoney degree might be. Despite assurances that I could include it on my CV, business card, passport or any other official document I fill out, surely doing so might well prove fraudulent?
Indeed, a quick internet surf revealed a story about several New York City fire fighters who were arrested for purchasing bogus diplomas in order to earn promotions; and another report that several on-line universities were shut down some years ago when it was discovered that hundreds of unqualified people in the US and UK had used their fake qualifications to get jobs as computer experts and, even more worryingly, as teachers.
With fake degrees available to anyone with access to the internet and a credit card, where could it end? With people walking around giving out medical advice based only on ten years of watching Casualty? The mind surely boggles.
Personally I think my ego’s content to go on acquiring the random bits of trivia that occupy my brain and not worry about a degree. It seems to have worked so far. It’s what they used to call the University of Life.

It's an age thing.

HERE’S a cautionary tale. When we were at school, some 20 years ago, someone of my acquaintance was two years older than me. Since achieving professional renown, he now claims to be two years my junior. Any one of more than 200 people from his year could expose him as a forty-something and yet he persists.
So why do people lie about their age? I used to lie about mine. But I was 16 and trying to get served in a pub.

Nowadays, of course, I’d like to claim to be younger, but it’s fraught with problems. Lie too much and you run the risk of looking haggard for your “age”. And if you run into someone with whom you went to school, well the game’s quickly over.Age, of course, is one of the few things we can do nothing to change. No amount of skin creams, or Botox, or exercise will make me any younger. They might make me feel or look more youthful. But the fact is, I’m 39 and I’m only going to get older.
But is it any wonder we’re tempted to lie about our age? Age has become the ultimate label with which we identify and divide people; it’s hardly surprising we are so keen to conceal it.

Yet when we were children we scraped every last fraction into our age. We were four and a half, eight and three-quarters, and nearly ten. Adulthood changes this. A few months ago, a visitor to the house asked me how old I was. Before I knew it, I found myself blurting out the answer. At first I was annoyed that I’d answered so readily and then annoyed at the impertinence of the question. But why are we so insulted? If we think we look younger than we are, we are more than happy to encourage that kind of enquiry. Shouldn’t we just take the rough with the smooth?

When I was about to turn 30, I spent half the year imagining it was the end of something. The death of youth, I suppose. Of course, come my 30th birthday, I felt exactly the same as I did the day before, only without the illogical sense of panic.
Victor Hugo noted that 40 is the old age of youth while 50 is the youth of old age – I’ll have to let you know on that – but in the meantime I’ve decided to celebrate each birthday that, God-willing, passes by and not fear them. It's really just a matter of attitude.
We celebrate every birthday up to 21, but then we turn 30, push 40 and hit 50; and it sounds more and more gruelling as the years roll on. Once we reach 80 – there we go again, that's considered a stretch - we stop wishing happy birthdays and begin to congratulate each other. The marks of 90 or 100 are considered increasing achievements, as if living to 100 is something we can all achieve if only we try hard enough.

Now congratulations on wedding anniversaries I can understand, because marriage would seem to be something at which you have to work. But our age? I can’t help suspecting that a lot of this conditioning comes from greetings cards manufacturers; those cards with numbers on always seem to be the most expensive.

But lie as we might, we all have to put up with increasing maturity. But we don’t have to be governed by the numbers on our birthday cards. It’s your life that’s important, not your age.

So let’s just get on with living and stop worrying about birthdays. You never know, we might just start enjoying them again.



ENDS

Funny foreign food? Count me in!

YOU had to feel sorry for them, a young American couple in a foreign land, trying to make head or tail of the menu. Actually they were in London last Saturday, in a South Bank fish restaurant. And they weren’t trying to order anything all that complicated – just good old British fish and chips.
It had all begun so well. Granted they might have got a more authentic experience had they opted for the chip shop further down the street, but here they were, doing their best to join in with Londoners and sample the local delicacy.
That was until the waiter asked them whether they’d like some mushy peas. They just stared at him as if he’d begun spouting Ancient Greek. I suppose it doesn’t really sound very encouraging, does it? Mushy … peas? Imagine if you’d never had them, never heard of them even, what that name might conjure up.
Sadly for the unfortunate pair, the waiter wasn’t a native Brit either, and couldn’t really manage to impart the ambrosial delight that is mushy peas. They politely agreed to try one portion between them.
When their meal arrived they examined the bright green goo, poked at it with a spoon before drizzling the tiniest amount on their chips, sampled it gingerly with eyes closed, then decided against further experimentation.
Apparently they weren’t the first visitors to these shores to have similarly baulked. During Euro 96, dozens of Turkish football fans billeted in Nottingham were reportedly flummoxed by the “strange green sauce” that the chip shop had dolloped on their takeaways.
As it happened, Mum and me had the fish and chips too. We were off to the theatre and in traditional mood. The problem was that, while the meal was excellently cooked, plentiful and lovely to look at, those mushy peas lacked a certain something. I think it was tradition. They were elegant, and while I’m not morally opposed to elegant eating, there’s something about mushy peas that is inherently unsophisticated.
These mushies had been expertly crafted from fresh peas and pureed with mint. They were lovely. But just weren’t a patch on the ones they used to serve at the Stanton Street chippy.
There are some things that are delicious and wonderful despite their lack of refinement. I mean you really can’t beat cinema nachos. We all know that real cheese has never been that texture, or that colour, and yet with the promise of the latest blockbuster, there’s simply nothing better.
At least with mushy peas the description is fairly explanatory. Some foods are not at all what they seem, as I found out in a small town neighbourhood restaurant in Colorado, where they were serving something called Rocky Mountain Oysters.
The waitress asked if I’d had them before. I assured her that I’d eaten plenty of oysters and she seemed content. Perhaps her initial hesitation should have stopped me in my tracks.
Anyway, the appetizer arrived. Everyone had a taste and agreed it was really quite scrumptious. Sort of mushroomy actually. So there I am three days later, still congratulating myself on my new discovery, when I overhear a conversation between our tour guide and a fellow passenger, and then I come over all nauseous.
Guess what? Rocky Mountain Oysters have nothing to do with oysters, or even mushrooms. They’re buffalo meat. And they come from the part of a buffalo that, how shall I put this, accommodated part of his manhood. I won’t worry you with the method of acquisition, let’s just say it’s not necessary to kill the buffalo and that further information would make your eyes water.
Now I’m normally quite happy to live on the culinary edge, but although I eat fish and seafood, it’s more than 20 years since I’ve willingly eaten a piece of meat. At the time it wasn’t a moral choice, but now I felt guilty that I’d consumed the most delicate part of a poor buffalo, and, let’s be honest, enjoyed it.
The previous day I’d been introduced to some buffalo that had appeared in the Kevin Costner film Dances With Wolves. Now I couldn’t help but wonder whether they had known that I’d just eaten the crown jewels of one their brothers.
Oddly, when I’ve recounted this cautionary tale, it’s been my more carnivorous friends who’ve been the most appalled. But I’m not surprised; I’ve heard a coach load of holidaymakers in Norway refuse point blank to sample reindeer meat on the grounds that it would be “like eating Rudolf”.
Funny that, because the previous evening they’d happily munched away on a leg of Larry the Lamb. We're talking Shaun the Sheep here, people.
But who am I to judge? And besides, if you can stomach it, I can recommend a very tasty, appetizer.

