SPENT SOME TIME IN THE CLINK

It looked promising, nestled in a corner of one of my favorite London areas. I approached The Clink Museum from London Bridge way and passed through Borough Market and its big bad self, although less big and less bad now. After years of discussions and delays a railway bridge is being built above the renovated Victorian glass roof and when it is finished no one is quite sure what will have survived. The capital’s oldest market dates back to 1014.

I steered away from the food and drink with some difficulty and headed to Clink Street. On the cobblestones I ran into a young man dressed in Victorian costume, but not a very good one - shabby and inauthentic, poor fellow. His horror makeup was more clownish than Hammer and he appeared to be bored rigid. A second non-scary creature took my money, mumbled instructions to “listen to everything and read everything”. All righty then.

A groaning waxwork man hangs in a cage at the entrance to welcome visitors to the basement level. Don’t be concerned; it’s not at all gruesome.

The museum tries to recreate the conditions of the notorious prison. The exhibition features a handful of prison life tableaux, and dwells on the torture and grim conditions within. One theory goes that the name of the prison comes from the 'clinking' of the prisoners' chains, though a more likely explanation is that the word comes from the term for rivets or nails used to fasten the restraints.

The floors are scattered with sawdust, the piped-in stories heard somewhere near the wax statutes are less than evocative; the loop repeats too quickly and there’s a bit of bad acting. I read that this small museum is arranged into a series of cells, but frankly, I didn’t get it.

I was on my own and remained the only person in the museum for the entire visit. I expected to cringe a bit, maybe pick up an eerie vibe, but at no time did I feel a prison-like atmosphere, even in the company of a whipping post, torture chair, foot crusher, and other torture implements. Signs urge one to have a go with the ball and chain, or why not pop a scolds bridal on your head?

I picked up a chastity belt made of iron. Applause for any woman who walked Bankside in wilting heat or bitter cold with that thing under her skirts. It was curious to see a sign next to the beheading block that encouraged one to place their head upon it for a photo op.

The biggest challenge in the Clink is that it’s so very dark, made so by black painted walls and poor lighting. I struggled to read many of the display boards, which held huge paragraphs of text.

In this little black dungeon’s defense, it would be impossible to recreate the conditions of the Clink. If they had succeeded, there would be no visitors.

The history is as intense as you’ll ever find. The origin of the Clink can be traced back to Saxon times and was owned by a succession of powerful Bishops of Winchester who resided on the South Bank of the Thames. In 860 a Synod ordered that there must be a place to keep bad monks and friars. The Clink was attached to Winchester Palace, the home of the bishop, where at that time it would have been only one cell in a priests’ college.

From the 12^th century the Clink housed prostitutes and their customers. The Southwark area of London was home to the red-light district where brothels, usually whitewashed, were called "stews" because of their origins as steambath houses. The bishop licensed brothels and regulated their opening hours. Joining the ‘whoores’ were thieves, rogues, vagabonds, drunkards and fiddlers. Yes, fiddlers.

By the 13^th century, torture and horrendous mistreatment of prisoners began, thanks in part to the knights and soldiers returned from the First Crusade where they picked up a few nasty torture tips.

Outside the Clink, the prison whores, bared to the waist and with shaven heads, were whipped at the bloodstained whipping post. The Ducking Stool was used for punishment of scolds, ale-sellers and bread-sellers, who sold bad or underweight goods.

By the time Shakespeare moved into the area with The Globe around the corner, the entire cast of one of the other theatres was “thrust into the Clink for acting obscenely.”

Remember those Puritans who were imprisoned for their religious beliefs? Several of the men who were to become the Pilgrim Fathers spent years in the Clink before their voyage on the Mayflower.

So unless one walked through a display of fettered humans amongst stink and squalor, blood, death and illness, corrupt jail keepers and extortionists, there’s not much chance of hearing, smelling or seeing an authentic medieval prison. Understood.

The ruins of Winchester Palace stand oddly alone across the cobblestones from the Clink. All that is left is the west gable of the Great Hall and its gorgeous Rose Window.

You can’t miss the Clink or the Rose Window. They make up the middle of a triangle between Starbucks, Pret A Manger and Gourmet Burger Kitchen. Maybe we should be grateful there’s a museum there at all…

THE MAYFAIR FOX

In the 1930’s a woman living on the edge of Hampstead Heath was seen leaning out her bedroom window aiming a rifle at a fox, which she shot to death. The newspapers reported the incident citing astonishment that a fox could be found on the Heath. No one seemed to question the fact that the woman, who’d borrowed her father’s rifle, opened her window and began firing indiscriminately. This was near the time that wild parrots and parakeets began to appear on the Heath as well; let’s just hope that her target practice didn’t extend to small, flying animals.

