Henley Literary Festival

Last week I volunteered at the Henley Literary Festival. From Wednesday to Sunday I worked at the largest venue of the festival, as a venue supervisor and stage manager. Every time a guest speaker arrived at the venue I had to set them up with a microphone and then make sure we started the talk on time. I honestly had the best time ever. I got to stand back stage during all the talks and watch, I got to meet some amazing people, and the theatre gave me cake and ice cream. Amazing.

The week was pretty hectic, and I got to meet some people who I never thought my path would cross with. Here are some of the highlights.

Thursday was the big one. All the events were ridiculously close together, so myself and the front of house volunteer, the ever entertaining and amazing Becca, had to make sure everything started and finished bang on time and that nothing went wrong. The day culminated with Emma Freud interviewing Sarah Brown. I was really looking forward to this event. Not only because Sarah Brown was at one stage, one of the most influential women in the country, but also because Emma Freud had replied to one of my tweets (I felt momentarily famous - lame, but true). Sarah Brown lived up to expectation, and was really fascinating. It was so interesting to hear all about how Number Ten runs as a home, but also because she had to over come her own personal stumbling blocks in order to embrace her new found status, and she did so with dignity and a sense of real respect for her position, which she didn't seem to exploit in any way.

On Friday morning I went to see Esther Frued. Held at the ridiculously idyllic Phyllis Court (the place is wasted on the loaded oldies who reside there!)and hosted by Emma Freud. Esther spoke of how she was always brought up not to capitalise on the achievements of others and to make her own name, not live by the name you've inherited (least i think that was what she said). Obviously the only famous Lovejoy I have is the tannin skinned antiques dealer off the telly, so other than the comedy value of people asking if Lovejoy (or weirdly, Ian McShane) is my dad, I don't really have anything to exploit, but it got me thinking all the same.
The rest of the day is a bit of a blur, until the Mark Billingham and David Morrissey event. Now I have admired David Morrissey's work on tv, but I have never really thought of him as being attractive. My god was I wrong. I saw him at the Esther Freud event, as he is Esther's husband, and I realised that he is ridiculously good looking. I didn't really connect that with the fact that I was going to have to meet him and speak to him later. Which is why I completely freaked out about ten minutes before he and Mark were set to arrive. I accidentally ate a tuna sandwich and a packet of cheese and onion crisps. I have a slightly masochistic relationship with Cheese and Onion crisps - I can't stand them but for some reason I have to eat them. Anyway, I appreciate that I wasn't going on a date with the man, but SERIOUSLY. Then when he did arrive, and I saw that he was even more attractive up close, I made a bit of a tit of myself. I had to attach a radio mic to his shirt and the back of his belt. To do this it is best to put the mic up the persons shirt. David proceeded to un-tuck his shirt and put the microphone up there himself (thank god) and then in order to tuck his shirt back in he casually undid his trousers. And I stood there clutching the other end of the microphone cord, literally just staring at the handsome man's crotch. Just staring. Staring staring and then some more staring. And I carried on staring, until a voice in my head literally hissed 'LOVEJOY! STOP STARING. YOU'RE BEING WEIRD". So. Not. Cool.

The highlight of Saturday was the last even which featured Eleanor Bron and Simon Russell Beale reading from Craig Browns book. We had been warned that this all could be tricky, but they all seemed nice, and Craig Brown didn't even seem to mind my minor melt down backstage (this was only due to me having to use the stage curtains..not a biggie obviously, but in Lovejoy land I was convinced that I would do it wrong and I would take out Eleanor Bron with a runaway curtain). The event was really brilliant, and Simon Russell Beale's impression of Noel Coward was aces.

Sunday was Larry Lamb day. Pretty much what I had been looking forward to all week. He is a bit of a silver fox. I managed to get Harriet (HLF event organiser) to take my picture with him, and afterwards he signed a book for my mum. I was totally chuffed for the rest of the day.

