WOW!

The WOW Factor

2010-06-20T13:37:00.005+01:00

WOW has turned all Simon Cowellish!

She is currently judging some of the regional heats in the fantastic Dance For life programme, run by the British Red Cross. Mind you, the tables will turn if WOW and Mark Foster put in a performance at the Grand Finale at the O2 venue in July. (Press release follows.)

O2 Hosts British Red Cross Dance for Life final

Over 5000 young people have signed up to take part in Dance for life this year creating Dance on Moving and thought provoking Global issues such as Child Soldiers, Haiti, HIV and climate change to name just a few.

Primary schools, secondary schools, colleges, dance groups and youth groups from across the UK have signed up to be part of Dance for Life 2010. Young people from have been battling it out in heats across the country and finalists will be performing at the IndigO2 Rooms at the prestigious O2 Dome on July 18 for a chance to be crowned winners of the Dance for Life 2010. The events supported by Britain’s Got Talent Winners Diversity are open to all young people who love to dance, regardless of their ability.

Dance for life Project Manager, Laura Deacon, said: “By taking part in Dance for Life you could join the young performers from across the country who have already come together to do something amazing for charity and celebrate the work of the Red Cross through dance. This year the competition has gone nationwide so we hope to raise even more money for vulnerable people in crisis in the UK and overseas.”

Tickets are now on sale for the event at Ticketmaster.co.uk and there is still time to get involved in the most enjoyable fundraising dance event of the year and raise money for the lifesaving work of the British Red Cross.

Young performers can enjoy dancing while raising money for the world’s largest humanitarian network. Dance for Life is part of Youth Dance England’s national U.Dance programme, which aims to give every child and young person in England the opportunity to take part in a dance performance each year. Since 2006 over 10,000 young people have taken part in Dance for Life and have helped raise £165,000 for the Red Cross.

The British Red Cross helps people in crisis, whoever and wherever they are. We are part of a global voluntary network, responding to conflicts, natural disasters and individual emergencies. We enable vulnerable people in the UK and abroad to prepare for and withstand emergencies in their own communities. And when the crisis is over, we help them to recover and move on with their lives.

Dance Launch in Manchester

2010-06-20T13:09:00.006+01:00

Wheelchair dancers are masters of spin

A spectacular wheelchair dancing showcase is being held this Saturday (15 May) at Wythenshawe Forum. The showcase is the culmination of a series of classes taught by Wythenshawe resident Ray Bulpitt, who was also one of the consultants to the recent BBC3 Dancing on Wheels series.

The ballroom and Latin dancing classes were open to wheelchair users and their able-bodied friends or relatives and the course was the first of its kind in the north of England. 'Strictly Wheelchair Dancing' was open to all ages and abilities, but was aimed at people who wanted to progress to a high standard and perhaps go on to become wheelchair dance coaches themselves.

And now, after 10 weeks of training, the dancers are ready to demonstrate their skills in the main hall at Wythenshawe Forum from 1pm to 4pm on Saturday. Di Morgan-Hill, who was runner-up on the Dancing on Wheels series will be in the audience, along with Sue Cummings, president of the Wheelchair Dance Association.

Ray Bulpitt said: "The participants have put in a tremendous amount of effort and will be going on to national competition level. To dance in a wheelchair takes a great deal of control, co-ordination and determination. But, the results are worth it and the exhilaration from being at one with the music is incredible."Councillor Mike Amesbury, Executive Member for Culture and Leisure at Manchester City Council, said: "I think the audience on Saturday will be blown away by how graceful the dancers are. This has been a fantastic course and it's great that Manchester has been leading the way in a sport which is also an art form."
Disability Sports UK has backed the Strictly Wheelchair Dancing project, which has been jointly funded by Manchester City Council and NHS Manchester. Laura Roberts, Chief Executive of NHS Manchester, said: "Saturday sounds like it is going to be an exciting day. I'm certain that the dancers will not only be entertaining, but will really enjoy it themselves. I'm delighted to hear that so many people both able-bodied and disabled have taken part in the course."

(Manchester City Council news feed, 14th May 2010.)

Dance Champions Press Release

2010-06-20T12:46:00.003+01:00

Olympic gold medallist Mark Foster, who stars in BBC 3’s Dancing on Wheels, championed dance for people of all abilities at the UK’s first Dance Summit, in London.
He’s part of the Dance Champions Group (www.dancechampions.org), an alliance of the nation’s top dancing and exercise personalities working towards a goal of inspiring 100,000 people of all abilities to take up dance by 2012.

Mark, and his TV dance partner Diana Morgan-Hill, attended the Dance Champions Dance Summit, at which dance and exercise experts from across the country devised a strategy to increase public participation.While the main aim is to improve public fitness, the Champions are also keen to emphasise the general benefits gained through dance and its ability to breakdown social barriers.

Geoff, Diana, Mark and James

In a recent YouGov survey on behalf of the Dance Champions Group, 68% of those questioned believed dance was a good way to bring people together. 64% stated that they would happily dance with a partner from a differing religion, culture or physical ability.

Mark Foster commented: “Dancing on Wheels was an amazing and humbling experience for me. After a few minutes on the dance floor with Di, I had completely forgotten her disability and it was just a connection between two people. I absolutely loved dancing with her and she taught me a lot. I realised how much more thought Di had to put into every daily action and realised how lucky I am.”

Mark’s ‘Dancing on Wheels’ dance partner Diana Morgan Hill commented: “After nearly 20 'dance free' years to be given the opportunity to dance again has been, and will continue to be, one of the most wonderful experiences in my life.

”Dance brings me so much joy and this incredible experience has in turn re-ignited my love for music and creative movement, along with the happiness and fulfillment from learning something new.”

The Dance Champions Group includes TV broadcaster Angela Rippon

Angela and Diana

Capital Radio presenter Lisa Snowdon

Diana, Mark and Lisa

professional dancers Darren Bennett and Camilla Dallerup, Olympic swimmer Mark Foster, Choreographer Wayne McGregor, Janet Archer from the Arts Council and is chaired by Rod Aldridge, Chair of the Aldridge Foundation

Rod and Diana

with the Physical Activity Alliance leading on delivery of the Dance Champions initiatives.

For further information visit www.dancechampions.org

You've Got A Friend

2010-05-25T12:40:00.007+01:00

When you're down and troubled and you need a helping hand
And nothing, whoa nothing is going right.
Close your eyes and think of me and soon I will be there
To brighten up even your darkest nights.
You just call out my name, and you know whereever I am
I'll come running, oh yeah baby to see you again.
Winter, spring , summer, or fall, all you have to do is call
And I'll be there, yeah, yeah, yeah. You've got a friend.
If the sky above you should turn dark and full of clouds
And that old north wind should begin to blow
Keep your head together and call my name out loud
And soon I will be knocking upon your door.
You just call out my name and you know where ever I am
I'll come running to see you again.
Winter, Spring, summer or fall - all you got to do is call
And I'll be there, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Hey, ain't it good to know that you've got a friend?
People can be so cold. They'll hurt you and desert you.
Well they'll take your soul if you let them.
Oh yeah, but don't you let them.
You just call out my name and you know wherever I am
I'll come running to see you again.
Oh babe, don't you know that,
Winter Spring summer or fall, Hey now, all you've got to do is call.
Lord, I'll be there, yes I will.
You've got a friend.

as sung by

James Taylor & Carole King

Mark’s 40th Birthday Party, end of April, 2010.

My pressie for the Birthday boy:

cakes (created with Web Mistress) and an album of all pix taken over the entire duration of the training, the shows, and afterwards with Boris Johnson and kids at Kingsdown School. Think he was pleased! I am so pleased to have met him – and everything I thought about him in those first impressions is true. We think alike on some of the important stuff – from everything to ‘muscle memory’ – when you have to make the body practise over and over so that it retains the memory of sometimes difficult moves – in dance, swimming, tennis – right through to try to be kind and thoughtful in action and word.

The Little Mermaid

2010-05-25T12:00:00.009+01:00

I wanna be where the people are, I wanna see

Wanna see 'em dancin', w
alkin' around on those
(Whad'ya call 'em?) oh - feet
Flippin' your fins you don't get too far
Legs are required for jumpin', dancin'
Strollin' along down a (what's that word again?) street

Up where they walk, u
p where they run
Up where they stay all day in the sun
Wanderin' free, w
ish I could be
Part of that world

Part of your World
The Little Mermaid, Disney

18 May 2009

OMG! OMG! Neil R from Fever Media phoned this morning – I was grunting my way through another tortuous stretch on power plate – when he started phoning and kept phoning until I answered…The powers that be at Fever M and BBC3 have changed their minds – still only six contestants (was originally due to be 7) but they want me in the final six! Cannot believe it – I had cried on phone with N when he called to say hadn’t made it through on Friday but soon got over it – esp as got trip to Los Angeles and Las Vegas to look forward to with P – but now…well I’m going to be learning to wheelie dance – with the fabulous Brian…

Loving the dancing bits already – not sure about having cameras around all the time though – and worried about partner to be – am petrified that if it is strictly professionals I will get Brendan bad boy of ballroom Cole, instead of the lovely Ian Waite who seems, well to be a nice person, and patient…and patience is def a prerequsitie – had underestimated how difficult it is to learn to dance – the counts (maths never my strong point!) and trying to understand exactly what Brian (and Pippa) want…

21 May 2009
Just when you thought life couldn’t get any better – it Does!

Surely, today one of the best days of my life. The weather was glorious – full bodied Spring day, air heavy with delightful perfumes of nature and I was training with Pippa in a tiny church hall – and she took me for a waltz to lovely music, and it was so lovely, brought tears to my eyes. And then was picked up by Fever Media to go to meet my new dance partner. OMG!

As we (Howard, the cameraman, and I) pulled into the grounds of the Harrow School, my heart began beating really, really fast, past the sporting fields, past the cricket score-board and my brain started to pull up all these images from previous Strictly Come Dancing, images not of the pro-dancers (which is all I had been concentrating on) but of the ‘celebrity partners’. Especially the cricket pavilion and scoreboard. . .

Mark Ramprakash. . .

Darren Gough…

. . .my personal history…my love for cricket! (Ed: cricket-er?) Began to feel so nervous started to perspire, felt a tad nauseous. Staggered from car, got wheelie out, all in a bit of a daze. Went to loo to try to compose myself, forgot I was miked up. Cursed a fair bit. Only when came out did I smell the chlorine and said to David the director – ‘swimming pool - is that a bit of hint then?’

It dawned on me only then how very clever the Fever Media team have been in keeping this such a surprise, but the pure fact of the situation only occurred to me at that instant – us competitors had been told what the ‘prize’ is for the winners – to compete in the Wheelie Dancing European Championships – an IPC regulated sport, which meant that it is for amateurs only, and our dancing partners couldn’t possibly be Professionals.

As I wheeled through to the pool area, I thought of the very gorgeous Mark Foster, celebrity contestant on SCD last year – he of the much discussed black mesh/see-through top.

And there he was! My Mr Neptune! In the swimming pool armed with nothing more than a pair of speedos and a winning smile! Gorgeous! And it was, LIKE AT FIRST SIGHT!

I remember wanting to hug him, but he was so wet from the pool, inside I was sooooo relieved. If it had been a cricketer, well, I very possibly would have fainted out of my wheelie at the co-incidence. First impressions? As beautiful inside as without. Warm, friendly, personable, just a natural, gentle-giant type of person. My cup runneth over, truly, I am blessed.

So we are literally two fishes out of water (he Mr Neptune, Me, the Mermaid) on the dance-floor, can we join together in dance and create a little bit of magic? The odds seem to be stacked against us but right now don’t really care. Think I have struck lucky with Mr Neptune, have a feeling that we are going to be friends and that is just wonderful.

PS Have discovered already that Mr Foster ‘gives good hugs’ – in fact he is one the best!

Fametastic - WOW Warning:

2010-04-26T19:29:00.002+01:00

Name Dropping Alert approaching ….

WOW is going to really go for it on NDA in this post so be prepared!

Lady Gaga has sung about it. . .

"All we care about is runaway models
Cadillacs and liquor bottles
Give me something I wanna be
Retro glamour Hollywood,
Yes, we live for the
Fame"

And so has David Bowie. . .

"Fame, Fame, fame…
What’s your name…"

And as the infamous dance ‘Fame’ song goes:

Fame, I’m gonna live forever,
I’m gonna learn how to fly
I feel it coming together
People will see me and cry….

