Frank Sidebottom & me

I've been reading the obituaries and memorials to Frank Sidebottom. Aside from the fact that since I turned 40 earlier this year, I have become obsessed somewhat with my own mortality, I have a personal interest: I think I once kissed him.

Now, anyone who has 'lived' can claim to have kissed or shagged a celebrity, I know this. And the event itself was unremarkable enough for me to forget it, until now.

It happened half a lifetime ago, in the Sugarmine, the Bournemouth University student venue. Picture a dark, smoky dancefloor, a buxom goth with lots of hair and a little unsteady on her feet after Happy Hour, and a proposition from a man who whispered in her ear that he was Frank Sidebottom.

In retrospect it is a WTF moment; but I accepted his proposition and snogged him. Not because he was allegedly Frank Sidebottom, trust me when I say papier mache is not my kink. Partly it was the kindred Northern accent, also it was the alcohol, and the fact I like snogging, and he'd been bold enough to ask.

His obituaries are poignant, human, touching, as they should be. As a reporter I have loved writing obits, speaking to families about their loved ones, gently touching and trying to portray the connections between people that last beyond death, what else remains when ashes are the only visible remains.

Obituaries are also a tool by which we can examine our lives: what trace do we leave, who will miss us, what did we contribute, what did we achieve, and did we achieve our dreams?

The last is a question rarely asked by a reporter to a grieving family. At least, I never asked it. It's an uncomfortable concept: did your husband die happy, or was he unfulfilled? Were there times in your wife's life that she expressed a keen desire to do something, but didn't manage it? How did they feel about that? How do you feel about that?

Frank's death and ensuing trip down memory lane reminds me of my younger self, the one with ambitions that middle-age and the fear of mortality delivered a kick to. He's a fine example of someone who made something unique and lived his dream, too. Presumably.

Writing, and the Perfect Day

After-dinner. Go back to the study, turn on the music and write like a bastard, because I'm awake now

This is AL Kennedy writing in the Guardian about her perfect day for writing. As I read it, laughing, I was aware - as AL pointed out - that there are so few writers I can imagine experiencing this.

AL's ideal of a perfect day is to pamper body and mind, waking up from idyllic slumber and easing herself into creativity over a period of hours.

Inspiration creeps upon her ninja-style so she ends up within an almost orgasmic whirl of creativity before it vanishes. Hence the 'write like a bastard'. That's the same as 'make hay while the sun shines', though how frenzied and passionate farmers become when they're bailing, I don't know.

Anyone who has ever worked for an employer, in what we might call a 'normal job', knows that productivity needs deadlines. As a former journalist, who sometimes had up to six deadlines an hour, I can manage my time very-well-thank-you.

I catch myself in a guilty eyeshift. But my procrastination isn't all my fault, honest.

My ideal workday would involve being in a quiet house, a clean one too, actually. But it's not just external clutter that gets in the way of creation.

These are my notes to myself about my workday:

1. Ignore the general filthy and untidy state of the house. The others you live with make the mess, so they must like it, even if you don't.
2. Don't worry about the teenager and all his woes. Be a supportive, good enough mother. If he's clean and fed and on time for school, by 14 the rest is up to him. The same basic rules apply to the husband.
3. If the cats bring home the rodents and birds to play with in front of the patio window, that's just nature - and they're sharing their success with you. Close the door to the noises though, unless you're writing about torture, murder and decapitation.
4. The dog is a princess and pouts at everything. She's not lonely/dying of a broken heart/bored.
5. Do not open any email pertaining to roleplaying. You can look at the title of it if you must, but know that the game will not combust without you.

However. The washing up, the laundry, the shopping, these still all need to be factored in. Just NEVER AT THE EXPENSE OF A GOOD PARAGRAPH.

Still, I long for a study, like AL has. To fester in my own tidiness, to listen to my own music, to not be asked a zillion questions a minute when everyone gets home ... I'm quite sure I'd have something close to a perfect day every day.