So that concludes my highlights of the festival. During the five days of HLF I had to shove my hand down the back of Rachel Johnson's dress, rummage around inside the front of a number of prominent author's shirts and caught a glimpse of David Morrissey's pants. Not your typical week in the Sara Lovejoy calander, but all in all a pretty good one.

End of the Road

Last weekend we went to the End of the Road...which is not some kind of wordy metaphor for the end of life, world and universe as we know it, but instead a festival at Larmar Tree Gardens in Dorset.

The gang consisted of me, Soph, Emily, John (or Johnnie as he was known for the weekend), Evie and Ophelia. Ophelia is 2 and a half and pretty much rocks like no one else I know.

We hired two caravans for the weekend, and camped like we were in the 50's - both the 1950's and like old folk over the age of 50 if truth be told. Cooking on a gas stove when the flame keeps going out kind of keeps you on your toes and makes cooking sausages or boiling the kettle take a life time.

We got there on thursday afternoon and once we'd unpacked and delighted in the cute compactness of the caravans (a novelty which wore off by the end of the second day) we headed off to the main arena for a gander.

End of the Road is not like any of the other festivals I have been too. Firstly it is quite small and there are no big name brands or stalls trying to sell you crap you don't need - aside from the kitch stall which sold mexican hats and ponchos, which lots of people seemed to buy, and why not as what other excuse does one have for wearing a sombrero while you sup your warm cider.

It was similar I guess to camp bestival, but much much nicer. There was a secret garden, an area for ping pong and connect four, a library, a secret disco and a random piano in the woods for late night musicality.

There were lots of bands I saw and loved - though to be honest I just kind of drifted about a bit at first, not really sure who I wanted to see. Allo Darlin were aces in the Tipi tent on thursday night. Caught the end of Elliott Brood who was lovely and think might be a future favourite. Kath Bloom was a real treat - she has a song on one of my most loved films, Before Sunrise, which she recorded many many years ago, and it was very lovely to hear her sing it in the real flesh. Yo La Tengo were something extra ordinary. I was really excited about seeing them and they didn't disappoint. They were epic in their quirky lunacy, reminiscent of the violent femmes but darker and more quietly insane. Iron and Wine was a bit special and lovely, Adam Green was disappointing but still kind of fun. The Felice Brothers were amazing and are now my new crush, and it was ace to see them do a secret set in the tipi tent on the last night.

Other highlights were the secret disco with Ophelia busting some amazing moves, putting the rest of the hipster crowd to shame, and she did it while looking super cool in her onesie pyjama suit. The DJ was formerly of Alfie, though not really sure if Alfie are actually still going. Anyway, he was hot and played some amazing records.

End of the Road was the place of the beard. Men everywhere sporting all kinds of facial hair and I have to say, having never been a fan before, I quite liked it. I have in the past gone out with boys who have struggled to grow a beard, and once they did they resembled more of an angry squirrel than a sexy masculine folky type, so I dismissed it as something I wasn't into. But now give me a man with a soft beard, a waistcoat and a pair of braces, who is partial to the banjo and the accordion and I will be a happy camper from here on in.

All in all a good weekend, and I am hoping that the gang will be back together for another trip to the lovely Dorset for more folk fun next year.

The Boy

The Boy looked at The Girl and thought that she just wouldn’t do, so while she smiled at him, he turned around and faced the other way. A time passed, and the boy realised his mistake. So he turned to face her again, but a funny thing had happened. When his back turned his time faltered. He was standing watching The Girl as she fumbled and bumbled in her own special way, but it was as though every hour that passed for her was really a year for him, and he was getting older and older, dustier and dustier, but she stayed the same. She couldn’t see him and he missed her. His playmate wasn’t his anymore and he had a Girl shaped hole in his being. He watched her and realised that he had been a fool. Then suddenly The Girl looked right at him, like she hadn’t done for hours or years, and she saw him, The Boy, who had turned into The Man, who had then withered into The Old Man, and didn’t know who he was. She passed him by without a second thought, and The Old Man fell silent with utter, devastating pain.

