The descent begins...

I have the most astonishing bruises on my thighs – crimson, green and purple swirls so decorative they rival my hubla’s many tattoos.

Yesterday I was in Italy, coming to the end of a four day trip to Brescia, Lombardy. The representative from the tourist office took me to see the castle of Brescia and we arrived just as an excited group of people turned up to take one of their special speleological tours beneath the edifice.

I asked to take photos of them as they prepared to descend down a narrow hole like a well, and as I snapped away I must have looked suitably envious, as the organisers soon had me strapped into a harness and being lowered into the castle’s underbelly!

Caving was once a favourite pastime of my sister’s but I’ve never tried it before. Roberta Possi, one of the key volunteer speologists who guide the groups, lead me through a few caves into a vast cavern where stalactites reached spindly fingers towards the floor and our head-lamps illuminated the pale gleaming rock walls.

“Grande,” I breathed.

“Grandissimo,” she agreed, beaming.

Then it was time for me to ascend, and that’s when the real challenge began. The last time I climbed a rope ladder was when I was a small child, and that one was around three metres long and led into the branches of our tree-house.

The rope ladder I had to climb out of the castle’s underbelly was a cold metal and mud-covered 13-metre endurance test. As I was wearing my smartest jeans and best leather boots (with no grips whatsoever – well, I thought I was going for a genteel stroll around Italy!), every rung was a struggle but I finally made it to the top, mud-splattered, with cuts on my hands, and a smile on my face.

In the face of an opportunity for an unexpected adventure, who would say no? My jeans will recover, and so, given time, will my thighs.

© Marcel Iordan

It’s been a weekend of wind, rain and art. As the gales whipped the deluge into stinging, lashing whips, the artists in my neighbourhood opened their houses up to the public.

Outside each home a pile of sodden brollies lay heaped like broken flowers; an abstract sculpture, while we trod patterns of water into carpets and across bare floorboards.

From the walls hung colourfully painted canvas blocks, or shelves of lovingly stitched and knitted skulls, paper beetles, necklaces strung with buttons, and, in one extraordinary living room, large statues made from carefully selected rocks, pinned together to exude movement in the guise of people dancing, horse-riding, balancing on a single stone hand.

Art trails are among the best treasure hunts of our age, taking us into private homes to catch glimpses of private lives. The artists who sell well are the savvy ones, the friendly ones, who understand the value of a few smaller, cheaper wares and a warm smile. When I find I like the artist as an individual, I find myself yearning to buy their most glorious works, regardless of price.

But the ones who imprinted themselves on my mind are those who embodied their art in some way. I’ll never forget the kitchen and living room transformed into an exuberant 1950’s teashop, selling extravagantly decorated cupcakes and oodles of atmosphere sold by ladies in vintage print dresses and wigs crammed with pink curlers. We bought jam from them and birthday cards, and paused to eat cake in a noisy, cosy corner.

Likewise, I’ll remember the photographer who had managed to capture an underground car park in such a way that each shot transformed it into a scene of serenity, light and beauty.

People who view the world differently should be celebrated, and if they can share that view of the world, so much the better.

So, the most legendary blogger since blogging began has been unmasked, and it turns out she epitomises brains as well as beauty.

We knew she had to be smart. Nobody could write a blog so intriguing it would be transformed into three lucrative book deals, then a television drama (with Billie Piper playing the lead role and shown in 25 countries) and not have an impressive mind. But a scientist?

It isn’t unusual to find doctors and scientists supporting themselves through the long years of study with some rather dubious activities, but I don’t think any others did it with the finesse of Belle du Jour.

Bristol-based research scientist Brooke Magnanti has confessed all to The Sunday Times (note: not one of the tabloids, not even the Sun, but one of the major broadsheets!)

The steamy encounters that turned into some of the most compelling viewing of the past few years began as a means to make money while she wrote her PhD.

To cope with the stress of being a high-class call-girl, in 2003 Brooke began writing the blog that led to the 2005 publication of best-selling book The Intimate Adventures of a London call Girl.

Now the debates over her true identity and over whether her memoirs were genuine or not, have been answered by the 34 research scientist who works in developmental neurotoxicology and cancer epidemiology at St Michael’s Hospital in Bristol.

On Sunday she wrote in her blog how happy she was to be out in the open and stated how important the anonymity of the blog was to begin with, allowing her the freedom to be utterly honest about everything other than her name.

I think coming forward was a brave and rather wonderful thing - now we know who she is, people might realise that the women they see on the street and in strip clubs are more than meat on a platter - they could be on the way to discovering the cure for cancer.

