Revisiting – I’m arriving on a jet plane, eventually

August 8, 2023August 8, 2023 ee grant1 Comment

This is the email I sent to Wittertainment, (Edited to say, they’ve now moved from the BBC to their own podcast called Kermode and Mayo’s Take) but it didn’t get read out. It’s an overview of the flight from Melbourne to London that started on 24 March 2017. I’m not going to re-type it, so sorry, (not sorry), for the in-jokes and Witter vernacular…

Dear Captain Kramer and Captain Oveur,

I get to watch your bad selves on the live stream this week, for the first time evs. because as much as I love you and Jason, I ain’t getting up at that time of night in Australia. I’ve been listening to you since Radio 1, and Viggo Mortensen answered a question of mine in an interview.

Thank you for keeping me sane over the past few days. I’d stockpiled some podcasts and redownloaded, (is that is a word??) some old favourites for my trip back to the UK from Melbourne. When it all got too much, your witterings, bickerings, dulcet tones and the rants kept me grounded (hysterical laughter).

On Friday night, my husband, son and I had dinner at Melbourne’s Airplane Station. The boys went home and I checked in to fly to the UK for my brother’s 40th. After a busy week, which included Adele’s concert on the Sunday night, I was shattered and fell asleep straight after take-off. I woke up after ten hours (unheard of) and watched La La Land; the enjoyment of which was somewhat disrupted by rather a lot of cabin announcements.

What happened on the journey is either a farce, or a Monty Python sketch, I’m still working it out what comedy genre it fits into. However, in terms of flight bingo, does this clear the board?

Late departure by half an hour.
Approaching Dubai, our Captain excitedly explains “It’s very unusual not to be put in a hold pattern at Dubai, but we’re number three in the queue!”
“We’re being put in a hold pattern”
“The weather at Dubai is terrible, we’ll circle for a while”
Two hours later, “We can’t keep circling, we’re running out of fuel, we’re checking our options”
Diverted to Muscat in Oman.
We circle around Muscat for another hour.
We get a bird strike on our way to land in Muscat. They’re also still building the new airplane station. The A380 that we’re on is much bigger than the planes they normally see. The pilot edges us around buildings carefully, construction workers are taking pictures on their phones and watching in awe.
On the tarmac in Muscat for three hours, “While we’ve been refuelled; we can’t take off until we know we can land in Dubai, and the weather is too bad.”
“Now the weather is heading towards Muscat.”
“The crew have run out of hours.”
“There’s a replacement crew coming in on a private jet.”
“We’ve got to cancel the flight. We’re going to deplane you, put you in hotels overnight, to come back here in the morning.” We all pile off the plane, onto buses to the old terminal. As we’re heading down the stairs, the Captain explains that 30-odd flights had been diverted to Muscat’s airplane station.
We get into the terminal, are directed upstairs to the arrivals lounge, then get asked to go back downstairs. We need to complete visa paperwork, to leave the airport, to go to the hotels. One man begins to hands out carbon paper copies to 400+ passengers, we run out of forms.
We wait for more forms.
We wait for a bit more, as we don’t know where we’re staying so we can’t complete the forms.
We have forms.
We wait for our stamps at immigration.
We wait for a bit more. The staff were great, just completely overwhelmed with the amount of people.
We have stamps.
We wait for buses.
Nearly eight hours after landing at Muscat, I’m put on the last bus.
Arrive at the hotel to be met by an amazing Manager, who assesses the bedraggled state we’re in “Some of you check in now, some check in later. Lunch is all ready and waiting” (it is nearly 5pm). I’ve not eaten since the last meal serving on the flight, which was about 6am – I’m coeliac – all the snacks on board have gluten in, I could have eaten my arm off.
The next morning we get told we’re being collected at 2pm from our hotels to fly out at 5:30pm.
A whistle-stop tour of Muscat is arranged through the front desk, including a visit to the Grand Mosque, which was stunning. While we’re out and about, my flight to the UK is confirmed for 9am the following day – I’m being put up in a hotel again in Dubai overnight.
2pm we’re collected in a bus, head back to the airport. All our boarding passes have been printed A-Z by surname, we rattle through collecting them and head to the gate.
4:30pm we start getting on the plane, again being bused out as we’re miles away from the terminal. The Captain has his window open and is hanging out waving and posing for selfies. People are standing on the tarmac taking pictures.
6ish we take off and head back to Dubai.
We land and are advised to head to the transit desk to sort out our flight details. There’s 400+ passengers, all waiting for boarding passes, individually printed off with connecting information on. More by luck than judgement, I’m in the right place at the right time and hear London Heathrow being called; my hotel booking is written on my boarding pass.
Head up to the hotel in the airport, we’ve all been booked on the same reference number, that the hotel staff have no record of.
We wait for a bit more.
An hour later, I have a room! My meal voucher is also given to me, it’s now 9pm, I’ve not eaten since lunch. But I have to get a train to another terminal to eat. I’m now in sense of humour failure.
I head back to the hotel room, have a shower and fall into bed.
Up with my alarm, I collect another meal voucher for breakfast, this time I can walk there.
I find the gate for the flight, we’re boarding – yay timing!
I go downstairs to wait a bit more in another lounge. I might have another sense of humour failure.
On the plane, I put on Singin’ In The Rain [Oi kaan’t stand it], raise a glass to the venerable Debbie Reynolds and suffer uncontrollable AALS and guffaw through my tears.
“Is there a doctor on board?” We have a medical emergency on the flight.
We get closer to Heathrow, we are told we’re landing without going into the usual holding pattern. We come screaming into Heathrow, to be met by ambulance, a mere seventy-two hours after we left Melbourne.
When we get to the baggage hall – you know where this is going already – they’ve lost our bags too.
And I’m Not Even Joking.

