Pandering for attention

Chi Chi the Panda

In October 1966, Chi-Chi the giant panda hadn’t been as lucky as the England football team a few months earlier, as her introduction to An-An in Moscow Zoo was deemed a complete failure – even with extra time.
What people learned from this abortive attempt to increase the world’s declining panda population was: pandas clearly don’t all look the same.
It was halfway through the swinging sixties that the idea of Tinder was first thought up.
With the first series of Mr and Mrs being aired eighteen-months prior to the most public of unsuccessful dates, the respective Russian and English zoo-keepers might have learned the importance of being like-minded helps in searching for your BFF.
I watched the affable Derek Batey avidly as a nine-year-old in my Balham flat and cannot recall any successful panda (let alone two) being on the show, nor questions about your partner’s favourite bamboo flavour.
The average October temperature in Moscow is around two-degrees. So, An-An may not have been at his best, and female giant pandas are very shallow and are not attracted to pandas with a sense of humour.
I can imagine the scene at the introduction of the two animals at Moscow Zoo:
“Well, you don’t look much like your photo, do you?”
“Never mind that, have a suck on this bamboo.”
“Thanks, I might wait ‘til it’s warmer.”
Taxi for Miss Chi-Chi.

Highly strung

violin

Women have always frightened me. It stems from a concert I was part of when I was ten in 1967.
In a ruse to get off maths at my Balham primary school, violin lessons were offered. The consequences of this was me failing maths O-Level three times, the irony being I’m not first violin at the Royal Opera House.
I have a musical ear: I can sing, and, as a ten-year-old, adapted to playing the violin so proficiently I was invited to attend rehearsals for a concert to be given at an all-girls’ secondary school in Tooting: Garratt Green.
In my formative period of ten-years, I’d been mainly shielded from girls – apart from looking curiously at the covers of magazines (we never had in our house) at the barbers and my mum, twenty-four years my senior (girls in my class didn’t count, I’d known them since I was four, and they were all soppy anyway).
What I’d not encountered were ‘big’ girls – those taller and older than me and, especially the other violinists, more threatening.
However, and for an only child, most of the girls in the string section were like older sisters to me and I was put at ease – I think sharing my rosin helped.
I look back and amaze myself none of them put me inside my violin case. I like to think, being a bit nerdy, they felt sorry for me. Whenever our cross country runs from Bec took us near the school, I look back fondly at those girls, to whom I’m grateful, for preparing me for adolescence, something I’m probably still going through.

Fête worse than death

A view of a golden fish in a bag isolated on white background

It’s that time of year when normally we’d be attending our local village/school/church/diabolist commune fairs.
Sadly, none of us, this year, will be winning anything you wouldn’t dream of buying on a Tom-bola stall.
Discarded bottles, costing no more than 67p, from day trips to Calais in the late ‘80s, will still be remaining in the loft for another year.
I’m reminded of the only success at my Balham school fair.
Having previously won goldfish with shorter lifespans than the average housefly, one year I won a goldfish – it lived for eighteen years.
If it hadn’t had such a dreadful memory it would have been old enough to drive – remembering stopping distances would have proved a problem as it was constantly smashing into the side of its bowl.
During these eighteen years I tried to make its life as pleasant as possible: added a plastic diver for company; green foliage modelled on Tooting Bec Common (I assume it had been caught in one of the ponds, so this was a glimpse of “home”) and a signed copy of Moby Dick.
When it died, I wanted to give it a decent burial.  They weren’t too keen at the South London Crematorium (my suggestion of playing “For those in peril on the sea” as the curtain closed, being the nail in the coffin) so I packed him into his own coffin – a tin of daphnia – and threw him in the Wandle.
So, next time you’re watching Tooting & Mitcham, and you hear splashing from the nearby river, please remember Flipper.

Mrs Mills solves a problem like Maria

mrs mills

Not that I went to the theatre before the lockdown, but now, thespians around the world are bringing their offerings, using live streaming, into your front room.
To make this experience even more intimate I believe you should take part in the actual screening: if it’s Les Misérables then sling all your cushions onto the carpet and build a barricade; if it’s Lloyd-Webber’s Joseph and his technicolour dream coat, get that crochet kit down from the loft and help the Family Jacob out – it doesn’t have to be any special material – any wool will do (see what I did there?) and, if you’re watching Macbeth, and you have lodgers, try not to murder them in their sleep and watch what’s being put into that evening’s stew.
It’s also your chance to be the next Vanessa Redgrave or Neil Pearson (good Tooting boy) and say the lines as your favourite character. Take the TV remote, hover your finger over the “mute” button and when it’s your turn say: “To be or not to be”; sing: “I dreamed a dream” or re-enact the fight scene from Women in Love – although mind that fire.
Give it everything – no one will see you (if you’ve got nets); no one will hear you (unless you’ve not got double-glazing) and no one will say anything unless the nets are in the wash, the windows are wide open and you’ve left the living room light on.
And if all that fails, get that nun’s costume out and pretend to be Julie Andrews singing about a goatherd with no mates and potential altitude sickness.
Plus, who needs an excuse to put on an excessive amount of make-up? Oh dear, time for the lockdown to end.
Ready for you now, Mrs Mills.