The Play's The Thing!

IT was Lord Olivier who said it: “I believe that in a great city, or even in a small city or a village, a great theatre is the outward and visible sign of an inward and probable culture.” So what does it say about Derby, that we have closed our only professional theatre in a Comedy of Errors, while allowing the virtual destruction of a Sleeping Beauty just down the road?
Because whether you prefer Shakespeare or Charles Perrault, Derby without a theatre is just plain wrong. It’s perfectly ridiculous to suggest that a city of almost a quarter of a million residents – and a potential audience catchment of twice that – cannot support a provincial theatre.
It’s certainly not that there isn’t enough interest; I used to be a regular at Derby Playhouse and the place was always packed. Neither am I convinced that the Westfield Centre is to blame for all Derby’s ills.
I don’t know the answer, but I do know why I eventually abandoned the Playhouse. Not because I didn’t enjoy the entertainment on offer – although there did seem to be a strange obsession with trying to incorporate the revolving stage into almost every production – but because the place was just so darned uncomfortable.
Anyone who ever ventured inside will tell you that the auditorium was always hot and airless, even after expensive “improvements”. At the interval you’d find scores of theatregoers heading for the exits to take the air before wondering whether they could bear to go back inside. What the refit did achieve was to remove any element of character from the building’s interior.
I’m not one of those people who dislikes everything modern; in fact I love modernity and I may be the only person left in the city who doesn’t yet hate the Quad.
But a theatre should feel special – not like the budget airline check-in area at East Midlands Airport. There’s simply nothing like a gorgeous, old-fashioned, dark, luxurious theatre. Nottingham’s Theatre Royal and Wolverhampton’s Grand Theatre are prime examples.
Returning Derby’s theatre to the then still intact Hippodrome would have been perfect. But when it comes down to it, it doesn’t matter whether you’re in the Duke of York’s in London’s West End, or a former cinema like the Palace in Mansfield. It’s the thrill of the greasepaint that matters.
For some, of course, that thrill is too much. I’ve a friend who never goes to the theatre because she is so terrified that an actor might make a mistake that she cannot bear to watch.
Then again, I have another friend who is a passionate devotee, but who, 20 minutes into the first act, is always sound asleep. You can set your watch by him.
Yet even he would have struggled to doze off during one performance in Nottingham last year. There must have been a dozen large school groups in attendance. Hemmed in on three sides, I bemoaned my misfortune as hundreds of teenagers bobbed up and down, waved at their friends and chucked sweets to each other. I’d forgotten how loud you like things when you’re 15.
One girl had clearly never even seen a theatre before. She was so used to watching telly that her teacher had to explain to her that she was about to witness real, live actors, not a projection on to a screen. You couldn’t make it up.
As the lights dimmed, several embarrassed teachers hushed the exaggerated squeals of delight, but still I feared for the rest of the afternoon. I needn’t have worried: five minutes later, the teenage audience had fallen into silence, every one of them transfixed by what was going on before them.
At curtain’s fall they all jumped to their feet, cheering and whistling wildly. Their reaction wasn’t conventional, but it was genuine, and it was testament to the power of theatre.
Because, despite the apparent artifice of its props, plots and players, a visit to the theatre is one of the most “real” forms of entertainment. If the cinema is an escape from reality, then theatre is surely a journey straight into it.
There is nothing more intimate or immediate than watching a group of talented actors love, laugh, fight and mourn their way through a well-crafted story. You’re in their characters’ world, and each time it’s as thrilling and magical as the first.
That is perhaps theatre’s greatest gift, and it’s one on which the next generation of Derbeians looks likely to miss out.
But there is still hope. If the dream of a rescued Hippodrome is fading, perhaps we can count on a revitalised Playhouse, where touring, repertory and amateur productions could all find a home. We could even dedicate it to our own great dramatic actor, and patron of Derby’s theatre scene, the late Sir Alan Bates.