Tinkerty tonk old fruits. x

Fade In

June 7, 2023June 7, 2023 ee grant1 Comment

You may have seen my Instagram post yesterday about me adapting my novel One Last Hundred Chances to a screenplay. I’m working on it very early each morning, or very late each night, sometimes both.

I’m in a coaching program at the moment, we were asked to choose a project for a 30-day project sprint. Every time I asked myself what I needed to do for the project, I came up with the same answer. I had to adapt the book. There was no way around, or about, it. I had to go through it, one scene at a time.

I’m not going to lie, holding the stories in my head the first time was hard. I was worried if I’d be strong enough to do it all again, intimate partner violence isn’t the most light-hearted of things to articulate. But, I kept coming back to the people that shared their stories, the reason why they shared their red flags with me in the first place.

“I want people to see what I should have seen happening.”

The book was for Erika, who’d have been cross if I didn’t finish the book, but the adapted screenplay is for the survivors. I don’t know what will happen to it, my aim at the end of the project sprint is to simply to share with people I know who work in TV and movies and ask, “Do I have something here?”

I’m re-writing, pulling the story apart and re-building it. I’m learning from the mistakes I made in the book and finding my voice louder than ever before. I was so proud of the book, but already I’m glowing from the work I’ve put into adapting the screenplay and I’m a way to go yet.

When you’re ready to leave

I want other people to hear something Ronnie says to Hazel and think, “That sounds familiar”.

I need people to see Ronnie losing his shit over a cup of coffee; or to watch Hazel being persistently worn down so insidiously, she doesn’t realise what is happening.

I really need people to see that even if you ask someone who’s hurting you to leave, they won’t. They will twist and turn the words you use against you, until you don’t know whether you’re coming or going.

I really want people to understand that it can take months for victims to be able to break free. Be patient with your loved one, but be there unconditionally, because when they jump, they’re going to need you.

If you’re struggling relating to a parent, I want you to see Freya’s story and know that you’re not on your own either. That version of coercive control is deliberately in the book, because everyone has an opinion on giving family members another chance.

We need more people understanding that coercive control and intimate partner violence often escalates. But by the time it gets physical, victims can be so entrenched they are more petrified of what will happen when the police leave, than asking for help. “Why don’t you just leave?” is not helpful when you don’t have access to money, car, food, and your life as you knew it is gone. The only thing giving you sustenance is the person abusing you.

The cover of One Last Hundred Chances by EE Grant. A couple from the 1990s are arm in arm, looking out to sea.
The tag line says, 'How may times will you forgive?'

This song by Tina Arena has been running through my head the whole time, When You’re Ready.

The screenplay of One Last Hundred Chances is for you. I’m writing from my lion’s heart, sharing the tiny spark in all of us that keeps us going.

On Writing

April 27, 2023April 27, 2023 ee grantLeave a comment

Hello, have another random thought dump. unedited, foibles, mixed tenses and all x

I’ve written for as long as I can remember. Mum on her last visit from the UK to Australia brought out some poetry I’d written at infant and junior school. I’ll dig it out and share it for you, it’s very cute.