WOW would like to talk about Fame (not her own which so far is limited - thank goodness - to two autograph seekers in her local village); no, the fame that is for Brian Flaming Fantastic Fortuna, and Mark Flipping Gorgeous Foster….

You may have caught on that WOW is an experienced Woman Of the World (ie long in the tooth and short in the leg), and has - over her extensive career in the media - done the following:

. . . WOW has interviewed such ‘luminaries’ as Silvio Berlusconi

(Note: interview took place pre his current ‘sleaze’ era)

. . .the divine Peter Gabriel

(WOW so impressed that got writer’s block,
wrote rubbish feature on him
and had to send him grovelling letter of apology)

. . .David Puttnam, Michael Winner, Ted Turner, Robert Maxwell (pre-pensions, and pre-death, obviously!)…Bob Geldof. .blah blah blah you get the picture…

. . .WOW has worked with Sue Johnson, Amanda Burton (from her good old Brookside days) and Paul Usher

(aka Barry Grant - most of you too young to remember?)

. . .WOW has met and spoken with a flotilla of famous folk including Simon Cowell (lovely, emanates warmth, met in 2004);

David Beckham (very slight in weight, no wonder his poor wife allegedly starves herself);

Ozzy and Sharon Osbourne; Charles Bronson (WOW was a tad overawed, Hollywood royalty and all that); etc etc…Piers Morgan blah blah blah. . .

Anyhoo, the point to all this vicarious name dropping that, aside from ridiculous crush on Donny Osmond and David ‘How Can I be Sure’ Cassidy when WOW was not a WOW but 14 year-old pillow snogger, WOW is not in the least bit fazed by ‘celebrity’ or ‘Fame’.

However, WOW was (and continues to be so) very impressed with the two Mr F’s.

Foster and Fortuna.

And the way they conduct themselves through the rather tricky field of being very very good at what they do, in the public eye, with the fickle tricky hand of Fame always tapping on their shoulder…there follows a post from WOW’s diary with her first impressions of Mr Fortuna…and then Mr Foster. WOW is posting these extracts cause they are proof that one’s first impressions are often correct….

PS WOW is reliably informed that while the following picture allegedly enjoyed a little massage c/o photo-shop. . .

This one did not. . .And then final pic of Beck's response:
Flattery, as they say, will get you everywhere....

Di’s Diary: The 2nd/Final Audition

2010-04-26T19:28:00.005+01:00

Wednesday 13 May 2009

What a day! Am exhausted with adrenalin burn-out but exhilarated as well. Dearest Jax borrowed her ex’s convertible Mercedes and drove us to Brunel Uni in style… overwhelming feeling again was age – rest of final auditionees just seem so young. And even mentioned this to Kaaj – who said BBC duty bound to spread age-range as part of their diversity remit. Yeah, well, we will see won’t we...

Overwhelmingly the best section of the day (and there was a great deal to be overwhelmed with – everything from half hour session with a psychotherapist who specialises in reality tv – he asked if I were chosen to be one of the contestants, how would I deal with the possible media coverage – I could reply with confidence that having dealt with the world media as CEO of Limbless Association when I brought Ali Abbas to the UK for ongoing treatment

click this link to read
an early newspaper report about Ali

– think I could handle any press flung my way should I be picked as one of the contestants) to being ‘classifed’, to more interviews, endless paper work, and of course the dancing… but the dancing with Brian Fortuna was just, well, fantastic. It was brief, and like most of the day, filmed – my first thoughts on seeing and then meeting Brian were that he was much better looking in real life. And this is unusual, as most ‘celebrities’/people who are in film/tv, are from my experience, can be rather, well underwhelming…

Actually met Brian ‘by accident’ went in main sports hall door as indicated – and Brian was there, as arranged to meet me – pleasant warm handshake and winning smile (but not cheesy – as I had called him last winter during the watching of Strictly Come Dancing – my daughter Lara thought he was rather lovely – I just responded – nah, too American and way too cheesy!).

pass us the cheddar Mr BF, please!

We then had to do this whole meet and greet palava again for the cameras – which made both of us giggle and put on airs of ironic acting….another plus for Brian F – he gets irony. And comes over as very bright, focused and very polite in a rather sweetly old fashioned way. Someone said he was 26 and just couldn’t believe this having met him – he has the head of someone considerably more mature..anyhoo, he took me by the hand and guided me through some basic steps for the foxtrot – and I just loved it. It’s official: have fallen in love with wheelchair ballroom dancing. Er, and everything that could come with it?

I have to get into the final 6 now, keep getting one of my ‘destiny’ feelings about it, which happen so rarely and tend to happen.

But it would be too much, wouldn’t it, now that I am back with fiancée, to get this would just be too much, wouldn’t it?

Friday 15 May 2009

Yes, it is all too much – just spoke with Neil Rubes Rubenstein: I am not in the final 6.

A "first reserve" as Neil puts it. But that’s just not good enough.

Am sobbing as I write this. I honestly thought it was my destiny. I was so very wrong.

So bye-bye to Brian and ballroom dancing.

Boris Dancing

2010-03-17T20:13:00.020Z

WOW on meeting Boris Johnson Immediately impressed with his wit, intelligence and seemingly genuine curious take on wheelchair dancing…
Demonstrating his love of all cultural, Boris suggested that WOW and Mark Foster - in full tango finery - reminded him of a picture by that Scottish painter. . .is this is a Culture Vulture test, WOW thought at the time?. . . Then she declared, "Do you mean Jack Vettriano, Mr Mayor?"
WOW left Boris (who WOW could imagine was still humming tune to Tango, hopefully) with the distinct impression that, rather than there being something of the political ‘night about him’*. . .
.

aka Michael Howard. . .
(*as declared Ann Widdecombe MP,
after the latter's failed attempt at
Conservative Party Leadership)

(**she meant Howard was dracula)

. . .there is something ‘of the day’ about Boris…

He really is amusing, and clever, and WOW also loves the fact that he holds S-Levels in his education. WOW herself has an ‘S’ ie ‘Special’ in English Lit… (S-levels were taken at same time as A-levels in ye olden school days.)

And oh, BJ is so seemingly politically powerful…which WOW finds sexy. WOW can confirm that Boris is sexy in the Victoria Wood "Let's Do It" way. . .

"Beat Me On the Bottom with the Woman’s Weekly…"
sort of sexy!

And he could use ‘compression’ through the hands immediately to dance when WOW asked him… (and we know what we know about men who can dance, don’t we ladies?)

Is any of this making any sense? WOW is off now to purchase copy of the Woman’s Weekly….
(Ed: It is hoped that this will be followed by a very very very cold shower.)

However, before WOW delves into her latest copy of WW to read all about the Obamas, she is musing upon all things Olympic. . .

Boris, intense lover of all things Greek. Check.
Olympics, created by the Greek Civilization. Check.
Diana, name of Greek Goddess. Check.

Boris in a toga. Check. Diana in a chariot. Check.

Talk about Chariots of Fire!
It's a sure fire winner for 2012, isnt it. . .
So come on Mr Mayor, how's about a cheque*?

*WOW needs to ask Boris for cash to develop Wheelchair dancing projects.

(Ed: but perhaps she is just thinking about renewing her subscription to Women's Weekly magazine?)

Let's Do It!

2010-03-17T20:00:00.000Z

if you're not familiar with this brilliant song. . .
click on the link below!

Victoria Wood

WOW has gone AWOL!

2010-03-16T20:33:00.006Z

Or perhaps she's Morris/Boris Dancing?

So I (her Web Mistress) am taking over to bring you what our shy Di (you know her as WOW!) won't. . .

The following video was created with a true vision of love, by Lady Latina (WOW, I can confirm was last spotted heading for the hills on her mobility scooter, still sobbing) - click the link to watch:
.

Vision of Love

And while I'm here, I'm going to slip in these wonderful words, which were written by Jennie Kravitz of Simply Dancing Partners:

"You don't need legs to be a Dancing Queen - just the will to thrill on the floor.

"I’ve never seen anyone take to the floor with more exuberance or sheer joie de vivre than Diana Morgan-Hill in this week’s final of Dancing On Wheels. She doesn’t have any legs to dance with - she lost them 19 years ago in the prime of her life - but boy, did she dazzle partnering Olympic swimmer Mark Frost in the quickstep.

"Ironically, as one of the judges pointed out, this was the first performance in the whole competition that brought the able-bodied audience to their feet. Diana and Mark flashed their arms and bodies in synchronicity, demonstrating a wonderful chemistry and warmth, and she was positively radiant.

"Her performance was all the more poignant given that the BBC producers saw fit to bring Diana back to Wandsworth Common, the railway station where a misjudged sprint for a train changed her destiny in a split second. As she said herself of the time before that fateful day in 1990: 'Another person...another life.'

"No wonder Diana faltered a little in training in the days ahead - as Mark said: 'When Di gets into one of her dark moments, we don’t take a lot in.' She often felt Brian Fortuna was patronising her, and is ruthlessly self-deprecating about the contrast between her 49-year-old broken body and that of her athletic young partner: 'I’m the old bag, and he’s the stick insect!'

"The couple have been the great tryers and improvers in this competition, compared to James, who lost his own legs at 19 and is still a young man, and his partner Caroline. The pair have been criticised throughout the contest for slacking off in training. What James has over Diana, though, is natural technical brilliance, not to mention an awesome amount of upper body strength. At the end of his final and very virile Jive, he leapt out of his wheelchair into a one-arm stand - just try following that. No surprise, then, that this athletic chap who can literally make his wheelchair hop, skip and jump, is the contestant going to the European championships in Tel Aviv.
.

"But it is the look of rapture on Diana’s face as she raced across the dance floor which will stay with me for a long time.
.

"As she put it herself: 'Just learning to dance was the winning ticket.' All of us who have spent decades in a dance-free zone before coming back to the floor will know what she means. And there is no excuse for anyone with or without legs who longs to move to the music to put it off any longer."

Mother's Pride

2010-03-14T20:29:00.011Z

A wonderful Mother's Day Gift for all on DOW from one the Fantastic Fortunas - Picamix:

this fabulous video

Happy Mom's Day to the lovely Mrs Fortuna, WOW just knows how proud she is of her son. . .

Here are the full lyrics to the song used in the video, Heather Small's Proud, with some photos of Brian taken during the training for Dancing On Wheels:

I look into the window of my mind
Reflections of the fears I know I've left behind
I step out of the ordinary, I can feel my soul ascending
I am on my way, can't stop me now
And you can do the sameStill so many answers I don't know
Realise that to question is how we grow
So I step out of the ordinary
I can feel my soul ascending, I am on my way
Can't stop me now, and you can do the same We need a change, do it today
I can feel my spirit rising
We need a change, so do it today
'Cause I can see a clear horizon What have you done today to make you feel proud?
So what have you done today to make you feel proud?
'Cause you could be so many people
If you make that break for freedom So what have you done today to make you feel proud?

IT'S A WRAP PARTY part three (final one!)

2010-03-14T08:00:00.000Z

lovely smiling and clapping Mark and Martin
*
group hug!
*
the very gorgeous Mr F and Ms R
*

flowers from Mr F
*
flowers the next day
(the sight of these helped WOW’s hangover)
*

And finally:

Dancing On Wheels. . .It’s a Wrap, but it's not the end…

Next time (next week on DOW)
WOW goes Morris, sorry Boris dancing….

IT'S A WRAP PARTY part two

2010-03-13T08:00:00.002Z

Not Where’s Wally..more like where’s Marky?
Can you spot Mark? Is he hiding from James and Ola!
Also pictured: Lucy and Clara from Fever Media
*

David Tibballs has a really good time with Kristina
*

Di with one of BF’s – Jane
*

Di thanking Kaaj – one WOW’s ‘Karma police’
– Neil Rubenstein is the other…
*

Shock Horror! WOW caught bang-to-rights drinking!
Nothing escapes the Boss Brian though!

(Ed: I heard on the grapevine that WOW, without her wheels, had to be ‘carried’ to the taxi by her dance partner at 3am.)