These days the Heath is teeming with foxes and parrots. I’ve seen both. It is almost disarming to see the bright colored birds flying through the trees of the Heath. What in the world are they doing there?

I was not at all surprised to hear of the Hackney fox that attacked the twin girls. Foxes have built their numbers in London since the 1940’s as London spread into the countryside and encroached upon their habitat. When we lived at Hartley’s Jam Factory in Southeast London we had two resident foxes for a time. The mother was in good health, but her kit was not. The authorities were called and the community was told to leave them alone until the mangy kit was nursed back to health. We were told not to feed them, so they foraged left over pizza and take-out food, which is normal for city foxes, especially those that can’t find the riches of a back garden.

One day they left the Jam Factory. We occasionally saw them roaming the surrounding streets and lying on grassy areas until they eventually disappeared.

I’ve seen others. They’re everywhere. They’re not small foxes like the kind my grandmother used to wear around her neck, but rather, tall and dog or wolf-like. When I see them in daylight they slink away, but at night they become bold.

On a late evening walk in a quiet street in Mayfair, I noticed what I thought was a dog with its nose to a shop window. We were both window-shopping and I looked around for its owner. But there was no leash, no owner and when it turned to look at me I saw it was a fox. I wanted to cross its path but its eyes were translucent in the dark and reflective against the shop window’s glow. It glared at me in a Stephen King way. The fox won - I crossed the street.

So don’t tempt foxes. They’re hungry. Don’t leave your ground floor doors and windows open as an invitation to starving urban foxes. Although attacks are rare, their presence is not.

I cannot tell whether this fox is a visitor to Downing Street, or lives there already.

WRAPPED

Whew! What a whirlwind THAT was. We arrived in Norfolk the day before the TV pilot shoot in a downpour carting an entire wardrobe of clothes, umbrellas, a laptop and half of Selfridge’s cupcake collection. Never did travel lightly.

The crew had already camped out in one of Gissing Hall’s public rooms. Cameras, lights, sound equipment and a zillion battery packs strewn across the space suddenly made it all seem very real and I almost lost my lunch in the midst of it.

I can’t say much about the process or the candidates, there being a surprise reveal element and all, but for two days we all worked like beavers in tree heaven. The sun and heat dealt their own surprise reveal and soon outdoor shots became more than a possibility. I can say that I’ve ruined a pair of Barneys NY heels in a walking shot across the moist carpet of grass into which I sank with each step forward. And when I tried to manoeuvre the pebbled driveway, well, not my finest moment.

By the end of the second day we were tipsy with weariness. The last shot should have been quick and easy, but Malcolm, whose coordination can sometimes be challenged when he’s overly tired, just had a bit of a problem. If you haven’t seen it already, here’s an outtake from the shoot.

The result of this experience, twenty-seven hours of tape, is stacked up in the editing room where I imagine some kind of magic will be performed. Until then, it’s happily back to writing, reading, reading, writing.

AND AWAY WE GO…

What if the zipper of my dress bursts open and breaks while I’m in Norfolk? Prepared for a disaster, I’ve packed EVERYTHING and hopefully they will allow us on the train.

I’ll be reading Elizabeth Eslami’s Bone Worship on the journey, and I’m taking two other books. I know, excessive, but I can’t bear the thought of being book-less. I’ve also packed Godiva chocolates and peanuts because who knows if the hotel is equipped for major stress eating.

I’m looking forward to meeting the Candidates. At the moment there are eleven people in the running who want to participate in the TV pilot. They must be whittled down to six and, as a result of our panel’s probing, there will be one winner. At least I hope that’s how the Candidate will feel after working with us - like a winner. You never know…

Our director is funny, I mean really funny, so I’m practicing a poker face, a “very interested in what you’re saying” face and an “I’m here to help” face. These I shall rely upon when I feel that little bubble of hysteria forming.

I’ve one more thing to pack – nerves of steel. Where can I buy them at this hour? Please send suggestions.

I don’t know if I’ll have an opportunity to tweet and blog, but perhaps I should actually focus on what I’m doing. Imagine that.