I journal most mornings, I aim for 5 out of 7 days a week. Some journal entries I keep. Others, I burn.

I carry a pad and pen around with me. If I’ve got a bag, I’m also likely to have another pad and my diary with me, just in case.

I buy new notepads, notebooks, pens in volume – trying to get all the feelings out my head into words. It’s noisy up there. And messy. Convinced each time, that this new fresh set of blank pages will help.

Reader, it doesn’t.

I’ve written myself out of holes, written myself into corners. I still love the smell of fresh note paper. Inhaling the smell of the glue as I open a notebook for the first time.

I’ve been converting One Last Hundred Chances into a screenplay. The formatting is completely different to how I’ve written before, but as I pull out the descriptions and rely on the words to tell the story, the images dance behind my eyes.

When I get to Gildredge Park in the book, I remember the times we went there as children.

The hills we’d roll down over and over. Endless picnics with one set of grandparents, it was also close to where Mum worked, so we’d meet her there for lunch sometimes. We’d walk around the mini-art gallery if it got too hot, go and visit exhibitions on rainy Sunday afternoons. I can still smell the parquet floors, sadly the original building left to the town is now being left to ruin after being sold off. With the collection moved to a building next to the concrete monstrosity that is the Congress Theatre.

[An aside, Art Garfunkel played at the Congress in 2003. During sound check, he complained about the acoustics, and was told to wait until the crowd came in. He still wasn’t happy when he started the show. His fury made the local paper, because you’d think he’d know what he was talking about].

[Another aside, if you brought a package holiday to Eastbourne during the summer, it would include coach travel down from where you live, (bunging up the sea front for us locals as you were unloaded), a weeks’ bed and board and a theatre package. Total pot-luck as depending on what week you arrived, would dictate what you would see at the theatres (plural, it had three, all of which would put on a pantomime each Christmas, the aforementioned Congress, Devonshire Park and Royal Hippodrome. Eastbourne also had 5 or 6 cinemas at one point too. I digress).

Sometimes it would be a repertory group on tour, other times it’d be previews for the West End. Other times, it’d be a full-on touring production of a musical direct from the West End. Mum and I watched Copacabana, several Sondheim’s, a couple of Andrew Lloyd Weber’s and most memorably, The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Nicholas Parsons was the narrator, Jonathan Wilkes was Frank. All the Transylvanians were the ushers, guiding people to their seats with their torches (euphemism). The lights went down to a packed house, elderly ladies with handbags on their knees. They were happy to be seeing Nicholas Parsons, but a bit bemused that a lot of the the audience were dressed in scrubs with pearls and rubber gloves, or in hot pants and lingerie. If you’ve seen it live, you know how it goes:

Brad – b@stard
Janet – b!tch
Water pistols, rice, newspapers, doing the Time Warp, the whole shebang

Lights up at the interval, half the audience had left.]

I remember visiting the park after the huge storm in 1987, seeing the trees that had been skittled in the winds. Trees we’d sat under and against, trees we counted to 100 while leaning on their trunks.

I remember climbing around and along the walls of the park, a gang of kids, best friends for the day and for as long as we played. Walking through the shades of the trees to the playground, hearing the thwack of tennis balls on hard, grey, asphalt courts that burned your feet when you ran over them. Looking at the robins, squirrels and quietly enjoying carefully curated gardens and walkways, with secret benches under arbours.

The hot day that instead of an ice cream, I convinced Nanny to buy me a bottle of Perrier, as I knew I’d like it. I’d seen how enthusiastically people were drinking it on the adverts. I felt so grown-up and sophisticated when I drank it. I remember the acerbic taste, but valiantly finishing the green bottle. If it’s any consolation; I still don’t like it, but love other sparkling water.

I remember the poodles I saw at one gate, like Matryoshka dolls, matching tartan jackets on a cold day. They ended up in the book. I think I will always get asked how much of it is autobiographical. I think I will always reply, the Eastbourne bits. Here’s the fishpond for you, at the top of Gildredge Park. It’s smaller than I remembered.

Photo credit

One day, instead of walking from home to the train station to get to college in Lewes, I spent the day in the park instead. I knew I simply couldn’t get to college. At the time, I didn’t know if I was depressed, anxious or what; but Mum kicked me out the house and told me to get going. I played truant a lot from school and college, I’d just have to leave, not knowing what else to do. I know now, it’s classic ADHD overwhelm.