All creatures great and small?

I WAS waiting for a bus when I saw it: the most beautiful ornament in a garden by the bus stop. It was a statue of an eagle, or a falcon, or something like that. Or at least I thought it was a statue – until it swivelled its head and blinked at me.
It turns out that a bird of prey is resident in a seemingly ordinary suburban Derby street. Some people apparently keep the unlikeliest creatures as family pets. And I began to wonder why.
Take ferrets. I’ve been told they are affectionate, playful and, contrary to popular belief, fastidiously clean. But even though I’m told that you can take them out for a walk, somehow I can’t imagine ever curling up on the sofa with one.
And chipmunks. My cousin Jonathan kept chipmunks, and they were very cute in a Walt Disney way. But they spent most of their days asleep. Which is a common problem with rodents. When I was ten I longed for a gerbil and was excited beyond all reason when it was my turn to take care of Spike, the class gerbil, for the weekend.
Friday evening was fascinating: Spike explored his new surroundings, eyed the goldfish with suspicion, chowed down on his seed, sipped his water, even enjoyed an excursion around the family laundry basket.
But, come Saturday morning, Spike took to his tiny straw bed, curled up and went to sleep. And there he stayed until dusk, despite all my attempts to rouse him.
And so it continued all weekend. When we went to bed, Spike got up and then kept the whole house awake by running around and around in his exceedingly squeaky wheel. It was such a disappointment. Come Monday morning I’d decided to give gerbil ownership a miss.
Some animals just make better pets than others. I can’t help thinking that there are people who must be disappointed when their pygmy goat starts eating granddad’s prize begonias; or their alligator grows too big for the bathtub. There are some animals that just don’t suit being domesticated.
I mean, monitor lizards and geckos for goodness sake – should anything that can lick its own eyeballs really be a family pet?
And how anyone can keep a tarantula as a pet is beyond me. As a confirmed arachnophobic, I’m completely unconvinced by one pet shop’s promise that the pink-toe variety is “placid, cute and furry”, particularly once I’d spotted that it was also “fast and agile”.
And who in their right mind would want to give a home to a giant hissing cockroach?
Anyway, what happens when these exotic creatures escape? You hear about wallabies loose in the Peak District and panthers on Dartmoor. The traffic in Derby is bad enough without dozens of motorists rubber-necking because hordes of sugar gliders are now swooping low over Markeaton island.
Personally, I prefer my animal friends to be of the more cuddly variety. As long as I can remember I’ve had cats. You’ll notice I don’t use the word “owned” here, since any cat lover will tell you the first thing you find out about felines is that they belong to no-one but themselves. As they say: “Dogs have owners; cats have staff”.
But even cats can cause you extreme embarrassment. My first cat, Angie, was a genuine lady who absolutely refused to do anything remotely undignified. But she was skilled hunter and loved nothing better than showing off her catch to the rest of the pride, particularly if we had guests.
A birthday party of mine once descended into chaos when she brought a long-dead field mouse through the cat flap. I don’t think she understood that the high-pitched squeals of my friends were not cries of appreciation..
Cats have distinct personalities, too. Can anyone claim that of stick insects or snakes? Our current feline lodgers, Erin and Gracie, are sisters but couldn’t be more different. They’re charming, sweet as pie, and utterly enchanting. But Gracie’s an adventurer, an explorer who’s always looking for the next thing, the next game, a higher bookcase on which to climb.
Her sister is more cautious. While Gracie is the first to greet a visitor, be it a friend, neighbour or the gas man, Erin hangs back, looks on and mulls things over before introducing herself.
They do both like to sleep on a fluffy duvet and, as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing more delightful than being woken up by tickling whiskers and kitten kisses, even if it is a couple of hours earlier than the alarm I set.
But that’s what worries me about exotic pets: it’s hard to imagine the owner of a giant African land snail cuddling up for the night with his or her slimy friend. It sounds, quite frankly, rather messy

My life with Ozzy Osbourne.