IT’S A WRAP (PARTY) part one

2010-03-12T08:00:00.001Z

Thought you wonderful WOW Watchers might enjoy some views of the Dancing On Wheels wrap party:

WOW decides to pay her own personal tribute
to Michael Jackson (RIP) in glitter jacket,
with Neil Rubi Rubenstein
(Ed: We could always hang her up from ceiling
and spin her round
– a new take on the disco ball?)
*

Brian with WOW’s gorgeous daughter, Lara
*

dance contestants pass judgement on
WOW’s DOW photo memory album
created by WOW especially for Brian
*

David Tibballs, Exec Producer on DOW,
with Pippa, Brian and Kristina

Di and Mark's last dance for the BBC's

2010-03-12T07:07:00.000Z

Dancing On Wheels: The Joy, The Joy of this dance is so clear - topped off with a standing ovation!

click here to watch the video

(WOW thinks the audience clapping all the way through could be due to the speed we get up to, which won't come over so well on this visual - when you see the professional dancers like Brian and Kristina, their perfection of timing with incredible speed combined 'live' is breathtaking.)

This Quickstep is out of their professional league of course, but Mark and WOW were moving so fast, all five wheels of the wheelchair came off the floor!
Didn't call Mark Daddy Long Legs for nothing!

WOW: Woman Outside (the) World

2010-03-11T22:18:00.000Z

WOW just loves well made science fiction films some favourites from a very long list include: Contact, Sunshine, Star Trek (unconfirmed 'Trekie'), Serenity, Total Recall, The Fifth Element, Pitch Black, Solaris...
.

and so it goes on adinfintum...just like space!

so WOW was stunned and delighted to discover the following news - this is a post from my gorgeous 'Web Mistress' I,LTV. . .

guess who has been star gazing in our midst!

. . . yes: NASA! (NASA!!)
(shall I write it one more time? NASA!!!)
now, we're all familiar with the good people in Houston
and the fine work they do on our behalf. . .
.
. . .launching rockets

. . .gazing back at our blue planet

. . .and its solitary moon

. . .peeking into the secrets of our sun

. . .seeking out the hidden facts
of our galaxy and the universe

but, now those good folk down in Texas
have sought out and found
the new star of the blogging world. . .
.
WOMAN ON WHEELS
VISITOR ANALYSIS
Search Engine Phrase:
"Diana Morgan-Hill"
Search Engine Name: Google
Search Engine Host: www.google.com
Host Name: host.jsc.nasa.gov
Country: United States
Region: Texas
City: Houston
ISP:
National Aeronautics And Space Association
.
I,LTV always suspected that
WOW would be famous one day,
her blog went global within hours of its launch
- never thought she'd go intergalactic!

*

So, dearest NASA, never mind first non-astronaut in space - what about your first disabolo in space?

(Ed: Tough luck, WOW - Stephen Hawking will beat you to it. And he deserves it with his Big Bang background.)

Wow On (not) Winning

2010-03-11T22:00:00.005Z

So, dearest WOW Watchers, now you know.
Please believe me when I say that I was so happy not to have won. And normally, like World Class Olympian competitor Mark, this would not normally be the case.

The standing ovation that we received for our Quick Step: Almost Like Being in Love, was, and is still to this day, one of the most wonderful moments of my life.

Do I think the judges made the right decision? Yes – at that time (July 2009) for the following reasons, which include what I consider to be the reasons behind their decision:

James and Ola are both Latin Ballroom dancers (they are, of course, brilliant at ‘ballroom’ dances) – they are professionals after all, but their principle field is Latin.

James Jordan, (although I believe him to be a ‘good’ friend of Mark's) did not ‘like’ Mark's dancing from the outset. The production have cut many of the James’ comments about Mark’s dancing from the final edits.

Backstage we had a tv where we could watch – and the few occasions that I could see James and Caroline dance, realised that I did not take my eyes off Caroline – she has the ‘it’ factor visually – and when I first saw wheelchair dancing on youtube before the first audition, realised back then, that it looks better ‘visually’ if there is little height discrepancy between the combi couples.

(Mark Foster - 6'6" – hello!)

This, of course, again, is a ‘visual’ factor – v imp for tv – not so important for competitions where the judges would base on ability and connection of and between the couple. And as Pippa (dance trainer) Roberts kept saying: ‘Mark’s height would be an advantage in wheelchair dance competitions – on the tightly packed dancefloor, all the judges would have no problem in seeing him!’

It was regarded (so I believe) that I was the most proficient mover/dancer in the dancing wheelchair from the outset.

comfirmed by Judge Ade Adepitan's comments
on all of my performances

These skills developed not from using a wheelchair – I mainly use prosthetics – but because of my 3 years training in wheelchair tennis – and therefore having a good idea of what difficult high speed movement can be achieved in the chair. Combined with the learned ability to move my body into initially ‘difficult’ positions – again, acquired from learning to walk in two prosthetics where you are forcing the body to adapt to difficult body movement.

However, skills aside (please notice that during the Quickstep, Mark and I are moving so fast, all five wheels of the wheelchair come off the floor!) this year I will turn 50. There, I have said it, one of the possible key factors in the final result is age.

And this is my party/blog so I will cry/make statements if I want to.

We were told from the beginning that BBC3’s remit (amongst others) was to produce programming for the ‘difficult to reach’ audience of 18-34 year olds. (Look back and one of first posts to see how I felt at the first audition.)

And this fact was re-enforced throughout the whole of making of DOW. During the break backstage, before we were due to go out to receive the judge’s deliberations, Harry Lansdowne (BBC3 Commissioning Editor) interviewed me on camera – and from what I recall, every one of his questions related to age. Perhaps he was worried, that due to the reception to our Quickstep, the Judges would announce us the winners. Certainly, that was the ‘backstage’ vibe.

But it was not to be.

And all I can say that not to win – the relief was incredible. Mark and I had done our best, in the circumstances, and that is good enough for me.

Let's boil it all down to the most important key fact: Mark and I were adept at Ballroom, but not at Latin. James and Caroline were excellent in each – they deserved to win.

I was on a high for two weeks after the finals. Never before (apart from giving birth to my beautiful daughter, Lara) have I felt such a sense of achievement.

So, dearest WOW Watchers, and to those of you who still feel that we should have won – wait till you see next week’s episode the ‘final’ final.

And then you will hopefully understand why, although we didn’t win the competition. . . . . .both Mark and I feel like The Winners

Just in, on YouTube

2010-03-10T20:41:00.008Z

Those fabulous FFs. . .otherwise known as. . .have produced the most beautiful video, dedicated to all involved in Dancing On Wheels!

Follow this link
to view the video.

Murder off the Dancefloor

2010-03-08T12:33:00.008Z

James O’Shea is an adorable twat. No, no dear readers, am not maligning my dance rival in a bid to win the top prize.

No, James, from my v personal perspective is just that – an adorable twat. And I say this from the bottom of my v full heart. (Quite a few people have said by the way, that they like the way I have ‘worn my heart on my sleeve’ – for the record I haven’t. At no point in the entire process do you see me explaining the real reasons for my being a tad emotional at times during training and filming).

Us wheelie competitors had a number of group discussions – most of which sadly, have not made the final cut. These were often interesting – especially the exchanges between Simone and me – (Ed: obviously not interesting enough to make the final cut). One discussion that stands out is when all six of us chatted about who our dance partners might be. At this point us girls knew – and we were sworn to secrecy. James, unlike, Harry and Paul, didn’t seem to be that bothered.

‘I hope I get Jade Goody.’ Was his only comment.

Cue sharp intakes of breath from the rest of us disabalos. This was April last year. Three months after Jade’s v sad death.

Never mind the X Factor eh, James, you adorable twat. More like the Shock Factor.

Or another O’Shea quote, on introducing himself to the rest of us: ‘My name’s James and I’m a carer. Only I don’t care very much.’ This made me howl with laughter – and respond: ‘Yeah, I freelance for the charity sector, but hardly ever feel charitable.’

Only joking folks – although it does remind me when I interviewed Bob ‘Saint’ Geldof back in 1989, in Cannes. (WOW Namedropping Alert.)
His presence was making my knees shake. (I had two knees, back then.)

Looking at my media pass badge, those fierce Irish eyes of his seemed to bore down into my stomach, and he said: ‘Don’t ask me about charity Diana. Who gives a fokking fok for charity?’ I had an exclusive on my hands. Never used it though.

I first encountered James in the first audition – in Stratford. And to be frank, well, he scared me a bit. There was a point in the audition process where all 25 of us had to freestyle disco dance on the dance floor, altogether (cue fair bit of arm waving, executing wheelies and wheelie spins and feeling like a bit of twat). David Tibballs asked us to head for someone to ‘duo dance’ with. I headed for James – and he for me – not because, I hope, of our being double leg amps but both sensed good dancing in our midst?! – but at last second of scooting up to James, I swung away into Grant’s path. (Grant was another one of auditionees and my girlfriend Jax who had been observing indicated he seemed quite good). I couldn’t help but register the hurt on James’ face – he probably won’t even recall this tiny moment in the whole DOW process – and James, if you’re reading this, I am sorry if you were hurt. But you did scare me a bit.

First instincts. Always right?

Certainly, in this case.

Note in this pic the concentrated look on my face as I attempt to deliver a prosthetic kick to James without attracting the attention of the others. . .

. . . but while I tried to poison my toughest competitor (have always been fascinated by the Borgias). . .

. . .James, in typical James fashion, moved in for the ‘Murder off the Dancefloor’ move – at 120 mph. . .

That’s all am saying at this point.

Watch DOW on 11 March to find out how. That’s if the Exec Producers and Editors have seen fit to put in the footage I have in mind. (Ed: if there is swearing involved, of course they will include!)

For all of you who can’t see DOW, I apologise. But will post something immediately after the show goes out 10pm to put you in the crime picture.

In the meantime, here are a couple of the adorable twat’s beautiful guns….. Bruno – eat your heart out!

Gorgeous face, shame about the legs, eh James?
Now, only WOW could get away with such a statement.
Or can she?

.
Lovely lads – Elstree hotel, night before show 2.

Paul, Howard, Harry and James
(Howard is a Senior Researcher at Fever Media)

Wicked Soul

2010-03-08T11:55:00.008Z

One day - soon - I hope to be able to create and perform a dance to this stunning song: Wicked Soul, by Kubb.

During training I suggested it to Brian - and Kristina - and they both loved it as well - there was then a discusssion as to what type of ballroom/latin dance should be applied. Brian thought the hustle or a merengue.
Of course I have to agree with the Boss, but tango moves keep coming to mind. Is there such a thing as a 'Tustle'? in the dance world?
So all you dancers out there - especially experienced males who think they could leap into the wheelie dancing world and whisk me off my rhinestone wheels...

. . .I am waiting.

A SMILE IN A WHISPER

2010-03-07T12:57:00.006Z

Some Final Thoughts*, Di’s Diary, July 2009

(*as in thoughts from my diary, not WOW’s final final thoughts. You didn’t think I would go that easily, did you?)

So Mark and I are in the Final.

Surreal.

To think I wasn’t even in the ‘contest’ initially. And then to be paired with Mark, who, from what I can gather, received some scathingly Judgemental comments about his performances in Strictly. And I am 20 years older than any of the other contestants. Well, on those facts alone we were the rank outsiders at the beginning.

But I remember the turning point so clearly that hot day, just weeks ago, in the hottest dance studio when Brian and I were dancing so fluidly and then Mark and I did and Brian whispers to both of us, "You know guys, this was possibly only a one or two horse race, I think all that’s changed now."

And then he shouts (Bronx style): "I am pumped!"

It wasn’t only Mark and I connecting on a friendship level immediately, that helped. I think it was the laughs we had on that day that, to me, turned the whole difficult process around.I had underestimated the brain strain of taking so much instruction in, using a ‘different’ language – the language of dance, plus getting my body to move in new ways. (Although this latter part does come more easily to me – nothing could be as difficult as learning to walk again on prosthetics. It took me 6 months – and walking up and down in parallel bars with my walkman on, pacing up and down up and down like a caged lioness, until I had got it right. )

There are also the added pressures of having the cameras around, and being almost permanently miked up for sound – although it is true, you do forget about them (the equipment, not the people behind them), but the unreal world is very real when it comes to pressure. The stress upon Brian, (choreographing 6 dances for 6 different, very different couples, the demands of the production etc) is extreme.

Brian’s stress was palpable on that day vibrating in every one of his movements, and frequently in his voice.