That day, I stopped at the station, and brought a new note pad from WH Smiths. I walked up to the park. At a guess, it was winter 1993.

That was the day I saw the poodles.

I sat on a picnic bench and started writing in my fresh new notebook. I remember my hands were cold, as every so often I’d need to sit on them to warm them up.

I remembered that day while I was on a course last week. I don’t know why it came into my head; during a break, in amongst the scribbled flowers, alphabets and doodles, I was again sitting at the bench, missing college. As clear as it is I’m typing this now. I remembered that when all else failed me, I brought a book and wrote it out. It’s what I’ve turned to time and again, that to order my brain, I can’t just rely on thinking things through. As I said, it’s noisy up there.

I had a little moment in a blue stone basement in Ballarat for the teenager I was. I’ve been referred to a psychiatrist so I can be prescribed medication for ADHD. She’s in Sydney, but there are no practices here with room to take me and I need another layer of support above what I’m already doing.

I’m 48 years old, I’m only just learning that I can’t do all the things. Or if I do the things, I pay a cost somewhere else. If I push too hard; I’ll be in bed by 7pm, or for most of the weekend. If I do too much, I won’t feel able to meet with my friends and family.

If I pace myself, make sure I rest, eat well, avoid social media and the news, I can do some of the things.

If I leave the house 9-5 for five days like I did last week, I will need a day or so to recuperate afterwards. I pre-planned this, but on my leave days Monday and Wednesday (ANZAC Day on Tuesday), I slept more instead of doing the things I thought I’d be able to do.

I guess what I’m saying is, when I need to stop, slow down and reconcile what is going on, I write. Sometimes those thoughts filed away will arrive in a book, written 30 years later.

What movies or TV series have you watched more than five times?

March 16, 2023March 17, 2023 ee grantLeave a comment

This was the writing prompt when I logged into WordPress tonight to blog more on the ADHD thing. Couldn’t resist this so, buckle up. Noting, this is in no particular order, does not include TV, or books. And is not exhaustive…

Some Like It Hot
Jaws
Groundhog Day
Trading Places
Dragnet
Ghostbusters
The Godfather
Close Encounters of the Third Kind
Local Hero
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Amadeus
Pale Rider
Kind Hearts and Coronets
Passport to Pimlico
The Lavender Hill Mob
The Lady Killers
Catch Me If You Can
You’ve Got Mail
That Thing You Do
Apollo 13
Amelie
Die Hard
Nikita
The Terminator
T2
Alien
Aliens
The Matrix
Se7en
The Abyss
Shaun of the Dead
Hot Fuzz
Sleepless in Seattle
A League of Their Own
The Money Pit (Tom Hanks version)
Elf
The Usual Suspects
Arrival
Interstellar
Inception
The Godfather Part II
Back to the Future
Trainspotting
Pans Labyrinth
Heat
LA Confidential
The Sting
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
Field of Dreams
Cop Land
Goodfellas
Corrina, Corrina
The Shawshank Redemption
The Bridge on the River Kwai
A Bridge Too Far
Gladiator
Band of Brothers
Saving Private Ryan
Cast Away
Toy Story – 1, 2 and 3
The Forsyte Saga (2002 version)
The Madness of King George
V for Vendetta
The Green Mile
Forrest Gump
The Philadelphia Story
Wizard of Oz
Meet Me in St. Louis
Easter Parade
Mary Poppins
A Star is Born, Judy and Gaga versions
It’s a Wonderful Life
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
Rear Window
High Noon
Yankee Doodle Dandy (if only for this bit)
Fight Club
Galaxy Quest
The Phantom of The Opera
Braveheart
Mutiny on the Bounty (Anthony Hopkins / Mel Gibson version)
84 Charing Cross Road
12 Angry Men
To Kill a Mocking Bird
The General
Star Wars IV
Star Wars V
Star Wars VI
Rogue One
The Silence of the Lambs
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring
The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers
The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (including marathoning it three times now)
Raiders of the Lost Ark
Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade
Jurassic Park
Pulp Fiction
Good Will Hunting
The Piano
Top Gun
Rain Man
Beaches
Mad Max: Fury Road

Enchanted with the charm of Encanto

February 2, 2022February 15, 2022 ee grantLeave a comment

I saw the trailer for Encanto last year; at our only trip to the movies, which was such a non-event I can’t even remember what we watched. I hated the trailer, as it looked like yet another generic Disney Princess story. Something happens, they make a journey through peril, plot twist (!), another journey, conclusion, all wrapped up with a bow, songs and saccharine.