So here we go to create

SHOPPING

I’ve just completed a London shopping blitz. I needed to pull together three television friendly outfits on a budget. In hindsight, I should have offered a sacrifice of some kind to a couple of shops, maybe that would have helped. It’s a nasty old jungle out there and when an oasis is found, it must be cherished.

People used to pay me to shop with them. Call it what you will, but personal shopper is not my favorite. Stylist? No. My husband and I wrote a book about discovering your personal style, so I guess you could call me a former personal style finder. There’s a difference in all of these terms, but that’s another story. One thing for certain – it was much easier offering advice to a stranger than try to figure out what I needed.

I’d not been “out there” for a while. I don’t write in my pyjamas, but I hardly needed to follow fashion to sit at my desk. Whenever I left the cave I relied upon good quality clothes that have been loyal to me. They’ve remained pretty current and withstood the fluctuations in my weight. Television clothing is a different animal, different from any other “special occasion” clothing. You have to think about a lot of things, some of which remain a mystery for the time being, like how certain colors look in the light, or which patterns strobe.

First, I pulled out clothes from my closet and began trying on possible contenders. I constantly reminded myself that this is a pilot, not a broadcast, so I should go light on purchases and try to make what I have work. But then again, a pilot is an audition, or a job interview, so it still has to be right. No pressure there.

Lesson 1: Cheap is cheap.

I rarely get away with cheap clothing. Some people can if they have the right body shape, or if the occasion is casual and the way they come across is not important, or if the item is simple, say, a black turtleneck, even though it won’t last very long. This is disposable clothing. Still, I gave it a shot.

Question 1: Good god women - how do you do it? Oxford Street on a Saturday morning – this is the front line.

I braved an institutionally large store that sells cheap clothing, all of which hung off the racks like hunting spoil. I felt I’d somehow wandered onto a football pitch. Suicide sounded more cheerful. Walked in, walked out.

I bought stockings and a belt that day at John Lewis. Not exciting, but necessary. Had a grand time talking to a surprisingly helpful sales assistant about denier. Customer service in London? Ha! It happens when I least expect it, and I NEVER expect it. I moved on to another interesting conversation with a woman in the ladies room where we spoke between gags. This is 2010 JL. Please do something about your loos before people die in there.

I really wanted to be shopping in Shoreditch, or Hoxton, perhaps at one of those Steampunk shops, just to relieve the uninspiring boredom of the generic high street, but alas, I didn’t have the luxury of time…so…

On my way out of Debenhams (second and last visit) I was accosted by Perfume Man. What is this - Bloomingdale’s 1985? When I said ‘no thank you’ to his aggressive behavior I heard him make a comment to his colleagues who then burst into laughter. I stopped in my tracks and found the floor manager. I hope Perfume Man didn’t need that job.

A black and white rococo patterned skirt had my name all over it. Didn’t notice the crinoline until I got home because of the dimly lit dressing stall - stall, not room. I like it, but there’s a chance I may resemble a Christmas tree on TV. Must find baubles for neck. The skirt is also missing a poodle. Maybe I should consider this outfit for the evening shots and someone can light me up.

Ahh, Bond Street. Bless.

A bright red sequined t-shirt, very much on sale, at DKNY spoke to me. It was an intuitive buy that paid off, and I shall pair it with a skirt I bought in LA about three years ago. Eight ball in the right pocket. Great service, sizes for real human beings, sustenance, a lovely bathroom and I didn’t have to walk six miles. Now we’re shopping.

If Bill Cunningham of the New York Times says we must have a cardigan, then I am with cardigan. Although I can’t help but think that it was Mrs. Obama who originated this trend during the election and our darling Bill is commenting a bit late. Either way, I’ll wear it over a few scattered polka dots and call it an outfit.

Lesson 2: You may have to try on a lot of frogs.

I popped into Jigsaw – five times. What is WRONG with me? I changed lanes a dozen times trying to piece something together, and as I worked through not a little anxiety, I bought a blouse and returned it. Ultimately, there was something mean (my husband’s word) about the clothing. But in fairness to them, it just wasn’t right for telly.

Holy prêt-à-porter. It took a mountain of clothing and patches of six days to find three little ole items. Did I do something wrong? Lost my touch? Too picky? I don’t think so. Shopping is hard work. I found myself weeding though enough schmatas in enough retail space to equal all the Queen’s backyards.

