February Short Cuts

Winter Olympics, getting lost, Thunderbirds, Pina Bausch and dreaming of Jacob Elordi

I think there should be a channel featuring children’s commentary on the Winter Olympics. “She’s really good. Even though she’s lying down,” observed my granddaughter (8), watching the women’s luge. True, that!

In the men’s figure skating short programme last week, my favourite was 21-year old Mikhail Shaidorov from Kazakhstan, who looked a bit like Edward Scissorhands (without the scissors). I’m just catching up, having missed out on Olympics telly these past few days, and see that he went on to win gold. A shock victory. Most of his rivals, including hotly-tipped Ilia Malinin from the USA, fell over.

Eventual Olympic gold medallist, Mikhail Shaidorov, in the early stages of the competition. (Screenshot.)

Watching ice-skating on TV as a child prompted me to beg my parents for lessons at Sheffield’s Silver Blades rink. Within a couple of weeks I was proudly skating in a circle on one leg. I could push off backwards. Surely I was on track for Olympic stardom.

My school notes on the 1972 ice skating World Championships, following that year’s Winter Olympics.

My dreams were shattered when someone crashed into me during a public session. I instinctively put out my hand to break my fall and fractured my arm. I switched my attention to ballet after that.

I intended to write about the Winter Olympics last week, but Substack went offline for a while. I took my laptop to London on my Wendy Poppins stint, thinking I might finish while the grandchildren were at school and nursery. No chance. I was zombified, fit only for sorting out toy boxes. I remembered that, when my children were small, whole years went by when I scarcely wrote at all.

(And that is why I didn’t post on Substack last week.)

The wrong turn

If you want to know whether you’re heading in the right direction, ask a three-year old. I got lost taking M to nursery. She’s progressed from the buggy to a sit-on scooter with a handle at the back. It’s a nightmare to steer. I thought I’d found a clever short cut. She protested I was going the wrong way. “This is a different way,” I told her. She gave me a suspicious look and gestured in the opposite direction.

I should have trusted her instincts. When I finally stopped to check the map on my phone, nursery was further away than when we’d set off. I’d taken a left instead of a right. We arrived nearly half an hour late and (the shame!) had to be buzzed in by the front desk. Damp from drizzle and sweat, I muttered an apology about losing my way and realised it must sound like I have dementia. They don’t know I’m only a visitor to these parts.

Thunderbirds are go!

Towards the end of my childminding stint, I took two of the grandchildren to the Museum of Brands (near Ladbroke Grove tube) to see the Gerry Anderson Thunderbirds exhibition (on until April). I’ve mentioned before what a gem this museum is.

I was glued to the TV in the 1960s watching Thunderbirds rescuing people from peril. It enjoyed a resurgence when my daughters were little. My son discovered it in the 00s and now my four-year old grandson is obsessed with it. Our old Tracy Island, which I had to fight other parents for at the toy shop in 1992, is well-worn, unlike the pristine models on display in the cabinets.

Granddaughter, R (aged 3) watched an episode before committing to the museum visit, and was sceptical: “This isn’t for boys and girls.”

“Do you mean there aren’t girls in it? There’s Lady Penelope. She’s cool. But yeah, she probably isn’t in it enough,” said my daughter.

“There need to be ENOUGH girls,” said R.

It’s true that it doesn’t pass the Bechdel Test¹. Maybe there’s an episode where Grandma Tracy and lab assistant Tin-Tin have a chat? Where is Mrs Tracy, I wonder? Was that ever explained? Did she die of exhaustion from having her five sons?

Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward (voiced by Sylvia Anderson) was International Rescue’s London agent.

Pina Bausch

I met up with Ian and we headed to Sadler’s Wells to see Tanztheater Wuppertal in Pina Bausch’s Sweet Mambo (a thoughtful birthday present to him from one of our daughters). He found it “baffling but dynamic”.