We were working hard and I could feel the stress in Brian’s body but it was Mark, as I recollect, who cracked a few of his subtle jokes, then I did, then Mark (it was stifling in the room) suddenly took his top off and attempted our opening tango move. I laughed so much could hardly get my words out. ‘I …am ..not.. I cannot.. dance with you like that. It's like dancing with a freaking ..a ..an upmarket Chippendale..’

All of us relaxed after that. And the dancing flowed.
.
And does, and so does the humour. Most of which is unprintable. (And certainly not viewable. One infamous moment came last week when Brian yelled something at me and even Neil ‘Rubi’ Rubes put the camera down, his mouth hanging open in shock. Even I was speechless.)

It’s is the same with Pippa. She kept (and still does now) calling me Diane. Which I hate. Then she told us that ‘Pippa’ in Polish means the ‘C’ word. So every time she calls me Diane I just shout – Oy, Polish Pippa, what’s my name?

So hardly a smile in a whisper, eh Pippa, more Shout Shout, let it all out. By Tears for Fears.

I do have fears (about this final week). And there’s bound to be tears. As long as there’s smiles and laughter as well.

Bring It On.

THE SHOW

2010-03-07T12:30:00.000Z

After much laughter, many tears and a few tantrums Mark and WOW are through to the finals of DOW!

WOW DOW!!

(Ed: if you think there were tantrums and tears
in the lead up to the final, just wait till next week
- will WOW go AWOL?)

In the meantime, dear blog watchers/followers, and all those who might think WOW is a bloggie/techno genius. . . she's not. But this lady is. She is the WOW 'Web Mistress', (WOW writes the words and provides the pix.)

And whilst we're on the subject, thank you to everyone who has shown such amazing interest so far. Keep on clicking. . . there is quite a bit more to come!

Quotes from the Semi-Finals

2010-03-07T12:23:00.009Z

Brian to Diana (while attempting to execute the difficult trick of standing, balancing on the wheelchair footplate, straddling my ‘longer leg’ for balance):

‘Di, that stump is in the way.’
(tries to move it out of the way of his legs)
Diana: ‘Surgeon anyone?
Should we call for a surgeon?’

(Ed: is there nothing WOW won’t do for this show?)

Harry: ‘Michelle (Gayle) is wonderful. If I’d got someone who was a push-over, well, I would have pushed them over. . .

. . .but Michelle, she don’t take no shit.’

James (after waterski-ing):

‘All of the water’s really warm now.
Everyone must have been peeing in it.’

FORTUNA FANTASTICS LOOK AWAY NOW!

2010-03-04T11:24:00.026Z

the things WOW has to do in the name of dance -
it’s a tough job, someone’s got to do it!
(Ed: someone seems to be enjoying this training
a little too much...)

TRAINING
Dance: The Waltz (and repeat of The Tango)
Music: Fascination, Nat King Cole, Pa’ Bailar (Tango)
Debrief: Sunday
Training Days: Monday - Thursday
Training Hours: split between Brian and Pippa, with some help from Kristina.

the things Harry has to do in the name of dance…
it’s a tough life eh?

Tricky Moves:
(1) Getting down from the ramp on the floor to Mark in time with the music.
(2) Being ordered by The Boss not to let Mark kiss me until the live show. . .
(3) Not throttling James, when he - having broken his wheelchair - dismantled the whole thing in one of our training sessions, knowing full well Brian would stop training us in order to fix it (Brian is not only highly accomplished at most everything he turns his hands to, he is also a bit of geek). He fixed it – two hours later (with Mark’s help). Then Mark had a go at my chair:
Number of jellybeans consumed this week:

the trouble with jellybeans is that WOW has quite big hands
and once you have developed the ‘scooping’ action required,
before WOW realises, the whole lot has gone
(Ed – she also has a big mouth)

Back to training:

Pippa shows us how not to hold our arms in separation.

We have a go.

is it back to the effing Albatross again?

Most over-used word of the week/Star of the Show: Ralph (who's Ralph? click here!)

WOW sense of achievement: High (again) mainly due to getting to practise kissing with two hunks of burning love….

Filming with these crazy people is making us go a bit bananas:

Neil Rubi Rubenstein (Producer/Director) and
Lucy Lu Bauckman (Production Assistant)
can't stop monkeying around

THE SEMI-FINAL LINE-UP:

(with Kristina Rhianoff)

(with Lucy Bauckman, Production Assistant,
and Kristina Rhianoff)

The Eye of the Tiger

2010-02-27T20:49:00.031Z

WOW WARNING! DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME

TRAINING: Week 3
The Dance: The Paso Doble.
Music: Eye of the Tiger, Survivor.
Debrief: Saturday 4 July (someone stank of drink, someone didn’t show up).
Training Days: Sunday 5 July through to Thursday 10 July.

Training Hours: Enough to get through dance ok, including a snatched couple of hours on Sunday with Mark, missing a lunch drinks party and the Wimbledon Final.

New nicknames this week: Three, Brian on Diana - Little Bo Peep; Brian on himself - Tony (as in Tony Soprano – due to Brian’s vocal delivery in heavy duty Bronx accent, and him seeming to be tougher than ever on all of us, especially with regards to the difficulty level of ‘tricks’); Diana on Mark - Daddy Longlegs.

No of Liquorice allsorts consumed this week: One full box (half price from TK Maxx – Woo Hoo!). Even ate the nasty little nubs of pure liquorice. Always start with pink and yellow coconut ones. TMI, sorry.

Heated Debate of the Week: Brian and Simone.
Most over-used word of the Week: Cambridge.

WOW Sense of Achievement Rating (scale of low through to high): High.

Three tricky tricks: Brian pushed Mark and I to the limit for daring, with twists on the standard dance and character themes for the pase doble. . . the bull, the cape, the matador and the flamenco dancer.

Brian to Di:
"you'll have a couple of centimetres clearance"
(note Brian's right hand!)

and we did!
thank goodness for Daddy Longlegs

The ‘Ouch’ Factor: Quite a few.

clearly Mark can feel the strain
of my incredible Liquorice Allsorts diet

Top ‘Ouch’ prize this week however goes to Harry Maule. . .

. . .for dancing beyond his pain boundaries to create the most beautiful, loving Viennese Waltz with Michelle. Their dancing even made James ‘Dread Judge’ Jordan emotional: Result!

This week we all had usual number of sessions with Brian and Pippa Roberts.

Pippa and Mark demonstrate
the highs and lows of separation

the long and short of the sixteens
and the little and large of the side steps
of the pase doble

The fragrant Marilyn Monroe Lookee Likee, Kristina Rhianoff joined us. She is lovely – superb dancer, obviously, but also pleasantly empathetic, and also has emotional depth. Good teacher as well.

as you will note from this photo,
my eyes should be envious green, not Tiger hazel in colour

The Show
Number of Bouquets received: Nil
Number of Cards received: 3 – including another lovely Thank you one from Mark. He wrote: "Di, Thank you for being so patient and training so hard. Week 3, let’s see if we can make Week 4 !! Love Mark, Your Matador x" (loving the Matador look Marky)
.
Wardrobe: Wonderful Wardrobe Mistress Louise Egan, and her support team including the v funny Jane ‘Popper’ Spice have done it again.They produced a stunning costume, the colour ways in muted golds, greens, almost simulating tiger fur/and eyes.
Only trouble is it’s a two piece, v short bolero top and below waist skirt, and all that belly flop space in between. Lou texted me a picture of the outfit, then on Tuesday Jane brought it over. I was holding myself in so much almost turned blue, but hey, with the flesh coloured body stocking, you can't see the odd ripple of flesh or the two tiny holes in my tum where there once was a sapphire belly button piercing. I’d had it done nearly 10 years ago, it looked great, until I put on weight (overdosing on stress and cortisol hormones as CEO of a charity 2003-2005). The belly ring disappeared between two comfy spare tyres of fat. Had to remove it. Could go back in again no trouble now…eurghhhh, WOW wonders if this is just TMI. Sorry.

Make-up: The fabulous Edith is my make-up artist.

Edith spray paints me
(Ed: what are you? a car?
I've seen Skodas with better colour than that.)
number of liquorice allsorts WOW wishes she'd eaten: zero

amount of make-up required: none

Cutting Floor Comment: My comment about the BBC Licence Fee payers.

the devil's in the detail, eh David?

WOW’s quote of the Week: (as I am about to go onto the dance floor) “Just going to make final check on the seat-belt, otherwise – Di, SPLAT.”

Finally, we're on: Hours and hours of effort for a minute and a half of spine tingling joy. (Now, what does that remind WOW of?)

and. . .
we're through to the semi-finals!

For all you FFs out there! The Eyes of the Tiger. . .

The Tango

2010-02-25T16:21:00.003Z

Click here to watch the tango!

Everybody's blogging about

2010-02-25T16:20:00.006Z

Dancing On Wheels! Harry Lansdown, BBC3 Commissioning Editor, writes about "Dancing On Wheels: 'I never thought I'd dance again'"

Hello. I'm the commissioning editor for factual programmes on BBC Three. A key part of my job is to find and help manage programme ideas that feel distinctive and original.

Disability is a subject that can easily be forgotten or pushed aside by the mainstream. But at BBC Three we've aimed to place it at peak time. This began in 2008, when we broadcast the series, Britain's Missing Top Model. It took a traditional, entertainment format and gave it a big twist, forcing the viewer to ask the question: can a disabled girl be accepted in the cut-throat world of modelling?

In many ways, Dancing On Wheels is a kind of successor.

Once again, it takes a proven, entertainment format, but then turns it on its head, by adding a fresh element, in this instance, wheelchair dancing, a sport we were sure most viewers would never have seen before. A documentary element is also added, for as the series progresses, you will get to learn more about each disabled character's life.

The commission was the idea of an independent production company called Fever. Their pitch, in January 2010, was simple and very effective: they showed me a DVD of wheelchair dancing that they'd pulled off YouTube - something like this.

I was instantly taken with it: here was a real sport, enjoyed by people all over the world, but rarely seen in the UK, despite our obsession with ballroom and all things Strictly.

I then discovered that there was a Wheelchair Dance European Championship being held later in the year that our winning couple would be able to enter. So suddenly we had a real event to focus on. The UK had never entered this competition before.

After a discussion with BBC Three controller Danny Cohen it was commissioned quickly, but with a proviso: we asked that it be cast with celebrities who crucially already knew how to dance. We wanted to give this minority sport as a high a profile as possible on the channel and to bring a mainstream audience to something they would not necessarily know about.

I know this approach is debated by some members of the disabled - and non-disabled - community, who would prefer a more purist approach, but I want my series to be watched, and for wheelchair dancing to be talked about by as many people as possible. I think this is the best way to achieve that at this time.

The first challenge was to convince celebrities that this was a real show as many of them initially thought it was some kind of hoax! Others said they just found the concept too weird. But the more we got this kind of reaction, the more determined we were to make this. Soon it became clear there were a group of celebrities who were up for the challenge, though I don't believe any of them quite knew how it would take over their lives.

The final piece in the jigsaw was Brian Fortuna, the series teacher. As The Independent wrote in their TV review, "Gone was the sappy, nice guy persona he maintains in Strictly, replaced instead by a kind of foul-mouthed New York stage school sass."

Brian's no-holes-barred style in which he made no allowances for anyone's disability and instead, simply pushed them to be as good as they can possibly be, was exactly what the series needed.

His passion to bring able-bodied people together with wheelchair users is what drives the films, for he inspired all the contributors with his belief in it, and many of them surpassed their own expectations and, to be honest, his too.

I know from experience that when you make a disability programme you will always face criticism: you enter a quagmire where you're damned if you don't by the Why Are We Never On TV? lobby and if you do dip your toe in, then your approach can easily be attacked. I absolutely welcome the debate. Even so, I'm always a little shocked that sometimes, a programme like this is almost immediately dismissed, for example, by being accused of producing some kind of freak show.

On the BBC Ouch! messageboards meridi asks why we don't have an integrated show regardless of impairment and Nia says that she won't be watching Dancing On Wheels because she feels it's a shame that wheelchair users "have to be singled out and given a separate different TV program." [sic]

In fact, the whole reason they were singled out is because this is a real sport, with its own organisation and competitions that only an able-bodied and wheelchair using partner are allowed to enter.

David G started a thread on the Ouch! messageboards where he likens Dancing On Wheels to the Black And White Minstrel Show. In short, I fail to see the comparison - that was made up concept and people were blacked up, whereas wheelchair dancing is a real, competitive sport, no one is pretending to be anything they're not.