THE week I spent working for Ozzy Osbourne was one of the most amazing of my life.
What? You don't believe I worked for the legendary rocker? OK, you'd be right. But I was once mistaken for a member of his entourage.
A few years ago, way before MTV's The Osbournes introduced us to him and his remarkable, often dysfunctional, family, I happened to be in San Antonio, Texas, at the same time as the great man himself.
More than that, it seemed Ozzy, his family, and the band were ensconced in the same hotel.
I didn't know this until two teenage Texan girls began trailing me around in the mistaken belief that I could introduce them to their hero. They'd been hanging around the hotel lobby, heard my English accent, and assumed that I was part of the Osbourne entourage.
They accosted me in the lift, told me they were "two of Ozzy's greatest fans", and asked me if I was going up to his room. I pleaded ignorance, and, to be honest, was so out of the loop on head-bangers I wasn't even sure I'd recognise him if I'd met him over the breakfast buffet.
But they had logic on their side: I was British, Ozzy was British, we were staying in the same hotel, and I had just pressed the button to go up to the penthouse.
Actually I had pressed the button for the floor below the penthouse, having been unexpectedly upgraded when I checked in. But no amount of protesting was going to change their minds because, to get to the "exclusive" top two floors, residents had to use a lift accessible only to holders of a special key. I had one, Ozzy had one ... you get my drift.
Undeterred, the teenage rockers followed me out of the lift, across the corridor and to the door of my room, where they begged me to let them meet their hero, just for a minute.
I was tired, hot and hungry, and there was a frozen margarita with my name on it on the bar downstairs, so I opened my door wide to let them see its very ordinariness - no sleeping rock stars, no guitars, no wild party aftermath.
The most rock and roll thing there was my discarded straw cowboy hat on the bed. "Now do you believe me?" I said.
They didn't. So I'm afraid that I resorted to the only thing I could think of.
I told them that, if they didn't leave immediately, I was going to get one of Ozzy's "security guys".
They looked at one another, then at me, and retreated to the lift and back down to the lobby. I was too weary to feel guilty. Besides, at least they now had a story to tell the folks back home.
I never did meet Ozzy, didn't even see a trace of him, not even a decapitated bat in the hallway. But my new stalkers continued to hang out in the lobby just in case.
That wasn't my only temporary brush with fame.
I once spent 10 days on a coach tour through California trying to convince the little Australian girl on the seat next to me that I wasn't "Muriel from Muriel's Wedding". I'm not convinced she ever believed I wasn't.
And, thanks to a misunderstanding on the telephone, I once had to explain to a magazine editor that no, I wasn't the daughter of Lord Rippon of Hexham.
Mind you, even people I know have mistaken me for someone else, or rather someone else for me.
I was once "spotted" in the Oak and Acorn at Oakwood; a pub I've never visited.
"You were drinking a G &T and chatting up this bloke," I was told.
"I certainly was not, I don't even like G &Ts!" I protested.
"Well it was definitely you."
At first I was annoyed that this person thought I was so vacant I wouldn't even remember where I'd spent my Saturday night. Then I began to panic.
What if I had a Doppelganger? My double might, even now, be out there drinking G &Ts and chatting up strange men, or, worse still, committing some heinous crime that might someday be attributed to me.
Then I remembered what my Nana used to say about doubles; that encountering your own was a harbinger of some terrible fate.
What if I met this mystery person? We live in the same town so I might just walk into her in the middle of Top Shop.
I managed to shake myself out of my superstitious paranoia, but I made a mental note never to stray into the Oak and Acorn … just in case.

Embrace technology – but don't forget your memorable word

THE wonders of modern technology mean we can access everything at the touch of a button. But woe betide you if you forget your memorable word...

I Spent a long time waiting in the bank last week. I'd managed to lock myself out of my account trying to use the internet banking service.

Eighteen months ago, it had all sounded so wonderful. They had promised checking my balance, transferring money and arranging direct debits could all be done without going into a branch or standing in a queue.

And yet here I was, waiting in one. The officious computer interface had informed me that I had incorrectly entered my passcode, so I'd had a friend oversee my next attempt. But the interface decided that was wrong too. And then that it was wrong a third time, even though I had a witness to prove otherwise.

Clearly the bank's own system had a problem, so I was happy to ring the "helpline". It was then I fell foul of my own disorganisation. The irritatingly cheery lad on the other end of the line asked for my "memorable place" and my "memorable word". The trouble was they weren't terribly memorable at all - I couldn't even remember having set them. Slightly embarrassed and utterly stressed, I panicked and gave him the likely answers. It had all been going so well up to that point. But now, impossibly cheerful lad informed me that one of the answers had been wrong.

He couldn't tell me which one. No, I couldn't have a second guess. And now he had to lock me out of my bank account. I would have to present myself, in person, with photo ID, at one of his branches, if I ever wanted access to my paltry fortune again.

Subsequently, come first thing on Monday morning, I found myself waiting in my local branch behind a nice Polish family opening their first account, while I cursed all technology and my faith in it.

My inability to remember my memorable place and word, of course, was now paling into insignificance by comparison with my ire at the faulty automated system. By the time I emerged from the bank, my passwords reset and my money accessible once more, I was ready to abandon all electronic devices and throw in my lot with the technology-eschewing Amish people of North America (although I seem to recall even they had credit card terminals in their gift shops).

It wasn't to be because, by the time I got home, I'd used the ATM, paid by chip-and-pin in Tesco, texted home to explain why I was running late and, although I knew what time it was due, monitored my bus's arrival through its newly-installed Star Trak information system. I'd even entertained myself during the journey home with some soothing music on my iPod.

Of course, it's not the technology that's the problem; it's our reliance upon it. Unless you're a fellow gadget geek, you probably won't understand this, but as far as I'm concerned, life without the internet or mobile phones has become unthinkable.

Last year, a fault with a BT line caused chaos in our house. We had no phone line and no internet. No internet, of course, means no e-mail and I just knew that the only really urgent e-mail I had ever received was waiting, right then, to pop up in my inbox, in need of an immediate reply - if only I could get to it.

I couldn't do any work either because my access to the outside world had been cut. It was two days before I remembered the encyclopaedia on the shelf behind me. But gadgetry is just so much easier - and a lot more fun. I remember vividly the entire family gathering around to watch the first-ever cycle of our tumble dryer.

My mum treats the computer as if her every tap of the keyboard might unleash nuclear Armageddon, but she happily Googles for her lace-making supplies. My dad, who is so naturally suspicious of new devices that he waits until he has observed someone else successfully using them for at least a year before he will buy in, actually gets more texts in a day than I do.

As a lover of the latest technology, I use self check-ins at airports, and self check-outs at supermarkets. But I'll admit that even I was bewildered by the automated public toilet I encountered in Stockholm. From the light, the door mechanism and the seat warmer - yes really - to the flush, the soapy water and the hand dryer, everything was automated. For me, it was a step too far. There are some things that are just better done manually. Anyway, how does it know when you're ready for the next stage?

