Jemima's Cool Yule: a second short movie

At the beginning of November 2005, Andrew Jeffrey (see previous posting) at the BBC asked if we would be willing to make a second short movie, focused on Jemima's expectations of, and preparations for, Christmas. Jemima was utterly thrilled at the prospect. As well as enjoying the mechanics of filming, and all the antecedent preparations, Jemima was ecstatic that a Christmas tree and decorations should be brought down from storage in the loft. Whilst maybe not the first house to be decked out for Christmas, it was easily a record for us!

The movie can be found online at

http://www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/videonation/index.shtml

and can also be viewed as the 'gift' in Day 7 of the CBBC advent calendar!

It was stimulating and exciting to work to a tighter deadline than with the first movie, and very satisfying to be able to build on what we had learned from making the first movie. There are still many aspects to improve, both in terms of quality and efficiency, and I look forward to further movie projects and new challenges.

My gratitude to Andrew Jeffrey is great. At the risk of embarassing him, he is a huge inspiration.

Peter.

Jemima's BBC Video Nation short film

Jemima's first short movie for the BBC Video Nation project is online at:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/videonation/stories/jemima.shtml

The movie offers a peep-hole through which to glimpse a few aspects of Jemima's life, and shows something of how she creates her text that is uploaded here.

The film was edited by Andrew Jeffrey, a producer at the BBC in Newcastle. Andrew also offered guidance, gave encouragement, shot some of the film at Jemima's school, provided a stock photograph of Alan Shearer, obtained relevant permissions, and wrote the online text. He was a pleasure for which we are grateful.

My wish

J umping on the trampoline,
E xcited about Disneyland,
M agic holiday, Magic Kingdom.
I wish I could fly there,
M y wheelchair whizzing
A cross the sky to France.

Jemima

This is Harry Hamster eating his Christmas dinner. I have my doubts about climbing up my dinner, but then I am not a hamster. 

I assume that the cats were awaiting recycling as this was the paper recycling box. I wonder what they wanted to come back as. 

This photograph of the Eiffel Tower is about modern icons in the classical sense: the icon representing both a shorthand and also a memory prompt for a category of experiences. I guess that classical icons work on both public and private levels. The Statue of Liberty in New York City is equally iconic, albeit regarding a different set of experiences. The clock tower (housing Big Ben) in the Palace of Westminster 'stands for' London (as a tourist destination and cultural capital), the UK government (both as a seat of democracy, and as a repository of power with colonial resonances and domination over provincial UK), Britain as a tourist destination. In the UK, the Millennium Wheel (London Eye) is gradually achieving iconic status, and its recreational nature will carry the weight of tourist meaning more easily than 'Big Ben'. How iconic is The Angel of the North? 

Although poorly rendered as a result of digital enlargement, the colours in the light suffusing Isle St Louis suggest a quietness that is reminiscent of the work of Maurice Utrillo. I think that this is an accurate reflection of the ambience. 

Spring in the garden

Butter yellow daffodils, the neat, prim ones with the short, orange trumpets and no frills, prove that January is not too late to plant bulbs. Bluebells mass under the apple tree, and the vetetable patch is a jungle of forget-me-knots around the burgeoning rhubarb. Primroses spill onto the lawn, tulips stand proud if a little blowsy, and the kerria, Moth's shrub chosen years back by Jemima for our tabby's grave and in her memory, is heavy with vivid yellow pompoms. Plum blossom has come and gone in a shower of petals, but the apple tree has tightly clenched buds the colour of crushed raspberry and the conical, lime green rhododendron buds are starting to show a hint of lilac frill. Lest economy of truth paint too idyllic a picture, we should include the ankle high lawn ablaze with dandelions, across which the rambling rose is rambling rampantly in the absence of an arch. A week ago, everything was suddenly green; now it is lush.

The vivid orange flowers of the thorny berberis outside our bedroom window, more small tree than shrub, conceal a long tailed tits' nest crafted from twigs and grass and covered in grey lichen, teardrop shaped with a small hole through which I glimpsed the eye and beak of the incubating parent. The long tailed tits are perhaps our prettiest garden birds with their rapid, flitting movements, bobbing tails and pink tinged black and white plumage. Today I saw a fledgeling jump upwards from a branch, flap madly, then glide down to the lawn and return home in a series of semi-airborn hops. In April Jemima and I were fascinated at breakfast to watch a thrush constructing a deep, open-topped nest in the ivy which clothes the house wall outside our patio door; she laid a clutch of turquoise blue eggs speckled with brown, and sat calmly on them as I trotted in and out with baskets of laundry; but a fortnight ago she disappeared, perhaps frightened away by the evil tortoiseshell Shadow's attempts to climb the ivy. Jemima wept and wanted to save the unhatched baby birds, reluctant to accept that there was nothing we could do for the cold, abandonned eggs. The nut and seed feeders in the trees and the hanging bird table attract many small birds : blue and great tits, greenfinches, chaffinches and the occasional goldfinch, sparrows and robins. Blackbirds, starlings, magpies and collared doves are constant visitors, if not residents; woodpeckers alight occasionally, and a few weeks ago Peter saw a sparrowhawk pursuing one of our plump little nut-stuffed sparrows.

Messy, but full of life.

Janet

My pets

Ginger

Soft, thick, warm fur,
golden yellow eyes,
long wavy tail,
soft tickly tummy.
Ginger bounces round the garden,
runs up trees,
jumps up on my lap in my wheelchair,
curls up and purrs.


Harry

Harry is my little tiny sweet cute hamster.
He has soft, smooth, silky fur,
bright black beady button eyes.
Harry's ears are flat when he's sleepy
and pop up when he's wide awake.
His pink tiny feet tickle my tummy.
His nose whiffles and whiskers quiver.


Jemima

Primavera

Marvin / Eeyore says: "Okay, so spring has arrived. The garden is shopping-basketed with flowers we can't afford; the birds make a racket at some unearthy time in the morning; the midges make sitting outside in the evening impossible; and people jump around loaded with enthusiasm but short on common-sense. So, whoopee."

I lie. Vivaldi. The lighter mornings and longer evenings make life feel more. The respite from perpetual cold. Fresh salads in the shops - and a desire to eat them (instead of warming soups and stews). The sense of impending opportunity.

Peter.

Let it snow? No way! Where's spring?

Under how many metres of snow have we been buried? Too many. The cold. The leaky shoes. The insecure footing. The risk of skidding, or another vehicle waltzing across traffic lanes out of control. The congested traffic chaos. Not to mention dark nights, dull days and the impossibility of escape. Roll on spring.

Remembering Keukenhof Gardens ablaze with flowering bulbs, and Amsterdam's canals with tree leaf buds bursting green. Remembering Parisian parks and the cherry trees dressed up in their blossoming pink tutus. Remembering Barcelona and the bone-warming Mediterranean spring sunshine.

Peter.