I understand there is no way this kind of criticism can be avoided, and I would never claim to have made the perfect series, but I am certain of one thing: the more disabled appear on primetime television, be it in comedy, drama or factual, the less prejudice and ridicule there will be for future generations of disabled people to face.

Finally, I will leave the last word to Diana Morgan-Hill, pictured at the top of this blog post with her partner, ex-Olympic swimmer Mark Foster. Diana's a 47-year-old mother who lost part of both her legs in an accident 20 years ago. She said, after a few days filming "It's wonderful, I never thought I'd dance again."

That alone is fantastic justification for making this series, and anyone who doubts this, should watch the final episode where we catch up with the contributors' lives and see what impact taking part has had on them.

Tuesday, 23 February 2010

Harry Lansdown is commissioning editor for factual programmes on BBC Three.

Enraptured

2010-02-21T15:51:00.004Z

The Rapture is the best book I have ever read. (I have a BA Joint Honours Degree in English Literature and American Literature with Film Studies).

UK front cover

This is a dynamite and compelling story with stunningly brilliant characterisation - the main protagonist, Gabrielle, is a wheelchair user. The superb author, Liz Jensen is not, but she relates her lead character's story with incredible empathy and understanding. The other lead character - Psycho/Nosferato Bethany is also thrillingly depicted. I have recommended The Rapture to most of my friends who are constant book readers - and authors. They feel the same way. Buy/borrow it now. Liz is appearing on More 4's book programme, The TV Book Club, at 7.30pm 22nd February, repeated 2.55pm 23rd on Channel 4.

Watch it, then buy the book for a friend. Then just wait for the film....

US front cover

Warner Bros bought the 'book' a year before it was published.

All wheelchair users/dancers - if any of you can describe/write what it is to be a wheelchair user better than Liz Jensen I will buy you a bottle of the best champagne - and the Judge will not be James 'you done well' Jordan!

WAKE ME UP BEFORE YOU GO GO…

2010-02-21T15:21:00.010Z

If you listen to the link below, you will hear. . . a strange creature (moi) sounding as if they are talking underwater.

That’s because I was fast asleep when the researchers woke me up with three phone calls, one after the other, to speak, immediately – live – on the Gaby Roslin and Paul Ross radio breakfast programme. Last week, having cancelled an interview (short of time) they said they would call on Wedneday morning to record a short interview for their programme on Thursday 18th Feb.
.

They didn’t so I was catching up on my ugly sleep. . .

Oh, and why do I just acknowledge Gaby in the interview? Because I wasn’t told that Paul Ross is in the studio with her! When Gaby was asking questions, I thought we had a crossed line but, trouper that I am, thought it would be rude to mention…. Doh!

So BBC London, please, if there is going to be a next time (I doubt it) please, please, please - Wake Me Up before you decide to Go Go Go. Thanks.

Good excuse to use a George Michael title though!BBC London, The Breakfast Show with Gaby Roslin and Paul Ross,: fast forward to 2:33:00 to listen.

THE F WORD

2010-02-18T17:16:00.026Z

No, not that one. . . The FOXTROT!

Some exclusive fotos from backstage of Dancing On Wheels – second show, broadcast tonight at 9pm on BBC3. And for The Foxtrot, ‘Hollywood-Hill’ has another fabulous frock:

Diana is nicknamed Hollywood Hill by the fruitilicious babe, Michelle Gayle - cause she said I look a bit like Natalie Wood:

(Ed: Yeah right – but what about without
the BBC make-up and fancy frocks?)

Di is dancing the Fabulous Foxtrot with the Fantastically Super Fit Mark Cockfoster Foster:

sadly, Mark is fully suited and booted
for the actual performance

Also tonight, Michelle Disney Fairy Princess Gayle and Harry Mancrush Maule are dancing The Rhumba. . .

. . .as are Simone Diva Milani and Kevin Strictly Loads of Camilla Sacre. . .

James Bunny Hop O’Shea and his flipping gorgeous partner, Caroline Fit One Flacky will be dancing The Foxtrot. . .

. . .but where, oh where, is she

Heather The Rack Small and Paul pass me The Prodigy Jacob are dancing The Rhumba too.

another fab frock for Heather!

Backstage - during filming – with the fabulous Heather (oh, that laugh of hers, just have to think about it and makes me smile!) and the Fantastic Fortuna, Mr Brian the Boss:

Some shots, from our training sessions, of Brian and his wonderful Wheelchair Dance guru Mom:

Sandra Fortuna
training me in the ways of The Foxtrot
*
Is that Hollywood calling for Diana?
No, it’s the BBC Controllers requesting a meeting for
you and Brian ‘F’ Fortuna to discuss your use of
THE F WORD. . .

*

And finally – another F word. . . the fans! The Fortuna Fantastics keep cropping up everywhere – and seem to be getting younger and younger. . .

To finish, WOW Watchers, click here to read an article from The Mirror’s TV Editor Jane Simon.

MEDIA BITES:

2010-02-15T22:09:00.017Z

THE GOOD. . .

Radio Times
‘Pairing celebrity dancers with wheelchair users sounds like tabloid television, but the result is beautiful – and deadly serious.’ Danny Scott

‘There’s an obvious emotional weight to the Strictly-style story of first-timers finding their rhythm, but this is an absorbing contest in its own right. Training the couples is Brian Fortuna, who ditches his nice-guy persona and starts swearing and cracking the whip, eyes smouldering, top three buttons thrillingly undone.’ Jack Seale

Sunday Times
‘…a faithful and utterly compelling version of the popular Strictly format.’ Culture TV listings

The Independent
‘In Dancing on Wheels, the BBC provided a welcome variation on the increasingly mindless string of dance programmes dominating our screens. Six wheelchair-users are paired with "celebrity" partners, and given the chance to compete for a spot representing Great Britain in the Wheelchair Dance Sport European Championships. Honestly, I'd no idea such a sport existed, though it seems that's not saying much. It is, apparently, practised in more than 40 countries by upwards of 5,000 competitors.

‘Admittedly, the programme's choice of celebrity was a little random (Heather Small from M People, anyone? Jake Dean off of Hollyoaks?), as are the judges (two dancers from Strictly Come Dancing and the former wheelchair-basketball player Ade Adepitan), though that's more than offset by Brian Fortuna. He was in charge of coaching the contestants and was completely brilliant. Gone was the sappy nice guy persona he maintains on Strictly, replaced instead by a kind of foul-mouthed New York stage school sass. When the peculiarly sideburned James (accompanied by TV presenter Caroline Flack) dared to criticise his choreography, he virtually hit the wall, leaping all over the place spitting profanities. He was perfect. Though I do wish he'd stop wearing that stupid baseball cap.

‘Each week, one couple is eliminated. Last night, it was the lovely Carolyne and her partner, the former rugby league player Martin Offiah, which was a shame because they were one of my favourites. Now Carolyne's out of the running, I'm throwing my weight firmly behind Di to win. She's got a wicked sense of humour, and plenty of guts. Much to her delight, she's partnered by Mark Foster. "Aren't I a lucky girl?" she giggles. Actually, I'd say he's the lucky one’ Alice-Azania Jarvis

Time Out
‘Another week, another competitive dancing showcase. And annoyingly, its tougher to be dismissively cynical about this one. Dancing on Wheels features wheelchair users competing in a combi event which involves one able-bodied partner. On paper, it could be fist-bitingly patronising, but happily everything about this competition is serious and unsentimental. That’s partly thanks to the competitors,who are a feisty, cheerfully argumentative bunch (particularly Diana, pictured who ‘doesn’t want to be this show’s John Sergeant’), but mainly down to mentor Brian Fortuna. Brian’s a sharp-tongued, occasionally snarky presence and a hard taskmaster, towards both able-bodied and disabled contestants. Furthermore, the winners won’t be gushing their way to temporary media ubiquity……

‘It’s a shame a slot couldn’t be found for Dancing on Wheels on BBC1, as this could well be rather more stirring and less desperate than most talent shows in recent memory.’ Phil Harrison

.
THE NOT SO BAD. . .

The Sunday People
‘Finally a reality show that gets it right – BBC3’s Dancing With (sic) Wheels

‘Dance pro Brian Fortuna teaches six wheelchair users to ballroom dance, as each is paired with a celebrity. It’s Strictly Come Dancing – but where the contestants’ stories actually have a meaning and the effort and energy put in is genuinely impressive. (As opposed to the main show where the whopping great pay packet and desperation for fame take over).

'You just had to feel for contestant Di when she told us: ‘Just moving in a straight line is tricky.’ That’s alright luv, you should have seen Jo Wood. Just moving was tricky enough for her.’ Jon Wise – aka The Wise Man of TV

WOW BITES BACK (or is it a nibble?)
WOW says: Jon, Jon, Jon – could we please get the quote correct? What I actually said to Brian was: ‘Straight Lines? – F*** Off!’

. . .AND THE DOWNRIGHT UGLY

ASSUME OF THE WEEK (If you "assume", you make an ASS out of U and ME.)

Sunday Times
‘To end on the high point of the week: you remember Monkey Tennis? From Alan Partridge’s list of TV proposals that were patently absurd? This could be one of them. Dancing on Wheels. Almost literally car-crash broadcasting. I wish they’d filmed the meeting where the disability access convener proposed it. And, one by one, editors and commissioners nodded that they thought it was an innovative and entertaining idea whose time had come.

‘It’s not that dancing in a wheelchair is absurd. People can do whatever they want: dance in wheelchairs, without wheelchairs, in wheelbarrows. What was misbegotten was the format of pairing men and women with able-bodied partners who weren’t professional dancers but those celebrities bred specifically for reality shows, who then are made to do all the predictable, stressful “work”, get knocked out by judges and burst into tears. It’s not the wheelchair that’s humiliating, it’s the vile format pasted onto the disabled to give it an extra twist of pathos. And what does wheelchair dancing look like? What do you think? Silly and kitsch. If it were in a club or at a wedding, it would be as exciting and touching as anyone else dancing. In a reality show, it’s manipulation on wheels.' AA Gill: The Culture
.

WOW Bites Back:

WOW says: Nice Food Critic, Shame about the Novel, eh Adrian? Expect you may well get gout from all that lovely food you endlessly consume (or God forbid end up with a disintegrating leg due to a poisoned oyster like your food fight friend Michael Winner) and have to resort to wheels or even a wheelbarrow to get into the lovely restaurants you so frequently inhabit. That’s if you can get in, of course. Wonder if you’d look Silly and Kitsch?

WOW Watchers: More Reviews/Previews next week….

The Auditions: Stage One

2010-02-13T22:15:00.009Z

March /April 2009

Everything about me is false. . . except for my personality (and my breasts).

For years, in fact, forever, I have been a very low maintenance sort of woman. All that is changing – I have in the last few weeks, installed hair extensions, applied false nails, temporary false eyelashes, and a rather Katie Pricey tan in a concerted effort to make myself feel better – and with the hope that I will wow them at the first dance audition.

I have until now, poo-pooed these self obsessed beasts that rant on and on about pampering, spas, cosmetic surgery techniques, latest handbags, shoes etc. I have been rather disdainful of their total inability to garner some self-esteem with personality transplants instead of breast implants. Until I, having been crying approx two hours a day, took a good look at myself in the mirror and so did not like what was reflected back. But one good thing about heartache – it does wonder for the figure, ladies. I announce the latest in fad diets – The Heartbreak Diet: Meet an utter cad, fall madly in love, get him to smash your heart in pieces and just watch that weight melt away – easy!

But back to the face – and the self-esteem – both heavy with the lines of life, and love.

Not any more. Thanks to false applications and Power Plate – an initially tortuous machine that vibrates every single piece of you while you hold yourself in body-building poses that even Madonna would be proud of. The first time I went to Power Plate I stood on it for 30 seconds and ached for 30 hours afterwards.

The first time one of my BF’s went on it, she had an orgasm – but then she was sitting on it. I have subsequently sat on it, stood away from it holding straps and no, no orgasm yet but am toning up really nicely. It is the ideal form of exercise for us crips – I am a now a Movers and Shapers (shakers?!) core-strengthening fan.