That said, even our cats are microchipped, which means that their temperatures can be taken without the usual indignities.

So, embrace technology, book some yoga lessons - and make sure you make a note of those memorable answers.

Clowns and jugglers and mimes, oh my!

A RECENT study by the University of Sheffield, into appropriate decor for children's hospital wards, concluded what I could have told them long ago: clowns are scary.

After a personal life-long terror of those whitened faces, drawn-on smiles and enormous flapping feet, I can vouch for it.

And I'm not alone. Coulrophobia, to give clown-fear its proper title, is one of the most common phobias on the planet. Three years ago, hundreds of residents of Sarasota, Florida, a town with a proud circus heritage, successfully campaigned to prevent the erection of 70 giant clown statues around their hometown on the grounds that they were terrified at the prospect.

Theories abound about just why these red-nosed entertainers are so frightening. I, for one, don't recall being traumatised by someone dressed as a clown, and I'm not convinced that it stems from not being able to gauge a clown's real feelings. They're just plain creepy.

I do know that I was already a phobic when my parents took me on my first circus visit. And I recall vividly the disappointed and bewildered look on my father's face when his little girl burst into tears at her first sight of his big-top favourites.

You'd think the advancing years would have cured me. If anything I've got worse. I've tried to find comfort in the experiences of others and logged on to scores of anti-clown websites. On ihateclowns.com there is even a forum on which coulrophobics can blog about their own experiences; another website offers clothing and accessories with anti-clown slogans. But none of this has cured me.

Any claims I might have to a genuine phobia, however, are pooh-poohed by friends, who claim that I'm just being miserable. You see, I'm also one of those people that squirms at the mere mention of "street entertainers". I know what you're thinking, but let me try to convince you otherwise.

Take mime artists - and I wish someone would. What could be more irritating? All that "help me, I'm stuck in a box" play-acting just winds me up. I mean, just how many times can you watch someone struggle with an invisible balloon?

It baffles me that someone would want to spend all day doing Marcel Marceau impressions when they could be doing anything else. But then again, the website worst-jobs.com regards mime artistry as "ideal for theatre artists who can't sing, or act, or remember lines".

There exists, believe it or not, an I Hate Mimes Club. And there have been some pretty high-profile mime haters too. A character in a Terry Pratchett book outlawed miming and punished exponents by forcing them to climb an invisible ladder out of a scorpion pit while reading a sign saying: 'Learn the words'.

I don't even think they're all that popular. Be honest, when you see mimes in the street, how many people are standing there watching?

It's the same with jugglers. Is there actually a point to juggling? The World Juggling Federation is an organisation dedicated to "promoting the sport of juggling to a worldwide audience". Juggling as a sport? I'm not even convinced it's an entertainment.

How hard can it be? The average 9-year-old girl can do it. Anyone can learn to juggle, surely? OK, not me, obviously, because I have absolutely no co-ordination, but it would seem to be within the reach of those with even basic motor skills.

There are other forms of silly street performers, too. Stilt-walkers, for example. As a child I could walk on stilts, quite competently as it happens, but they don't impress me either.

Acrobats are amazing, of course, and trapeze artists and tightrope walkers too.

Fire-eaters are also impressive, but, on the other hand, once you've seen one .... And just how do you find out you can do that without setting yourself alight?

I don't think it's so much what these street artists do that bothers me, it's that they choose to do it at all.

There you are, minding your own business, when suddenly, out of nowhere, appears a smart-alec on a unicycle, ambushing you into his performance, making you part of his act whether you want to be or not.

Then there are the street musicians. Not the gypsy violinists, flutists and classical guitarists, who can all add wonderful ambiance to a street scene. I'm talking about the ones with the didgeridoos. The ones who leave you wishing they didgerididn’t.

When the language is in tense

YOU see them all the time when you're on holiday abroad, the Brits whose approach to communicating with foreigners is to speak in English very loudly and very slowly, all accompanied by not necessarily helpful hand gestures.

If you're anything like me, you've probably shuddered at the Basil Fawltyness of it - and then wondered whether you'd be any better.

Taking into consideration the five years I spent studying French, my ability to speak it is shockingly weak.

Five years of describing objects in a room - the dog was in the basket, the cat on the chair, the mouse under the table, as I recall - are of little help when you need to know whether the cassoulet is vegetarian-friendly or not.

Perhaps it's just me. My years of French study were somewhat scarred by a very minor detail in the textbook we were required to use.

It featured a family whose pets included "un chat et un chien" - and a monkey. Yes, a monkey; every French home should have one, apparently.

This particular simian, if I recall correctly, wore a hat and a scarf and rode a bicyclette. But it was also named Nikki.

And, let me tell you, years of "Oui, Nikki le singe?" from the witty teacher every time I answered a question soon wore awfully thin.

I simply stopped putting up my hand.

These same textbooks had been handed down through successive generations of students since at least the 1950s.

Now, you might assume, as we did, that French in 1984 was pretty much the same as French 30 years earlier.

How wrong we were. As we began our O-level studies, a new teacher came to the school.

Appalled by the state of the books we were using, he was rendered nearly apoplectic when he discovered that, thanks to the directions of Cours Illustres, we were all in danger of habitually insulting every French waiter we encountered by calling him "garcon".

Apparently, the appropriate word was 'monsieur'. And it had been thus for a couple of decades or so.

Instead, the teacher created his own lessons, which, much to our amusement, generally featured the singer Michael Jackson.