Encanto has been on at least four times in the past week, twice at my request, and again last night, because I can’t get enough of it. The trailer is so misleading, if you’ve only watched it and gone ‘meh’ please get thee over to Disney+ and watch the movie.

I don’t know why they cut the movie into the same old fairy tale trope trailer, when the story is so much deeper. I’ve been mulling this over for a couple of days, I hope I can do my thoughts justice.

Lin-Manuel Miranda’s command of language is extraordinary, running words together that don’t belong, but work due to the staccato enunciation. The performers of any of his songs deserve a huge amount of kudos; many people will have seen The Rock working his butt off to sing ‘You’re Welcome‘. But have you heard Jessica Darrow sing ‘Surface Pressure‘ yet? (I can’t find a video of her singing it yet, but if I do, I’ll update this post).

The amount of Mamas on Instagram and TikTok seeing themselves in the lyrics of Surface Pressure as they try and hold everything together, knowing that one more thing could unravel them:

Under the surface
The ship doesn’t swerve as it heard how big the iceberg is
Under the surface
I think about my purpose
Can I somehow preserve this?
Line up the dominoes
A light wind blows
You try to stop it tumbling
But on and on it goes
But wait
If I could shake the crushing weight
Of expectations would that free some room up for joy?
Or relaxation? Or simple pleasure?
Instead we measure this growing pressure
Keeps growing, keep going
‘Cause all we know is
Pressure like a drip, drip, drip that’ll never stop, woah
Pressure that’ll tip, tip, tip ’til you just go pop, woah-oh-oh
Give it to your sister, it doesn’t hurt and
See if she can handle every family burden
Watch as she buckles and bends but never breaks
No mistakes, just
Pressure like a grip, grip, grip, and it won’t let go, woah
Pressure like a tick, tick, tick ’til it’s ready to blow, woah-oh-oh
Surface Pressure, Lin-Manuel Miranda

The characters actually look like people, as opposed to twigs with bobble heads and too-big eyes. The characters are also a variety of shapes, sizes and colours, all in proportion, for the first time in forever. The animation is beautiful, but it’s been taken up to a whole other level. When Antonio whispers, ‘I need you’ to Mirabel, the look in his eyes; the yearning they were able to convey as he holds out his hand to her, made me weep.

If you’ve not seen the movie, here’s a spoiler alert. It’s about family. It’s about learning your foibles, swallowing your hubris and recognising that having too high expectations in one area, makes you blind to your behaviour in other areas of your life.

The gifts given to, and the Madrigal family, are held in high esteem in their local village. The matriarch of the Madrigals, Abuela Alma, is worried about keeping the magic strong, petrified she might lose her home again if it weakens. Instead of letting the magic run freely, she places restrictions around behaviour on everyone in the family, in the misguided belief it will keep them and the villagers safe. All the family are struggling under the pressure of the restrictions in different ways. Mirabel learns that the magic, particularly in her two sisters, Luisa and Isabela, is stronger when they’re allowed to relax, have fun and goof off. But this realisation comes at a high cost, culminating in Abuela ostracising Mirabel. Her uncle Bruno had previously been forced out the family, We Don’t Talk about Bruno, again under the guise of protecting the magic.

But they lose their house and the magic. The family and villagers work together to restore the foundation of their lives, rebuilding the house that crumbled underneath them. There is no fairy godmother, there is no magic wand, there is no do-over, or a Greek Chorus of a (oftentimes talking) animal side-kick. Until the Family Madrigal stop, admit their faults, learn from their mistakes, apologise and start over, the characters were stuck in an endless loop of perfection. Which was running the family into the ground, despite all appearances to the contrary on the outside. Only then does the magic return through Mirabel, to the house, to the family.

Enjoy the movie for what it is, then go back and take delight at Easter Eggs, the visual and musical clues, and symbolism throughout. The layers of work on screen are more than matched by the volume of work in the score, using traditional instruments and motifs. It’s a stunning achievement.

Lastly, representation matters, particularly with the Disney logo preceding it. Latinx, including Colombian, (where Encanto is set) children, are beside themselves to see people who look like them on the screen.