All this external effort has still not upped my ‘self-esteem’ enough however and have asked my dear friend Jax to hold my hand for the first audition. It was held in Stratford, we got a cab there and as soon as I wheeled in, thought "oh, no, oh no, I am way way too old".

Kaaj

Saw Kaaj from Fever Media – loved her as much in person as on phone and email and Leanne Grose who looked her usual gorgeous self.

Leanne

Smiled at everyone else and then left the building. Jax and I escaped outside for a coffee and a pep talk. Er, she convinced me to go back in…! (I’m too old, I’m too old – Jax wanted to slap me I think).

First stage was a filmed interview with one of producers, Neil, who is hilarious and very very clever. He had obviously been charged with asking some fairly standard questions but we very soon went ‘off piste’. "So Diana, what sort of exercise do you do?" "Housework and sex, Neil, although sex has dropped off a bit recently."

Neil and Kaaj

(I loved Neil and his keen mind - I could imagine working with him – and throughout the whole interview am thinking, I want this, I want to do this show, I need to dance) At the end of the 20 min interview: "Diana, can you be a bit of bitch?" "Moi? No never…although I will be, shall we say, firm, if I think someone is being bullied…."

Spoke briefly with the Exec Producer, David Tibballs afterwards. Someone from the production had already hinted that the dance partners of the chosen wheelie dancers would be Strictly Professionals and David asked "If that was the case, who do you see yourself with?" "Ian Waite" I said very quickly. "He looks gorgeous and he seems to be a very lovely, patient person with his celeb partners."

I am loving this programme more and more I thought.

Don’t be desperate though. They are seeking personality as well as ability to dance.

THE UNREAL WORLD OF REALITY TELEVISION

2010-02-10T10:43:00.020Z

DANCING ON WHEELS

aka
HEELIES AND WHEELIES
I’M A RASPBERRY – GET ME OUT OF HERE!
THE EGO HAS LANDED
STRICTLY COME
THE (S)EX FACTOR
POPPER IDOL (NB: Wardrobe Fever Productions)
MEALIES ON WHEELIES (Channel 4 Production, Sponsored by Saga, starring Steve and Lucy)
HOLE IN THE FLOOR (featuring Mark Foster, Hollywood Hill and a missing anti-tip wheel)

THE CAST - STARRING:

BRIAN fantastic FORTUNA aka The Boss, TC (Tom Cruise)
* PIPPA ‘Gone with the Wind’ ROBERTS aka The Maltese Falcon
and
KRISTINA Strictly no Sergeant RHIANIOFF aka Marilyn Monroe
* SANDRA fantastic FORTUNA and marvellous MONICA
* DIANA Mermaid MORGAN-HILL
aka Hollywood Hill, Dirty Diana (rip MJ), Drama Queen,
Hopalong, Cry Baby, The Horn of Plenty and
occasional Princess and Lady
*

HARRY man crush MAULE and PAUL pass me The Prodigy JACOB
*

JAMES bunny hop O’SHEA
* SIMONE MILANI and CAROLYNE UNDERWOOD
*

Dancing On Wheels also stars - THE CELEBRITIES
(AKA ‘THE EXTRAS’)

MARK Mr Neptune FOSTER
aka
Cockfoster, the Body, Greek God….ad infintum,
previously known as: Stick Insect on Acid (RIP)
*
HEATHER the Rack SMALL
*

MICHELLE Disney Princess GAYLE
*
CAROLINE (she’s the really fit one) FLACK
*
KEVIN strictly loads of Camilla SACRE, KRISTINA
and MARTIN chariots of cash OFFIAH

Why did I apply?

2010-02-10T10:17:00.010Z

March 2009

Just when you thought life couldn’t get any worse. It does. Cannot say anything more on these matters except I am feeling utterly heartbroken and extremely unlucky. Don’t think have felt this bad since 1990, and am, for the first time in nearly 20 years, desperately trying to quell the rising tide of self-pity, an emotion that I have never felt before.
.
False legs weighing heavy, I limped badly into the office and half blind with tears sniffed my way through the 150 or so emails that had accumulated in my weeks enforced leave. In amongst all the usual NHS communications, editorial for the magazine, questions from advertisers, bleating unpleasant comments from permanently angry amputees, distressed pleas for info from new amputees, ads for viagra and Nigerian multi-millionaires looking for safe houses for their fortunes (how did these latter ones get through the NHS firewalls?) there were the usual rash of media requests …I only took real note of one, such note in fact that I replied.
.

From all these years of seeing first hand these media requests – everything from Big Brother, Beyond Boundaries to the usual scatter of weekly magazine requests for anything sensational and especially prurient, have never ever considered anything but this request struck a chord deep within me. It was from a production company called Fever Media who are making a programme with provisional title, Dancing On Wheels – described as bit like Strictly, but with wheelchairs. Vaguely recall seeing something about wheelie dancing but had dismissed it – placing it squarely in the dance sector assigned ‘Morris’ Dancing, with all its strange connotations of cultish groups wearing beards, stinking of beer and whacking shit out of each other with sticks.
.
And that’s just the women!

.
I have seen, and taken part in, wheelie disco dancing - at the tennis tournaments and am much admiring of the skill involved in moving a metal chair so in time it looks cool. But I cannot do 'wheelies' due to the axel plate setting required for my disability and normally stand and move my right below knee prosthetic and pivot on my above knee prosthetic and make up for lack of lower movement with an awful lot of arm and hand wafting. Had this sudden and inexplicable desire to do something completely different, to be taken out of my tortuous and currently extremely harrowing comfort zone into different world. And I liked the tone of the email – it was highly professional, personally addressed and oh sod it I thought.
.
It’s either that or audition for Look Good Naked. I don’t bloody well think so. Would not want that patronising breast adoring git grabbing Gok Wan delving into my bits thanks very much. So all I said in response to Fever’s request was: 'Thanks very much you are too late for the magazine deadline but will put info about this very interesting project on website. (Am double leg amputee – one below knee, one above and use a wheelchair – might have a go myself.).'
.

A young high-energy woman, Kaaj, then phoned twice chasing me up, I reluctantly sent through a couple of glam pix to her at Fever, which were a tad past their sell-by date (ur, by about 10 years) thinking that while it would be so much fun, I am v probably 20 years above the age limit for these types of programmes but as my personal life has the tang of Jeremy Kyle to it these days, might as well focus any remaining energies on what can potentially be good about reality tv - a whole new world and learning something new.
.
I want to run for the hills, away from every problem and in particularly from myself - but of course, I can't.
.
When the going gets tough, the tough take action.

You're So Vain

2009-01-02T15:49:00.010Z

You probably think this post is about you. . .
(Ed: er, it is!)

late 1970s pic
taken for the "Miss Wilmslow World" beauty competition!
(I came 3rd)

*
mid 1980s, photography by John Stoddart

John Stoddart

*

1990, Sven Arnstein

Sven Arnstein

*

early 1990s, photography by David Watts

*
late 1990s, photography by Clive Arrowsmith

Clive Arrowsmith

late 1990s, pic taken for Daily Mail feature

2010, photography by Chris Gray

Chris Gray

THE KISS OF CHAOS

2009-01-01T19:33:00.008Z

A Tale of Sport, Sex & Kiss 'n' Tell

Prologue

‘I tend to think that cricket is the greatest thing
that God ever created on earth –
certainly greater than sex,
although sex isn’t too bad either.’
Harold Pinter

Burnt onto the memory, to be retrieved at any time.

The relentless tick of time softens to a whisper when white figures walk across a green field on an English summer day. They walk in athletic grace to the hand flourishes of their captain who pulls and pushes them forwards, then backwards, conducting them as chess pieces to the tune of his strategy.

She sits and watches, one spectator amongst the thousands, breathing in the warm air, one hand resting on the book that lies on her lap, holding her other hand at eyebrow level, a salute to the sun that pours its Indian summer light into the stadium.

The men lift their caps, wipe sweat from their hands and splay their legs to a half crouch, every limb as still and supple as the panther before strike. The bowler counts deliberate steps away from the crease, licking his hand and rubbing the red ball, as hard as a cherry stone, high on his thigh. Reaching down, he scrapes fine dust from the earth and grinds it into the ball’s white stitched seam, then polishes it into his trousers, leaving streaks the colour of burgundy at hip and groin. He pivots to stare at the batsman who makes one last jab at the ground with his bat before settling into his ready position, the bat now tapping at his feet. The bowler begins a shuffled trot towards him.

Close to the pitch, six men encircle the batsman, their hands cupped, an open-handed prayer to the blue sky. The wicket keeper punches the leather of his gloves together and squats down as the outfielders walk in rhythm with the bowler’s movement, united in a slow dancing net of human muscle and sinew.

The bowler’s last strides lengthen in power and speed, his run now balanced and his arm windmills, propelling the red missile at 99 miles per hour, it smacks the pitch and rears up in searing flight. The batsman swings defensively. The knock of bat on ball reverberates in the air before the ball clips upwards into the sky and drops fast as a rock into the open hands of a fielder. The spectators around the ground rise in one, the man-song of joy filling the air.

The players hold their arms aloft, shouting at the umpire, who stands, his hands behind his back, a statute of stone. He pulls his right hand, shooting his finger upwards and says, ‘Out.’ Head-down the batsman’s posture slumps, he stares at the ground, removing one batting glove with his teeth, shoves the bat under his arm, his mouth moving violently, as if to curse the world.

She stands, drinking in the elation of the scenes before her, breathing in the heady atmosphere of a dying summer, her mind a swirl of day-dream and hope.

Later, as shadows begin their slow, inky cast, she steps from the car and soft-footed, makes her way through the crowds, their pleas for autographs buzzing into the mellow light of the fading sun. A young woman amongst a sea of men and boys, she moves through the path they instinctively create for her, aware of the intensity on her face, her long hair a waterfall of light. She wears all white but for the red poppies embroidered down the sleeve of the linen blouse that reveals her shoulders and skin like warm honey.

He walks ahead of the others, ignoring all the calls for his attention until.

Until he hears her call his name.

He turns and she is close and their eyes widen as they look at each other, a reflection of approval and desire. The crowds have hushed and some watch them murmur together, their two bodies leaning into each other, without touching.

*

Chapter One
Butterfly Kiss

‘The flapping of a single butterfly’s wings today
produces a tiny change
in the state of the atmosphere.’
Ian Stewart,
Does God Play Dice? The Mathematics of Chaos

As Roberta Lawrence paces through the vast terminal of Heathrow’s fourth, she is seeking further signs that she should not be boarding flight no 249 for Barbados.

The first sign to precipitate this anxiety was a dream that had woken her, wrapped in the sweaty heat of tumbled duvet, at three in the morning. Against a background of gossamer cloud, a simple sentence had been whispered deeply into her ears by a voice she knows so well– her father’s.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll come to collect you.’

Which was pleasant. Except her father had died five years previously and she was about to embark an aircraft that will place her 35,000 feet up, flying at over 500 miles per hour, speeding through clouds she will barely see, and had hardly seen in her dream. Collect from where?

She can still hear his words now, thrumming in her brain like a hummingbird, as she weaves her way through the mass of passengers and airport staff. And it may be April,

but it is the eleventh, which she has taken for another possible sign. The cataclysmic vision of two planes torching the twin towers and the buildings fall to white ashes and dust is, she knows, seared onto everyone’s brain, but really, does she have to dwell on this brutalising iconic tragedy at this particular moment? She sees not one, but two policemen in black and white uniforms padding their arsenal of guns across the concourse. Bullet- proof clothing swells their stomachs like well fed magpies, and the nerves scratching at her throat are momentarily soothed. One for sorrow, two for joy.

The thin, cold air and grey seal skies of the last days of a British winter have been left behind for the 10,000 occupants of the terminal. Cocooned by the heavily heated expanse of space, buoyed up with the glossy boutiques, cafes and duty free, everyone’s adrenalin is pumped up with the prospect of international travel. However, they represent a mere five percent of the total daily flow of passengers travelling in and out of the largest airport in the world so it is hardly surprising that the ground staff hold looks on their faces that speak of a weariness, a slightly defensive attitude as if at any moment, any one of the thousand they would check in could turn nasty, may complain of seating arrangements, a desire for proximity to the exits, a need to be seated away from the fat, the very young or the very old.