© Richard Mallinson

Last Tuesday I joined a scriptwriting group held at a local pub. Scriptwriting is a medium I’ve never tried before, but I’m always looking for new writing challenges.  I’m currently writing a short story that seems to be morphing into a script, so I thought it would be a good idea to find out more about the art before I attempt to tackle it for real.

The thing about scriptwriting, as opposed to many kinds of writing, is that many of the people who end up doing it aren’t writers at heart. Often they’re people who want to act or direct. It’s also relatively social form of the sector – you may write alone, but then you might redraft and revise in the company of actors, directors, producers, or even, if you work in TV, be part of a team of writers. So much for writing being solitary!

When I interviewed Mark Ravenhill about it, he commented that he became a writer by default – he wanted to be a director. And he also said that one of the major challenges is that “to work in the theatre, you have to be a person who enjoys collaborating with others, who enjoys working as part of a group. But writing is a solo experience. I don’t like that. I get it over with as quickly as possible.”

I think I have two sides to my personality – I need my own space to write and create, then I need to get out there and talk to be people to drive me forward, keep me inspired.

The scriptwriting group proved to serve the latter part enormously well, as we all gathered together in a room upstairs, and one writer handed out her script for us to read through. Anyone who was willing was allocated parts and I ended up with four small roles, which scared me slightly until I got into it and remembered how much I’d enjoyed acting as a child.

The script was really interesting, and after we’d read out the first episode of the writer’s eight-episode TV series, the critiquing began. I felt like taking notes. Some comments seemed harsh, but all were useful, making this as valuable, if not more so, than any scriptwriting course.

I can’t wait till next week to see what more I can learn – and what role I’ll get to play…

Last night I took a trip down to my local cinema to watch the Michael Jackson documentary This Is It. Pieced together from footage taken during planning and rehearsals for his planned come-back tour.

The film has made already made motion picture history as the highest grossing concert film of all time, no doubt helped by his death earlier this year and the morbid fascination of people like, um, me…

I grew up in a time when Michael Jackson was still considered cool and not yet particularly creepy. The dance moves to Thriller were even taught in PE classes at my school. Back then my sister had a bedroom covered with his posters, so I wasn’t surprised when she asked me if I wanted to go and see the film with her.

And I was happy enough to go along. As the years have ticked by, the man may have become a bit of an oddity, but he remained a talented oddity right up to his death – a showman whose dance moves and distinctive singing voice had been honed through a painstaking perfectionism that shone out throughout the documentary.

The other thing that shone out, rather bleakly, was how desperately lonely he was. Not one of the countless people in his inner circle treated him as an equal. To most he was a God, awe-inspiring and adored, but not loved in any real way. There’s a definite difference between being lauded and loved, but I really don’t think Michael Jackson had experienced enough of the latter to recognise that the adulation he received from his team wasn’t it. He didn’t even seem aware he was surrounded by sycophants. But, that said, perhaps ignorance really is bliss, or kinder than reality anyway.

The film was an homage to a man who never found the love he sought, and didn’t even know it. This Is It? Really? I think it could just as easily have been called Sycophantasia, though I’m not sure whether Michael would have been the magician or the apprentice…

Last Saturday, October 31st, I meandered into town, minding my own business, and got caught up in a cloud of zombies. What’s the collective term for zombies? A herd, a flock, a gaggle, a stagger? Yes, a stagger seems right.

Their bodies disjointed, hung from some unseen string that harpooned a shoulder, a hip, for the ultimate lopsided gait, blood-stained flesh tinged an unseemly green, mouths agape uttering haunting moans, they made their way from the town centre to the shopping district, lunging at passerbys and thrilling and chilling in turn.

Doctor zombies carried dripping limbs and saws, chef zombies wielded menacing whisks, bride zombies in shredded gowns dragged more blood in their trains while the most fearful zombies of all, toddler zombies, had the staggering down pat.

Normally rational people flinched away from their reaching, wavering hands, staring with amazement and alarm, then one voice rang out. “Get a job!”

Interesting thought. Can someone who isn’t actually living make a living? Does a cemetery counts as a home address? And what kind of job would they be best suited to? Working in a creche might be a no-no, as might the city farm (too many succulent piglets to suck on). Their taste in clothing is distinctly of the soiled and stained rags variety, while the blood on their hands would ruin the wares of any fashionable boutique. No, I’ve got it, they could work in MacDonalds. The only thing is, you might end up with a few unspecified bits of meat in your burger, and don’t expect service with a smile.