It was German choreographer Pina Bausch’s penultimate ballet, created a year before her death from cancer in 2009, aged 68. Some of the original dancers have reprised their roles so, even more than when it was first performed, it is partly about ageing. The oldest dancer on stage, Nazareth Panadero, is now 73 and is a commanding presence.

Giant billowing cloths swirl from the wings, taking on a character of their own as they confront or envelop the dancers.

The ballet’s humour didn’t quite work for me, but the more dramatic scenes did. The theme seemed to be about power dynamics in relationships. “JULIE!” calls a male voice repeatedly off-stage. Julie tries to run towards the voice, but is thwarted by other men who repeatedly lift her back to where she started each time she attempts to escape. Later, she runs towards the voice, gasping, but is blocked by men carrying a table that she crumples under each time it collides with her.

“Julie” is dancer Julie Anne Stanzak, aged 66, and it’s wonderful to see her move with such strength, elegance and intensity.

Programme cover, featuring Julie Anne Stanzak. (Photo by Karl-Henz Krauskopf.)

Wuthering Heights: my verdict

There are echoes of that desperation in Wuthering Heights, when Heathcliff calls out for Cathy. Since I wrote about my early Wuthering Heights obsession a couple of weeks ago, I’ve been rereading Emily Brontë’s novel and am as engrossed as when I first read it aged 11. I also recently re-watched Andrea Arnold’s 2010 version of the film. Arnold’s treatment is fittingly atmospheric in its depiction of rain-soaked moors, but lacks any chemistry between adult Cathy and Heathcliff. I simply didn’t buy their mutual fixation.

By contrast, Emerald Fennell’s unconventionally modern/gothic version of Wuthering Heights, in cinemas now, reinstates the chemistry between the adult protagonists (Cathy played by Margot Robbie, Heathcliff by Jacob Elordi). I believed in their tempestuous, destructive connection, and enjoyed the film on its own terms. Is it totally faithful to the novel? No. (That’s why Fennell adds quote marks around the title.) Does that matter? I’d say not. The cinema last night was mostly full. The audience mostly female. While film critics have marked it down, friends’ verdicts have been more enthusiastic: “Flawed but fabulous.”

I dreamed of Jacob Elordi last night. Which was nice. I owned up to that on our family WhatsApp chat and Ian replied with a “Phwoar!” alongside this image of Elordi as the creature in Guillermo del Toro’s 2025 movie, Frankenstein.

He may laugh, but ironically, it was Elordi’s sensitive portrayal of the creature that made me think he’d do just fine as Heathcliff!

40th anniversary thanks

There was a fantastic response to my piece, Before I Met My Match, about what led up to me meeting Ian on a blind date in February 1986. Thanks to everyone who’s read, commented on and/or shared it.

Of course, we couldn’t let our 40^th anniversary pass without re-watching Desperately Seeking Susan, the 1985 film that inspired me to place a lonely hearts ad in the first place.

It’s still a delight: sharp, pacey, funny, with great performances from Rosanna Arquette and Madonna, and of course now saturated in 1980s nostalgia. In the minor roles, I love Laurie Metcalfe as Roberta’s acerbic sister-in-law, Leslie. I’d forgotten that John Turturro is the sleazy compere in the magic club and comedian Steven Wright is Leslie’s laconic dentist date, Larry. What a joy.

And on Sunday, while in London, we sought out La Porchetta Pollo Bar on Old Compton Street. Ian and I ate there on our first date forty years ago. It’s still going strong, a family-run business, selling much the same hearty and delicious good value Italian food that I remember. Recommended if you’re in London’s Soho.

A fun read

Fiona Gibson, writing about lax parental attitudes to health and safety in the 1970s, made me wonder whether it was just her and me who were allowed to play with the mercury from a broken thermometer as children. I suspect not! Read her piece here: I Survived the 1970s.

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Until next time!

1. A barometer for female representation in film in which two named women need to have a conversation about something other than a man.