Red carpet - ah, the glamour

Both at the Science Museum and at the NMFI in Bradford there was an IMAX cinema, and because of this somewhat tenuous connection with the world of film we received one year a couple of invitations to the BAFTA awards, held at the Odeon in Leicester Square. Being without limo and as the evening was wet, we met before the event began at a pub round the corner, and eventually opened our umbrellas and walked round to Leicester Square onto - The Red Carpet. Now, this was a formal event and I was in my dinner jacket, with the best pair of black shoes I had been able to find, an old pair of well-polished Oxfords from the back of the wardrobe. These were outwardly fine, but rather worn as to the soles, with the result that as we walked along the sopping wet red carpet my shoes gradually filled with water. Luckily everyone was squelching along, so apart from the occasional spurt of cold water up my trouser leg, nothing could be noticed. However, the carpet had obviously been recently shampooed, and as the stars walked along it in the rain, the residue of this was churned into a bubbling white foam eventually entirely covering the carpet ankle-deep. It was really not a romantic start.

At the later dinner, however, I had the opportunity of shaking Peter Jackson by the hand and congratulating him on LOTR, the first part of which had just won an award. Also drank too much tequila....

A La Recherche..

Getting on for twenty years ago a small French restaurant opened beside Camberwell Green, and disappeared not long after. Helen and I ate there once or twice, when going out for dinner was one of those rare treats. I can't remember the name, or the food, but I have ever since had a piece of music running through my head which was playing on our first visit. I found out recently that it was by Georges Brassens, and called "Putain De Toi", loosely translated as "You Whore". Well worth a listen.

Dowsing in St James'

In 1971, I visited London with my friend and flatmate Simon. This was still in the "far out, man" days, and London was still a place with w-i-l-d fashion sense. I remember buying a pair of remarkable vivid lime-green crushed velvet trousers in the King's Road, which never looked quite as marvellous when I got them back to Edinburgh. However...

In our quest for cosmic consciousness we decided - no, it just seemed like a good idea at the time - to go dowsing in St James' Park. We each appropriated a forked twig, and with eyes closed wandered around the park chanting mantras and searching for oneness with nature. Simon almost immediately had things happen with his twig; it started twitching and bending, and drawing him around behind it, just like the books said, in fact.

My own experience was a bit different. No twitching, but I started to feel a tingling in my hands which got me excited. Until I opened my eyes to see that my palms were turning bright red, and my fingers were starting to swell to an enormous size. Instead of divining the earth's mysterious forces, I was suffering from an allergic reaction to the twig I had chosen. Bummer.

That was the moment I realised that Joni Mitchell wasn't going to sing a song about me. Stardust I was not.