Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday!

I conquered and survived my trip to Liverpool but it didn’t last very long. That’s because my mother got the Airbnb dates mixed up. There we sat on Friday morning, day two of the trip, watching TV with a cup of tea, yet another Christmas film before we set off to get the big red bus to Penny Lane and other notorious sites. 

That’s The Spirit

My mother starts watching Christmas films in September and we all take the rise out of her for doing so. But, it turns out, that Christmas films have a surprisingly addictive quality. There you are scoffing at the start of one, watching it just to bide your time, and before you know it you’re fully invested and imbued with the spirit of magical fantasy. Before you can scoop your sorry arse off the sofa you are now sailing through the next one trying to predict the very predictable ending. Because each and every one of them is the same. 

They all start with a woman who has either lost her job or split up with a boyfriend. She leaves the manic city to start a new job and/or gets stranded and arrives in a beautiful rural American town that is the embodiment of Christmas. The little town is full of snow, tinsel and Christmas cookies and everybody is as nice as Disney. Naturally, the woman meets a man there who is much like Captain America, but he rubs her up the wrong way (No! Not like that!) Already you know this is going to be “The One” by the end of the film. She ends up doing something spectacular to save the town and he ends up knocking on her door on Christmas Eve, or bumping into her, apologising profusely for his behaviour and begging her to stay with him forever in his ranch cabin worth at least a few million with his pet dog who also loves her relentlessly.

All the way through these films I imagine how much fun it would be to make a dark and twisted version where it all goes horribly wrong.

Falalalalalalalala!

I was just describing how I would re-write the film we were watching when suddenly there was a ferocious knock at the door. Let me first explain this house my mother had rented: it was very tall and very thin. Basically, a cut-up Georgian building made into two houses. The kitchen was downstairs, the living room another flight up. Another flight to a landing. The next flight took you to my mother’s room and the flight after that took me gasping, panting and begging for a quick death to my room. Let me tell you that when I came downstairs and realised I’d left my phone charger in my bedroom I very nearly burst into tears. 

So, the loud knocking came from underneath where we were sitting but since the property consisted mainly of stairs you could hang over the bannister and shout, “Hello, who is it?”

Turned out it was the man who owned the gaff and he wondered why we were still here because we should have left. As in actually left for good. My mother tried to convince him otherwise, insisting she had rented it for longer. Of course, she was wrong and we got evicted. The next hour was spent racing around and packing up so the cleaners could get in. Packing and carting things down the very many stairs. I had to ring my mother’s current husband and inform him of the news as he was out having a flu jab and she didn’t dare. 

“You know last night when I said, ‘That’s so my mum though,’” I said over the phone.

“Yeah…”

“Well, this is one of those moments. We’ve just been evicted so you’d better come home. We gotta get a shift on.”

It was hours before he could look at her never mind talk to her again.

Another Place

The only thing I really wanted to see was a load of iron men standing on a beach. This sort of madness appeals to me much like cast iron manhole covers do. 

We hadn’t been there yet so I begged to see them before I set off home. After a long and blustery walk to the seafront, I witnessed the iron sculptures by Antony Gormley on Crosby beach. Based on his own naked body (bit narcissistic) the figures are revealed and submerged as the tide ebbs and flows. I must say I found them rather fabulous.

Sand By Me

My Corrosion

 If I could have picked one up and taken it home I would have. Just so I could dress him up for seasonal holidays and upset the postman.