I can only assume it was an attempt to "connect" with the youth. Regardless, I for one was only too pleased to leave the days of Nikki le singe behind me.

By the luck of the draw, on the day of my French O-level oral examination I was required, in French, of course, to pretend to arrange a date with the examiner.

Even at 16, I suspected this was a pointless task. Not, you understand, that I'm especially opposed to the idea of arranging dates with Frenchmen, especially if he is of the David Ginola variety, but I knew that if I ever were to go on holiday to Paris, I'd surely be far more likely to need directions to the Eiffel Tower or a nice little bistro on the Champs Elysee. And besides, I mused to myself, if Frenchmen are so romantic, shouldn't he be asking me?

Make-believe romantic assignations aside, much of our lesson time was spent learning about past participles, future progressives and past perfect tenses.

All of which would surely prove very useful for those of us planning to move to France, write a novel in the French language, or seek a job at the UN. Since few of my classmates have done any of these things, I suspect that our time might have been better employed. The point, surely, is to be understood in a foreign language, not to pass off one's self as a local?

When you think about it, when was the last time you used a perfectly conjugated sentence in a food shop? You're in the chippy. You don't say: "Good evening, madam. I would like four pieces of deep-fried haddock and four portions of chipped potatoes please." You say: "Haddock n' chips four times, please."

Call me revolutionary here, but I think all most of us really need is a few basic sentences and as many nouns as possible. While it would be rewarding to pass the time of day with the locals discussing the state of the French economy or the philosophies of Descartes, when we're on holiday, our needs are basic: to eat, drink, relax, find our way, keep safe and call for help in an emergency.

For some bizarre reason, just about the only French word I can instantly recall is chaussettes, or socks, but, until I looked it up, I had no idea what they called a fire extinguisher (it's extincteur, by the way). You tell me: in a pinch, which is likely to be the most urgent?

The trauma of the Nativity Play

PICTURE the scene. There is a frisson in the air. The nervous chatter of anxious parents hums through the assembly hall. Out of sight, teachers make last-minute adjustments to swaddling bands, and halos are straightened. Yes, it’s that annual ritual of triumphs, tears and tinsel, Little Donkeys and dropped Baby Jesuses – the school Nativity Play.
You’d have to be a stern soul indeed not to be reduced to some level of teary-eyed nostalgia at the thought of all those six and seven-year-olds just waiting for the chance to shine in front of their families and friends. But while all you proud parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles are beaming with pride as your little ones take to the stage as Mary or Joseph, spare a thought for those who never make it into the spotlight – those for whom the school Nativity Play will be a source of perennial disappointment.
You might have guessed, then, that I was one of those children never destined to take to the Nativity stage. Granted, I was saved the ritual humiliation of being the shepherd who tripped over his lamb, or the wise man who forgot to hand over his box of frankincense. But a part in this lovely Christmas tradition was all I yearned for. Every year as the Nativity casting took place, I sat up straight, looked as pretty as I could, spoke clearly and loudly and smiled manically. But it was never going to work; I was overlooked every single year. Not because I wasn’t serene enough to have been an angel, or demure enough for Mary – although these may well have been valid reasons – but because I was just too tall. I may not have reached giraffe-like proportions as an adult but, when I was six years old, I towered over all but one of the boys in our class. And the same was true for several of the other girls too.
And somewhere along the way, one teacher or another had dictated that it would look much better if the short girls got all the plum roles. As a child I thought this was possibly the most unfair thing in the world and I would try to hunch down just so they might think that this year I was finally shorter than the boys. Of course I was 15 before that happened and the era of Nativity plays was long gone.
Not everyone could play a part, of course. These were the days when the Nativity Play was just that. The pure, unadulterated, Christian story of the birth of Jesus. There were the Holy Family, shepherds, kings, angels, the innkeeper and his wife, perhaps a donkey and some sheep, and occasionally a human star. But that was it. I’ve heard of modern Christmas plays with enormous cast lists, and ones that even feature Harry Potter and the Tweenies, just so that everyone can have a part. Ours didn’t even have a Santa Claus.
Of course, the teachers made sure we didn’t miss out entirely. We were positioned to the side of the stage where we sat cross-legged on the floor, beside the naughty kids and the ones whose attention spans were so short that their acting threatened to break into improvisation. We were given drums to bang, triangles to ting and tambourines to shake. These were particularly popular with us girls because we could pretend to be Agnetha or Frida from Abba.
And, of course, we were allowed to sing along with the carols and Christmas songs – although I have an old friend who told me that a perfectionist teacher once ordered them to mime to the songs because she wanted only the good singers to be heard. What a horrible thing to do to a small child. And at Christmas, too. Nowadays you could probably sue.
I did get to participate in our senior school carol concert, although quite how we had one I’m not sure, Derbyshire County Council having cast disapproval on religion in schools by that point. I think we were all right if we didn’t actually mention God. Anyway, our German class was required to stand before the rest of the school and sing the first verse of O Come All Ye Faithful in German: Herbei o ihr Glaugibigen, Frohlich triumphierend; you see, I can still do it. And for that one shining moment, we were the stars of the show. It didn’t impress my non-German-speaking classmates, of course. They just thought we were showing off. But it was our moment nonetheless.
I feel I should probably now make a confession. I did once appear in a Nativity Play, as the Angel Gabriel no less. And I had lines. But then I was in Brownies and we had no boys to tower over.

What's so awful about being nice?

THE recent final of the TV talent show X Factor, featured a young duo - a brother and sister known as Same Difference. Most people loved them because they were so nice. Yet a few others loathed them for the same reason.