meerkat's for the garden-hello! genius

The guardian just referred to the meerkat family gnome type ornaments with a derogatory tone. I however, think they are genius, though they have slightly crazy eyes. If i had my own garden i would probably buy them. This scares me a little as I spent some time at my dad's house the other weekend, and observed their slightly horrendous penchant for displaying garden gnomes minus any kind of irony. Hope I'm not heading in the same direction! It was quite funny though when dad accidentally knocked the 'Sleepy Dwarf' gnome face first into the ornamental pond. The little fella died an undignified death.Scared the fishes too.

Just found out that my mum reads and some times cuts out and keeps, my ex boyf's column in the Times. Weird. It's odd though. Literally do not miss the guy at all but miss having someone to talk to like we did. Since we broke up, not really had any really great conversations or properly had my head stretched since. Kinda sad, but as i said really don't miss the guy, especially not his snoring.

Patti Smith at The Oxford Literary Festival

Yesterday I went to Oxford to hear Patti Smith talk about her new book, Just Kids, at the Oxford Lit Festival. The talk was held in a marquee in the grounds of Christ Church College, which is where Lewis Carroll invented Alice and the March Hare. It's a really beautiful place, and if it hadn't been pouring with rain I'd've liked to have a look around.
The marquee was packed with a really huge mix of people. A couple of kids in their early teens were surrounded by students in their grandma chic coats, and the literary set in their wax coats and red scarves. Everyone, as at every Patti event, looked really happy to be there, and there was a palpable air of excitement when the woman herself wondered into the room and up to the stage.
Dave Friedman was the host, and was a bit like an embarrassing uncle who tries to talk about his love of hendrix and the velvet underground, as though he were still cool 40 years on, while wearing one of those weirdly loose leather jackets which makes him look more like Ian McShane as Lovejoy rather than a bonafide Ramones fan. Anyway, that's just my prejudice.
Patti has this weirdly droning voice, which is punctuated by proper American New Jersey twangs, which makes her sound cute and fierce in equal measures. Either way she is utterly compelling and not a aged rocker could be heard fidgeting in the room while she was telling us a story from her book. Honestly, it would be great to just have her over for tea by the fire and get her to tell you one of her unbelievably cool stories. A man in the audience asked who the coolest person she'd ever met was (and remember that this woman lived at THE Chelsea Hotel, with people like Janis Joplin, hung out with Gingsberg after he mistook her for a boy and bought her a sandwich, and got to record at the studio Hendrix built)..she answered without a pause that William Burrough's was by far the coolest, even cooler than Bob Dylan, who is after all pretty cool. Her humor is kind of unexpected but really great and she manages to be ordinary and amazing all at the same time.
A girl of 13 asked Patti if she had any advice for her, and her response in all seriousness was to make sure she looks after her teeth. Someone then asked if she could sing us a song, to which she agreed and while they were setting up the microphone Patti wondered into the audience. I took a picture of her, like a loser fan, but who cares, and she walked along collecting gifts. She joked that if she walked through the whole audience she might become a millionaire with all the presents being thrown at her, and then asked if anyone had a cottage in Devon she could use...to which someone piped up that they did and it was hers if she wanted it.
She rambled back to the stage and sang two songs, and then thanked everyone for coming...after apologising for talking so much about her self. I think everyone there could've stayed for a few more days listening to her talk about herself, but it was time to wonder back out into the rain and go home.

spike jonze..i'm here..i love

http://www.imheremovie.com/

i literally have fallen in love...this movie is so sweet and lovely that it made my day feel betterer. and i really like andrew garfield even as a robot.

one year on, almost to the day and nothing has changed. think it might nearly be time to close this site down and disappear for a while, as some stuff needs,lots of stuff needs, removing and other stuff needs to be forgotten,like it didn't happen and doesn't exist.