Question 2: Why?

Fit. Fit. Fit. If I let him, my husband would walk around the shops with a tape measure. As it is, he waits until he gets home. But, he’s right. If you lined up every size medium t-shirt in a shop, each one would fit differently. I‘ve seen it a gazillion times. Ghastly, isn’t it?

Every top designer has a different idea of sizing. So does every manufacturer in China. I once thought that if I just had the boyish hips, long legs and arms of a lanky girl, that every item of clothing I could ever wish to wear would fit perfectly. It’s not true. When I worked with women with that very body shape, I quickly discovered that they’re not all perfect mannequins. Many complained about their long waists. Some disliked their short waists. A few thought their limbs were too long; others wanted desperately to be curvy. They perceived their issues of equal value to women who are short, overweight or otherwise hard to fit. Everyone has to work to obtain a great fit, granted, some harder than others. But fit it must.

Okay, I could continue, but frankly, I’m exhausted. I’d much rather hear what you have to say.

OUR REALLY BIG SHOW

It’s as if I’ve been on a long-ish drinking binge and have woken to the harsh light of “what have I gotten myself into”. We have shoot dates: June 2, 3.

We have a show title.

And here’s where we’ll be roughing it.

The veil has lifted; time to stop this verbal lollygagging and seriously wrap my head around the task at hand. Our candidates need guidance to convince their families, friends, or colleagues that their life-changing moment has arrived, they know what they’re doing and they can handle it.

I confess here and now that I have rolled my eyes at TV shows similar to The Pitch, but I’ve also remained glued to the sofa foregoing a comfort break to see the reveal. Is this instant karma?

So, to use a Southern expression, I’m as nervous as a whore in church. I’ll be thinking on my feet and hoping that I won’t sound as if I’ve overdosed on idiot pills. These are people’s lives we’re talking about. Their stories are real and they’re willing to share them, warts and all. Surprisingly, in this age of baring all just to grab that fifteen minutes, our producer and director found it quite a challenge to find people who didn’t mind opening up and revealing details about their lives. Candidates mysteriously disappeared, others, when it came down to the wire, couldn’t commit to dates.

My initial fear and worry about what I will look like on the big bad screen has shifted. Will I be able to do a good job – this is the question that haunts my sleep. And will I have the stamina for god’s sake? There was something sobering about facing the shooting schedule our director wove into the fabric of hilarious emails. Laughing all the way to basically two days of working flat out for twelve hours or more each day. We’re even having dinner on camera, horror of horrors. Will it resemble Come Dine With Me without the cooking? Will we bicker about who will stay, who will go, who wins the record contract or performs for the Queen?

Our lovely director’s latest words, “Thank you for embracing the making of the pilot with no immediate reward.” Are you kidding? I’m a writer. Reward? We don’t need no stinking reward!

Well, on second thought…

STEP RIGHT UP

It’s Britain’s Got Talent meets Dragons' Den, tinged with a little Jerry Springer, so seems the current description of the TV pilot that’s in the works. Production is squeaking along and, as predicted, the shoot dates have been changed twice since my last post. I’m going to be blacklisted from my hair salon.

A venue in Norwich has been chosen. Road trip! If the private plane doesn’t pan out, I’ve chosen Plan B.

Seems there’s a little trouble brewing in Norwich. I’m told our candidates - people who’d like a little help with a life changing issue - are, umm, unusual.

It’s come to this: Normal people just won’t do for TV. Wonder what that says about me. One of the candidates has an ambition to be a Johnny Depp look alike. (I resist the urge to insert photo.) Surely, either you are a Johnny Depp look alike, or you aren’t. Am I correct here? I’m told he’s the spitting image, especially when he’s donned full Jack Sparrow regalia. So why does he need help from our panel? Is it a business plan he’s after? Or would he like hair and clothing advice à la Mr. Depp? Guess I’ll find out later.

Our producer and director have pulled a few more quirky people out of the barrel.

Quirky, in this case, also means unreliable, a bit flaky and highly volatile. At the moment we are unsure of shoot dates. Apparently pinning down two consecutive days, attempting to collect the candidates' questionnaires and wrangling a commitment from them has been a nightmare. I’m wondering if I should be concerned for my safety. Might they throw chairs and other objects? There are no plans to have therapists standing in the wings, so I suggest we borrow a couple from the Jeremy Kyle show. Insurance anyone?

Boy oh boy.