So I'm wondering - what's so awful about being nice?

You might think that nice people are appreciated. But nice, it seems, is an underrated concept. Abhorred rather than applauded, nice people are uncool.

If they're so nice and happy, there must be something wrong with them, right?

Of course, that's not the case - these lucky people just happen to see the positive side of life more clearly than the negative one.

Some people even think that all this likeability is some sort of deliberate facade, hiding an almost Machiavellian heart.

But while we avidly listen to the latest bulletins from the gossips, wouldn't we rather it were only the nice people who talked about us?

I remember at school being told never to use the word nice because it was too vanilla, too non-specific.As if it weren't a description in itself, and yet it is.

It encapsulates something that no other single word does. So why does nice go hand-in-hand with bland?

Why does something, or someone, have to have a dark edge to be taken seriously? How often do we hear someone say they don't like a person simply because they're too nice? What's that all about? How can someone be too nice?

Can it really be that we are all so cynical that we simply can't trust anyone else to be genuinely pleasant? Have we so lost touch with the kindness within us that we can't bear to witness it in someone else?

I don't think either is true, and neither do I think that happy, nice people are born that way - I think they make a choice to be nice and to see the good in others, and I think it's a choice we could all stand to make.

The advantages of encountering such a person were brought home to me the day I ruptured my ankle ligaments. Having been told by the friendly A & E doctor that what I had done was probably worse than breaking my ankle, I was astonished to be told by the nurse who strapped my injury that I wouldn't be getting any of her NHS crutches because the best thing for me was to walk on it straight away. If only I could have.

Now, I understand that such things are in short supply because many people don't bother to return their loaned hospital equipment, but surely a woman who needs a wheelchair to take her to the car is entitled to some sort of sticks or something? Apparently not.

After several abortive attempts to get into the house unaided, I sank to the floor and shuffled over the front step and up the hall on my derriere. Clearly, I was going to need help, whether that nurse thought it necessary or not, and a family member was dispatched to purchase for me my very own set of elbow-crutches.

Several days' enforced house confinement eventually left me in serious need of some retail therapy, so I set off for town. Now, admittedly testing out my new hobbling-with-elbow-crutches skills on a Saturday afternoon was probably not the most sensible plan, but amid the thousands of people flocking into Derby that day, you might have imagined that one or two of them would have noticed my predicament and made some allowances. Not a chance. Sympathy? You must be kidding.

I was bustled, nudged and shoved. I had doors dropped back into my face while I tottered about on my sticks. I had car drivers tooting their horns because I wasn't fast enough across the road. I couldn't even get into one store because I got caught between two sets of heavy doors, unable to push my way in or out, and only released from my glass prison when another customer needed to use the doorway. And no, even they weren't sympathetic, but tutted at my dithering. Did they think I was wobbling around for fun?

It was a sudden and shocking realisation of how someone with a permanent mobility problem must find life - I don't know how they have the patience, or the will.

I was on my way home before I encountered my first Good Samaritan and the restoration of my faith in humanity. A fellow bus passenger took pity on me and offered me her seat at the front. She must have been well into her 80s, and none too steady on her own feet. I think she must have been one of those nice people.

You never know who you may turn out to be

WHO do you think you are? asks the popular television show, but you don’t have to be a celebrity to unearth a fascinating family story of your own. Ten or so years spent investigating my family’s past have thrown up a few surprises about our origins. Like the fact that my great-great-great grandmother, Mary Hargreaves, was born in Dublin. And while this doesn’t mean I’ll be celebrating next St Patrick’s Day, it is remarkable how much this kind of information changes the way you view yourself. As it turns out my once decidedly Derbyshire DNA has pieces from all over Britain. I still feel like a Derby girl, but I can no longer deny associations with other counties and even countries.
I’ve also learned how foolish the idea of social “class” is. On the face of it, my family is of sturdy “working-class” stock. We have blacksmiths, agricultural labourers and elastic weavers to prove it. But there’s also the occasional rich and aristocratic family member like Sir Richard Whieldon Barnett of Hales Hall, who is my fourth cousin. All very exciting; he was a competitor at the 1908 Olympics, a chess champion, an MP, but somehow just not as much fun as my great-great-great-great grandparents, Richard and Mary Wilkes, who worked as village rat catchers well into their dotage. And I can’t help thinking, if I were living in a vermin-afflicted cottage, who would I rather have as my neighbour?
Then there’s the possibility of inheritance. Not in the financial sense – I doubt rat catchers were ever high earners. – but perhaps I had inherited some hitherto unexplored talent from the several artists I had discovered. Sadly, I can’t even draw a convincing banana and probably have more in common with the long line of publicans on my paternal grandmother’s line.
I did find one living relative who carries the art gene – my distant American cousin, Judy, who is a talented painter. And there’s another joy of family research - encountering new relatives. Through Judy I have the pleasure of hearing about everyday life in the charming village of Ballston Spa in New York State.
Other relatives have their own experiences to share too. There’s third cousin Naomi, who runs a falconry centre in the Cotswolds; fifth cousin Julia, who lives in Australia; and seventh cousin Ulrich from Denmark. We have fun trading family news and Christmas cards – and the latest discoveries. Like our connections to Thomas Whieldon, the world-famous potter, and my first cousin (admittedly eight-times-removed); or George Rowley, the well-known china painter for Royal Crown Derby, and my great-grandfather’s half-brother.
Thanks to the dedicated research of these new-found relatives, I have sometimes been able to go back several hundred years in an afternoon. My earliest ancestors to date are William and Joan Whieldon of Ipstones in Staffordshire, who were probably born in 1582, the year William Shakespeare married Ann Hathaway.
I’ve learned about places I’d never heard of before, like Chilvers Coton near Nuneaton, where my ancestors attended the same church as novelist George Elliot. I’ve researched life in the Lincolnshire fens when the early Rippons would have travelled from village to village by boat; studied the smart houses of Wimbledon where my great grandmother worked as a housekeeper; and investigated life at Welbeck Abbey where my great-great uncle Alfred was in charge of the Duke of Portland’s stables.
There have been countless mysteries, illegitimate births, untraceable marriages, lines that disappear into thin air, rumours and speculation, elopements and uncovered secrets aplenty.
And there have been tragedies, too. Great-great uncle Willie Rippon returned from the First World War with shellshock and was haunted by the horrors of his experiences for the rest of his life, while Frederic Rowley fell victim to typhoid fever at his Campion Street home. And my great-great grandmother Eliza Hough died, aged 30, having just given birth to her sixth child.
There have been the horror stories, too, like that of my great-great grandfather working down a Durham lead mine as a 14-year-old. And the sad story of my great-great uncle Alexander Craig, who was born in Bruges in the late 19th century because his father was a commercial traveller, but who returned to Belgium with the Sherwood Foresters in 1915, only to be killed just a few miles from his birthplace.
Researching my family tree has not only introduced me to a host of fascinating ancestors, but I’ve discovered a whole new me. So now who do I think I am? Not just a Rippon, but a Whieldon, an Entwistle, a Poynton. An English girl, a Scottish lass, an Irish woman. If you haven’t already delved into your own family’s history, it’s time you got started – you’ll probably be amazed at who you turn out to be.