Roberta had therefore mirrored the slight smile of the ground steward as she checked in. Handing over her passport and her daughter, Mallory’s, she had increased the wattage of her own smile to full beam and enquired about an upgrade, believing that flying in the comfort of business class would help alleviate her fear, but her query had been met with the short, un-negotiable response, ‘Sorry, We’re full’. Heaving the suitcase onto the scales, she had acknowledged her own packing, a comment playing on her lips that while the suitcase housed both sets of their clothes, and while she was responsible for her own outfits and toiletries, she could not entirely guarantee her daughter’s. She had kept the quip to herself

however, these were nervy times in the airline industry, best to be polite, business-like. She was, after all, just a number to them. And her seat number today? 13A. Her smile had fallen away at the sight of that black typed sign on the boarding pass, sweetly acknowledged by the steward, who said, ‘Lucky for some,’ with an ironic nod of her groomed head.

So, there was sign number three. Roberta pulls her shoulder’s back, shoving her handbag and holdall over her shoulder as she slams the trolley into the metallic mouth of another. She must arrest this train of thought now. As for even considering the cliché of superstition as a ‘sign.’ She is a personal injury lawyer, for goodness sake! Her career is founded upon the dry logic of statistics, the rigid code of law. And she believes that the statistics for dying in a plane crash currently stand at one in 25 million. Depending, of course, on who is compiling the actuary figures. And still the sensation of butterfly wings dissolving in her stomach persists, along with the resounding echo of her father’s voice, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll come to collect you.’

The shutter boards clacking through their destinations only remind her of some dreadful air crash movie, and when she sees a little boy playing with a toy plane, it only serves to create the possibility of a wicked version of God, high in the skies, deciding to have a little fun and smashing one of his planes to the ground like a playground bully. She knows from her job that most accidents are caused by human error. And the odds are stacked in her favour, aren’t they?

Perhaps if she caught up with her daughter, she could distract herself from these tortuous thoughts. But Mallory, having stood wordless by her mother while they checked in, has adopted the stride pattern of an extremely independent toddler and while keeping her mother within view if she wishes, wants to give everyone around them the impression that they are not actually travelling together.

Mallory's’ mp3 player is all the communication she requires. The hiss and bass beat give her long jeaned legs a pleasing sway of rhythm that does not go un-noticed by nearly all who pass her. The men, especially, their discreet glances becoming head turning stares as they soak in her beauty with their eyes. Her hair, a silk sheet of pale bronze, swings as she walks. She holds her head high, her cat green eyes looking straight ahead, her steps exuding the coltish energy of a thoroughbred racehorse. She seems oblivious to the looks she receives, her insouciance only serving to increase further her level of attraction. Over the last two years Roberta has noticed an acceleration in this attention, and where once she had always felt a surging pride, she acknowledges that envy has now been added into the emotional mix. Whenever she walks alongside her 14 years old daughter, the glances seem to pass straight through her, or over her, alighting only on Mallory, rendering Roberta invisible. It was as if she were wearing a special cloak, designed for any woman pushing forty. Sometimes she has the sensation that she was gradually being rubbed out of life, like a fading antique painting, its colours muted with age, waiting for the hand of loving restoration.

Not that Roberta is unattractive. Over the years she has developed her own style, described by her friend Katie as ‘thrown together glamour.’ Tailored trousers, expensive shoes and well cut jackets are her wardrobe staples and her look is softened by the pleasing features of her classically pretty face with its large grey eyes, a slight upward turn in the nose, and a naturally full, almost pouty mouth, all framed with honey coloured hair. Her hands and neck are relatively line free and she keeps them creamed, knowing that these characteristics of the body can so easily be hallmarked with the stamp of time. As long as the mirror was not harsh, and the lighting reasonably soft, she can produce, with a deft application of ‘natural looking make-up’, a pleasing result, the icing on an overall package that says ‘I have lived, but there is still some living to do.’ Her torso still hints at curves, although if she fails to conduct a rigorous exercise routine at least three times a week she feels a thickening in the waist, a tightening in the arms of her jackets.

Mallory has passed through security and turns to seek out her Mother. Latching eye contact, she mimes with her hands the cupping sign for coffee and then, hoiking her bag onto her shoulder, splays her hands to inform that she is off to buy magazines. Roberta smiles her approval and steps up to place her two bags onto the belt of the security machine. She watches them squash their way through the black rubber vents into X-ray and looks at the man in front of her, dressed in baggy trousers, a thick sweater slung around his neck. He walks through the arch of the gate and a high pitched staccato beep fills the air, raising the heads of the security staff, and three of them move forward, toes clenched, at the possibility of a little action, a chance to do their job. The intermittent whining causes Roberta’s hands to stiffen and her heart rate bump up a beat, but there is no drama, nor further sign. A couple of rogue coins in the man’s trouser pocket are the culprits and he is cleared after fisting the change into a saucer and moves through the arch again.

She holds her breath as she passes under the detector, feeling naked and insecure, wondering if X Ray specs have been invented. She steps out of the wired up gateway, preparing to exhale, when she is beckoned over by a gaunt security man, directing her with his white- gloved hand, indicating come hither with his index finger of prophylactic doom. Oh dear, she catches her breath, another sign.

She walks over to the wooden trestle table, unwarranted guilt filling her lungs, her hands clammy with perspiration.

‘Morning Mam. These yours?’

She affirms weakly, looking at her possessions, a large black designer handbag and the scruffy tapestry holdall. She thinks about the tiny brown prescription bottle of tablets, ordered by begging letter via her GP. Not valium, but still, a sedative or sorts and this ‘mother’s little helper’ is on prescription, it is legal, it must be fine, although she does not need any public reminders that she has a fear of flying. Then there is the additional embarrassment of the shabby tapestry holdall sitting on the table, like a tramp at a black tie ball. No wonder she didn’t get an upgrade.

He begins by plundering the contents of her handbag, unzipping the make up purse and then looking at her face as he prods two fingers through the ample contents, which seem to contradict the natural effect she likes to achieve. An opened packet of tissues, passport and airline documents and her wallet, heavy with coins and three month’s backlog of receipts, a brush matted with a cobweb of hair, two chocolate bar wrappings, scrunched into tight balls, and a photo of Mallory aged four dressed as a fairy, are inspected, then put back.

His arm disappears beyond his elbow as he roots around in the large holdall, pulling out the contents that include two books, a legal thriller and a collection of romantic poetry, a bottle of water and a cotton jumper. He discovers two pairs of knickers, white lace, bottom- covering, clean. Thank Goodness. She may be 41 but she occasionally, still follows her mother’s advice – ‘always wear nice underwear dear, just in case, you know, you get run over.’ Or plummet from the sky from six miles up. He moves them, carefully, to one side and pulls out the last item – a large toiletry bag. Uh Oh. For some reason this feels like the grand finale, the airline security version of pulling the rabbit out of the hat. Something is nipping at her conscience, but the detail is lost in the fur of thoughts now whirling in her head.

He unpeels and stretches the flower patterned bag wide, moving his fingers around the various contents, face cream, sun tan lotion, blister pack of paracetamol and a sachet of hair conditioner are all laid to one side, and then he finds the brown bottle. He holds the tiny glass container of tablets up to an imaginary light, giving it a heavy shake and raising one eyebrow at the same time. Six pills rattle loudly. Roberta can feel her face flush and she holds one hand to the warmth, as if to assuage the heat. He puts the bottle away and then routing deeper, past the face flannel, under the cotton wool pads, his rubbered fingers unearth a pair of nail scissors, a small canister of hairspray, tweezers, and finally, with a dramatic flourish, like an efficient waiter brandishing a silver fork, he finds and lays down the metallic nail file on the table. He stares at the items and then at Roberta.

‘Oops’ she mouths, soundlessly.

Tabloid headlines flash in front of her eyes. ‘Lawyer’s Anti Terrorist Tools Exposed!’, ‘Heathrow Security Discover Housewife with the Real Weapons of Mass Destruction’.

Not that she would ever use these items in that manner. It’s just good to know they’re around, rather like having your keys bunched in your hand if you’re walking home at night, alone.

She folds her arms around her waist.

‘We’ll have to confiscate these items Madam.’

The glimmer of a smile creases one side of his thin mouth. He raises one hand and points a bony finger at a large white sign with black symbols slashed through with red crosses. So much for her sign seeking. She’d missed the biggest sign of all. Oh, how he is going to chuckle with his mates later, in his tea break, over a cup of tea and stale biscuits. He will be bent double, hiccupping with laughter as he regales the story of how he prevented one woman from boarding with items that would unleash hell on any suspected terrorist.

She reels away from table, drunk with shame, trying to shut down the crackle of the jumbo sized plastic bag as her offending items are thrown in, believing that she is being observed by other travellers for all the wrong reasons. She decides to lose herself in the maze of Duty Free in an attempt to calm down before she locates Mallory.

White lab coated women, their faces glossy masks of make-up, stand in strategic positions at the entrance, spraying their guns of perfume, filling the air with the chemical stench of combining scents. Roberta moves through quickly, past the golden pyramids of chocolate, the daylight cellars of wines and spirits and the stacked cartons of cigarettes. The desire to smoke rises in her like the words of a favourite love song.

She walks out of the store, determined to batten down the smoky seduction of memory trying to make space in her head, and heads for one of the numerous coffee stops. She will treat herself to a frothy latte, with a double shot of caffeine, the only bad habit she will not relinquish. Well, caffeine, and chocolate, and good quality red wine. And she needs to take one of those sedatives, possibly two, in order to counteract the effects of the caffeine, so by the time she boards the plane, she will be in a state of hazy stupor, anaesthetised to the rising wash of panic thudding through her veins.

Mallory sits in a bucket seat close to the departure lounge desk, her long legs crossed at the ankle, twitching her head to the music pounding her eardrums. Over three hundred people are packed into the lounge but she remains locked into the sound track of her musical world until a baby of indeterminate sex, strapped in a pushchair and pulling at a bottle of water stares at her. The baby is twirling a fat finger in its mop of hair and barely blinking, and seems determined to hook her attention. Mallory winks and pulls her tongue quickly, like a lizard snaring a fly. The baby giggles, a delicious cackle, and holding the bottle away from its mouth, bounces it up and down, scattering a mist of droplets to the air. Mallory grins and gurnies, cross eyed, putting one finger on her nose. The baby snorts in delight, and attempts to mimic her, landing a chubby finger on its cheek, making them both laugh.

Roberta approaches, breathing heavily, her jaw moving frantically. She sits down heavily.

‘Gosh, got a bit delayed there. Never mind, here now, did you get the magazines?’

‘What?’ Mallory extracts one ear plug and looks at her mother’s face, then mouth, and the slightest look of disdain shadows her own features..

‘What are you chewing?’

‘Ur, Chewing gum’.

Mallory’s smooth forehead creases, a curious frown. She leans into her Mother and sniffs.

‘It smells funny’.

Roberta coughs as the peppery nicotine hits the back of her throat.

‘New brand of mint, I think. Which magazines did you get? Vogue looked good, someone had it at the off...’

She stops as she notices Mallory is staring at something to their right, her lips slightly open, dazed.

‘Oh My God, look, look who it is’. She hisses. ‘No, don’t stare’. She puts one hand up to her mouth.
‘It's him.’

Her gaze has sharpened, the pupils in her eyes dilating like camera lenses. Three metres away a young man walks between two bulky men in funereal black ties and suits, wearing sunglasses. He is slight in build, wearing designer jeans, white t shirt and a battered leather flying jacket. His hair, dark as a raven’s wing, feathers the pale, perfect complexion of his face. There is a lupine quality to him, and his eyes are translucent, like a husky dog’s. Pale opal blue in colour, they manage to take in a view of everyone in the terminal lounge with the power of a lighthouse sweeping dark rocks.

Roberta does stare for a moment, as do nearly all the other passengers, and a vacuum of silence descends, a few seconds of quiet as heads raise up, distracted from their reading and chat, halted by the sight of the rock star Tomas Delfino.

Singer and bass player with his band Blowbach, his music, a mongrel mix of rock and classical, may not be to everyone’s taste, but two platinum selling albums and a constant media exposure have ensured his infamy. They continue to look, sure in their knowledge of him, gleaned in a hundred clips from the television, a continual smattering and splashing of information in newspapers and magazines, thousands of hours of air play for his music. They know his habits, (Marlboro Lights, Jack Daniels whiskey,) his loves (fresh faced models hovering around the age of 18) his hates (rival rock bands, parents,) his homes (Ireland, New York, South of France), even choice of drug (busted for cocaine, cannabis to ‘assist’ his ‘song-writing’).