There's nothing wrong with an "old fashioned" education

I WAS talking to a woman at the bus stop last week. She was concerned about the amount of homework her eight-year-old granddaughter had been given. “Homework? She’s eight – surely she doesn’t have homework?” I queried. And after a bewildering five minutes of key stage this, and Ofsted that, I discovered just how far primary schooling has moved on since I left Dale School, Derby, in 1980.
I was fortunate to have benefited from what even people of my age would consider an old-fashioned education. Our school in Normanton was run under the auspices of the always immaculately turned-out Miss Clarke. She was petite and ladylike and ruled the school with an iron, if perfectly manicured, hand.
While other school heads were embracing modernity, Miss Clarke made sure her boys and girls were brought up the classical way. No trendy educational ideas for her. From the moment the old school handbell was rung on the playground outside, and the chattering crocodiles of more than 500 children filed inside, we were taught on traditional, if occasionally quirky, lines.
Each morning the school, divided into infants and juniors, attended assembly. We entered the halls to the strains of classical music. The composer of the day was clearly displayed at the front, and woe betide anyone who could not read or pronounce his name. From Tchaikovsky and Brahms to Schubert and Liszt, we learned to recognise a huge range of music. Among Miss Clarke’s favourites were loud or stirring pieces, like Grieg’s Morning or Delibes’ Coppelia. It was all about instilling in us enthusiasm, energy and get-up-and-go. And it worked.
And each day there would be a poem to listen to – like Keats’ To Autumn – and always read with an almost fevered relish by Miss Clarke’s ever-jolly colleague, Mrs Smith, her foot tapping out the rhythm of the words. She read all manner of poems from writers as diverse as John Masefield, Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll. We started each morning with a hymn and a prayer, of course, and to my shame my primary school self never questioned what my non-Christian schoolmates thought of that. But I loved it, and I’ve always valued hymns and prayers for their use of language and poetry, as much as for their spiritual content. There was also the element of everyone doing something together, which just seemed to set us up right for the day.
PE lessons at Dale also had an interesting twist. Confined for most of the year to the concrete playgrounds on either side of the school, or in the assembly halls, our sports curriculum relied upon the equipment we had inherited from earlier generations. Indoors there was the usual gym apparatus with poles to twizzle on and rope frames to climb up, monkey bars to swing on and a range of aged benches on which to balance, all of which bore the marks of 75 years of children’s feet bashing and rubbing on them.
When it came to fresh air fun, there was a more exotic choice. Nestled among the skittles and canes, beanbags and hula-hoops were a set of ancient shinty clubs. Now, unless you went to Dale, or lived in the Scottish Highlands, you’re unlikely ever to have encountered that particular sport. It was a forceful and violent Gaelic forerunner to hockey and quite what this set of clubs, which resembled upturned and flattened out walking sticks, were doing in the PE cupboard of a Derbyshire primary school, no-one seemed to know, but under our teachers’ guidance we would, gently of course, tap a plastic ball up and down the playground around the obstacles laid out before us. It probably owed very little to the archaic sport, but it was utterly engrossing nonetheless.
But I think the most valuable lesson that Dale School taught us was the how to mark the passing seasons and seize the moment to appreciate the world around us. No matter how important the lesson we were having, there was always time to abandon it for a morning spent outside studying a frost-encrusted spider’s web, or a bird’s nest. Then it was back inside to write stories and poems inspired by them. It was fun, but it was learning too, and it never seemed like hard work.
I wonder, with all the emphasis, in today’s schools, on homework and breakfast clubs; with lessons in citizenship and technology; with ICT rooms and interactive white boards in most school; with websites, newsletters and class councils to keep pace with - all the undoubtedly wonderful and essential components of modern education – is there still time for our youngsters to experience the more esoteric aspects of life? It would be an awful pity if, amid all that technology and financial investment, they were literally missing out on smelling the roses.