Tomas Delfino wears the demeanour of someone who is used to being observed at all times in public. He walks lightly, slowly, nodding his head and smiling at the animated chatter of two female air stewards who are directing him to a panel of white, a door in the grey wall behind the departure desk. As he steps through he turns and looks again at his audience, honing in on Mallory with a glance that is fleeting, but intense. She pulls out her other ear plug and licks, then bites her bottom lip.

‘You should have got his autograph,’ says Roberta.

‘That’s so uncool,’ snaps Mallory. ‘He’s even better looking in real life. I can’t wait to tell Ana. Can’t believe I left my mobile at home. Can’t believe I’m listening to his music, and there he is. That is so random. Do you think he’s going to Barbados? On the same plane?’

‘Doubt it darling.’ Says Roberta, slowly, as if to calm her jittery daughter. ‘Probably heading for a private jet.’ And then mutters to herself in a tone of forced reassurance, ‘For his own private island.’

Roberta looks out of the plate glass windows to the expanse of tarmac and runways, to the airport trucks and cars and the baggage loading vans, criss crossing the perimeters of the secure areas. Their plane sits waiting, an enormous white goose of metal, being force fed its vast fuel requirement via a hatchway below its beak where the pilots will sit. The thick tubing snaking its way up into the plane reminds her of an umbilical cord, attached to the petrol tanks, on solid ground. Which is where it should remain. Not flying off, its belly weighted with a thousand suitcases. She has chewed all the nicotine from the gum and her jaw aches, she swallows back a wave of nausea. She takes out the mangled piece of rubber, folding it tightly into a tissue in her bag.

Mallory stands up, and, holding the reins of her headphones, flips her head up and down, causing her thick mane of hair to swoosh, as if her hair was wet and she was emerging from the sea. A man sitting nearby studies her, his eyes alight with interest. The woman sitting next to him reaches for his hand, crushing it so that he winces, and lowers his gaze back to the floor.

‘Don’t do that,’ says Roberta. ‘One day you may knock yourself out. You could just brush your hair like everyone else.’

Her daughter sighs, raising her eyes upwards, and re-inserting her earplugs, sits neatly back into her seat, turning the volume dial up on her music, tapping one foot furiously.

The tune to It's Not Unusual by Tom Jones begins to ring out from Roberta’s handbag, rising in volume, demanding a response. She grapples with the bag’s interior, placing tickets and passport between her teeth, scrabbling to take the call. As she picks up the phone she drops the passport from her mouth, like an obedient dog dropping a newspaper. It could be work, she could be called back into the office for an emergency meeting. ‘Oh please, please,’ pleads her inner voice. ‘ How dramatic, to be pulled back from the plane so close to take-off. I knew my instincts were right.’ But the phone’s ring stops, switching into voice mail. She looks at the tiny window, widening and then closing her eyes to see the number.

Missed call: Number unavailable.

‘Hi Darling. Its me. Amazing time, didn’t go to Greece, I’m in Africa, going on safari tomorrow with…,’ The voice is disturbed by a long distance crackle then continues, ‘longing to see you, amazing…,’ another break, then, ‘voodoo. Suppose you might already be in Barbados. I’ll be back next week, hope...’ The message guillotines.

Roberta replay’s Katie’s words, pressing the phone snug against her ear, attempting to pick up the missing diction, but it plays the same message.

How comforting to hear her voice though. Lucky Katie Springer, sunning herself in Kenya, free as a bird, and it sounds as though she has met someone. It would seem that her best friend’s life was changing for the better.

Married to Jack Springer for fifteen years, Katie had returned to their grand home in Wandsworth two years ago to find her husband sitting in the kitchen, a half drunk bottle of brandy in front of him. He was leaving her, for someone he’d met at work, called Sam. She had taken the news well, admitting to herself that she had for some time imagined, if not fantasised, that some lithe secretary would tempt him out of their marriage, which for many years had been less of a partnership, more of a sinking ship. And Sam, it seemed, would be the beach on which Jack would wreck. They had become a couple who held up to the outside world a very different image to the reality of their internal lives, externally smiling luxurious wealth, but sharing, privately little. She could imagine a future without him. However, when she realised that Sam was not a Samantha, her long past with him began to disintegrate as well. Katie’s calm acceptance of the separation, something that she had initially viewed as inevitable, began to leak bitter resentment and boiled up into hot anger, a dormant volcano suddenly exploding into life.

‘Never mind metrosexual. He is a greedy, sodding, multi-sexual.’

She had spat out on one of many nights she and Roberta had stayed up, drinking, talking divorce, a subject Roberta knew something about, although her own circumstance, her divorce from her husband Conrad, was far less dramatic, considerably more controlled.

‘How could he, all those years, knowing, just knowing that he’, Katie had faltered, then gulped another shot of tequila, her eyes blazing with indignation.

‘Am going to destroy all my brain cells with this, wipe the past, so it’s blotted out.’ She had held the shot glass up, and stared at the fireplace, debating whether to throw it, a token to aid the smashing of her past.

‘I am going to obliterate 15 years. Oh, but what about my boy, my Finn?’

The births of Finn and Mallory had initiated the bond of friendship between Roberta and Katie. They had met at post natal classes, both holding their tiny blanketed babies to their chests, in that paradoxical style, a combination of firm strength, but also soft and tender, as if carrying the most precious of all bunches of flowers. They had agreed years later that it had been a type of ‘friends at first sight’ sort of moment, cemented when, as the practise nurse droned on about bathing baby, breast feeding baby, and stating again the six weeks hiatus before sexual relations should commence, Katie had whispered into Roberta’s ear ‘Don’t know about you, but sex is last thing on my mind. And next time, if there ever is a next time, I am going to insist on a caesarean. Who wants a fanny like the M6?’

Roberta had snorted with laughter, and the nurse had looked on both of them as naughty schoolgirls, in a classroom full of serious, hormone heavy mothers.

Roberta looks at Mallory, her leg and foot still tapping to the beat of Blowbach, staring dreamily at the white panel door through which Tomas Delfino had exited. She and Katie had conceived big plans for Finn and Mallory, even jokingly planning a future marriage, chuckling with glee at the prospect of arranged marriage and ‘Mother In Laws’ being best friends. How distant that possibility was now. They hardly ever saw Finn. A year ago, having endured the trauma of his parents divorce, he had demanded that he should go to boarding school, preferring, he announced, ‘the company of strangers, rather than be caught up in the confused shenanigans of his parents.’ And so Katie, with long stretches of time in front of her, and a substantial divorce settlement in the bank, had taken her best friend’s advice to heart, a motto that Roberta had stolen from a Judith Gist quote:’ get a lawyer, get a job, get laid’. Katie had leapfrogged from ‘lawyer’ to’ laid’, but spending money, going on adventures, seeking new love, Roberta supposed this was job-like, especially post 40. High maintenance management plus an open mind plus determination seemed to be the job spec required to secure a new mate these days. Lucky Katie. It sounded as if she was getting laid in Africa. And what was that about voodoo? Roberta takes the little white pill with a swig of water and listens to her friend’s message again, serving as it does, to distract her further into another person’s journey, away from the thought of her own impending flight.

Twenty minutes later they are strapped into their seats on the plane. Mallory pants hot breath onto the freezing cold of the oval window, painting hearts onto the thick glass, scoring them through the middle with an arrow. Roberta flicks violently through the magazine that lies on her lap, looking at every polished photograph but absorbing nothing. Needles of sweat prick at her armpits, and her instinct is still telling her to get off the plane. The sedative is clearly not working. As the engines begin their long wind-up, her heart beats upwards, in sync with their whining roar.

Unlike everyone else, seasoned air travellers one and all, she focuses her attention on the attractive air steward going through the safety procedures, but the only thoughts that plunders her mind are, ‘come on let’s be honest here, if we’re going down, would we really care about the strip lighting? And are there really life jackets under the seat?’ She doesn’t check, in case there aren’t, noting that it probably be a good place to put a bomb. Instead, she looks up the aisle, to the cockpit door, cranking up an image of the captain and co-pilots, calmly applying their cross-checking procedures, in supreme control. The plane reverses from the stand, and begins its long rumble towards the runway. Maybe she should start praying now. Normally, she saves the prayers until the swoop of take-off but she feels so nervous she could be physically sick and she stares at the white paper bag, caged into the pocket in front of her. She turns to look at Mallory who is staring out of the window, her long hair a curtain obscuring her own view of terra firma. When was the last time they went to church? Christmas – Mallory singing a solo in the school choir. An occasion that had made Roberta’s heart sing with pride, rather than swollen her soul with prayer.

They are sat on the wing, statistically, the safest place and she forces herself to picture the spears of the engines, pregnant with power. The engines are half way through their slow scream to acceleration and she imagines she can feel the weight of the captain’s responsibility, by way of a strange osmosis filtering down through the compressed air that hisses over her head. ‘If I screw up now’, he might be thinking, ‘the stats are high that we’re all going to die.’ Only of course, he would never think like that, god-like confidence must be a pre-requisite for the job. The omnipotence overwhelms her, spiking her brain with fear. Her life was in someone else’s hands, someone she doesn’t know, will never meet and she doesn’t like it one jot.

The plane turns into the path of its allotted runway, and the engines commence their full throttled yell before taking the tons of metal and luggage and flesh fast along the short tread of tarmac and into their final thrust, a deafening soar. The rattle of force causes a locker to crash open. Roberta is throwing up the prayers now, one after the other, an internal meditation of ‘ Please God, Please God, don’t let us go down’. She looks at her hands, gripping the armrests so tightly that the bones of her knuckles protrude. The plane strains against the pull of gravity and she feels it at her lower back, super-gluing her to the seat, forcing her to think about sex, the thrill of concentrated pressure, although she can’t recall ever having sex this powerful.

Then, the silence. When the roar of engine dies and the aircraft banks and seems to slow so hard that it hovers, suspended at whim, floating in the air, a glider waiting to drop a couple of miles through the grey sky. Her ears are pressurised, but she strains, waiting, feeling to hear that the engines are still working. She closes her eyes. Instead she hears the seat belt signs beep and blink off and the measured rise and fall of the tannoyed voice of an air steward assure her of the arrival of hot and cold beverages, and the promise of a microwaved brunch.

Mallory has plugged herself into the plane’s music system and is pushing the button changer on the channels, attempting to release her seat belt with her left hand.

Roberta stops her with her arm and says, ‘No darling, better keep it on in case of sudden turbulence. Unless, you need the loo.’ She looks out of the window, and the plane rises again, taking them up to a flash of deep pink light, and a carpet of cloud that seems both dense and whispy, like candy floss.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll come to collect you.’

Well, if her father was around, she supposed this was where he would be, in this rose tinted heaven. The brilliant morning sun bouncing off the cloud infuses Mallory in a halo of orange and pink light. Gently, she removes her daughter’s hand from its pushing of buttons and holds it, kissing the centre of her soft, barely lined palm. Confident that no-one can observe them in their two seat enclosure, Mallory responds by holding onto her Mum’s hand and says:

‘I’m glad you’re coming. I mean, I would have been ok on my own, but it’s nicer to travel with someone, isn’t it? I think that Dad is pleased that you’re coming as well. ’

Mallory snuggles into her and Roberta puts her arm around to encircle her beauty, as if she were her baby again, smelling the top of her head, inhaling the freshly washed warmth of her hair, kissing the tiny stream of her parting, the white bone of her scalp. Mallory reaches to softly hold her Mum’s face still and delivers a butterfly kiss to her cheek, her long dark eyelashes fluttering fast, a ritual learnt when she was two, and never forgotten.

‘Flutterby’, she whispers, the word she had used for butterfly until she was three.

Perhaps the sedative has taken hold, or perhaps it is the love for her daughter that flows through her, burning up the anxiety faster than snow melting in sun, but Roberta is now sure that her faintly ridiculous sign-seeking is more to do with the obvious, the urbane, rather than anything dramatic or life-changing. Sometimes one’s instincts can be completely wrong. She recalls that there is a scientific principle, called Occam’s Razor, ‘All things being equal, the simplest explanation tends to be the correct one’. And the real reason she does not want to go to Barbados, strikes her, in a thunderbolt of clarity.

She doesn’t want to attend her ex husband’s wedding.