Newman and the New Shoes

I pulled into the Car Park of the Royal Northern College of Music in Manchester early last Sunday Morning, filled with the usual sense of excitement and slight trepidation. I was here to sing some of what would hopefully be the final vocal takes on my new album. This is a project I have been passionate and nervous about in equal measures since its inception a couple of months ago. This anxiety was temporarily relieved however when, as I entered the underground facility I was greeted with the not entirely unpleasant sight of Four Eastern European gentlemen fake tanning a fifth gentleman with sponges.. as he stood there… in his speedo’s… in a parking space. 

I was aware of their origin instantly as it had been a lovely sunny start to the day and I had travelled into town with the soft-top down on my Mazda.. singing to my hearts content along the motorway, filling my lungs with the fresh morning air and warming up the old vocal chords ready for the session ahead. This also meant however, that I couldn’t avoid making eye contact with the said gentlemen who were chattering away in their native tongue quite nonchalantly as I stared open mouthed at his albeit incredibly attractive but now somewhat tea-stained looking physique. This wasn’t a ‘weekend in Monaco’ kind of tan. This was a ‘he’s fallen in a chocolate fountain’ kind of affair. A stripper-gram maybe? I thought. I laughed to myself and gathered my things.

Usually when I come to the college to work on the album I am greeted with dozens of students half my age.. milling about the café area… carrying their instruments… wearing vintage knits and hipster glasses and more often than not eating Quinoa from a plastic tub. It’s their space after all and I am merely a guest.. but teetering past in my stiletto’s with a full face of ‘You can do this, Jayne” confidence boosting make-up I stand out for all the wrong reasons. A bit of me wishes I was effortlessly cool like them or that I had persevered more with the Trumpet. Though I’m pretty sure the rest of the human race breathes a regular sigh of relief I didn’t. 

Today however brought a whole new sense of inferiority as upon entering the building I was greeted by not one but literally dozens and dozens of Men and Women who had apparently coloured themselves in with the dark brown body stain. Bewildered and bemused I began to realise that all of them were as beautifully honed as our European friend in the car park.. but not that crazy, massive bulked up kind of muscly.. just really really fit. And really REALLY brown. Some were so brown they just looked like a tea bag with eyes. And some had omitted to tan their face all together. One guy had left an obtuse looking line around the top of his neck… almost as if he'd been dropped in a cup of gravy and drank his way out.

Its transpires that the College holds the 'Annual UK Natural Body Building Championships' here and whilst I scurried amongst the competitors, up the stairs to the safety of the vocal booth it was in fact I who felt weird. I have been cruising the Baltic region for the last three months and by my standards, have little or no tan to speak of really. I felt like an overstuffed bag of marshmallows, all puffy and white, bouncing embarrassingly from pillar to post trying to avoid accidentally contacting Adonis or Narcissus for fear that I might leave a streak. 

Today I head out to the fabulous Celebrity Silhouette in Helsinki. It is the fifth time I have been here this summer, yet I’ve seen literally none of it. I usually arrive late having caught the 17.55pm last flight out of the day or have transhipped here from somewhere else in Europe and because Finland is two hours ahead of UK time Its usually close to midnight by the time I reach the airport hotel. Today however, I fly at 10.25 am and my accommodation is more central to the city than of late so I’m hoping to see a little of what the area has to offer. Who am I kidding? I’m going shoe shopping.

“OOOHHH Jayne I like your shoes… where are they from??”

“These??? oh just a little something I picked up in Finland.” Hee Hee

However two Helsinki’s ago I flew here from Southampton having disembarked the awesome Celebrity Eclipse there earlier that day. It was an unusual journey for me as the flight had me transferring through Manchester… not something I have ever done before as its normally where I would begin or end my journey. I transfer flights in airports so regularly its like second nature to me but I must admit I found this experience to be less than straight forward. There was signage but it wasn’t abundantly clear and upon reaching the area where you would transfer terminals from T3 to T1 I was told I would have to wait until all the passengers had cleared security before I would be allowed to proceed through the locked door. This seemed odd. 

‘There’s loads of them!” I exclaimed to the lady at the customer service desk. “I Might miss my connection”. 

 I was hoping she wouldn’t ask to see my boarding pass as this was a blatant embellishment. I had plenty of time. I just knew there was only that one seemingly pointlessly locked door between me and TAX FREE shoe shopping. I was frustrated.

The journey hadn’t be altogether hassle free to this point either. On arriving at Southampton I had discovered no baggage had been added to my reservation and so I joined the queue at the enquiry desk to rectify it. Patsy recognised me waiting patiently in line.

“You again??!!” she smiled. “Whats wrong this time?”

Patsy had kindly helped with the exact same scenario two weeks previously although on that occasion a glitch in the system had threatened leave me with a £350 ($500) charge to take the luggage on the flight. Patsy persevered however, and eventually the problem was solved. 

I try not to stress out when traveling these days unless its absolutely mandatory or unless I fear I might have unwittingly stranded my Dad in Belgium (see previous blog).Primarily because I would then be spending at least two days a week ‘wigged out’ of my mind about things I can not control but also because nine times out of ten the person in front or behind you in the queue is most probably having a way worse day than you.

The two Italians that were now screaming into the faces of the two markedly taller Swede’s over who’s turn it was to be seen next was indeed a much more dramatic scenario than my lack of baggage allowance so I smiled back at ‘Patient Patsy’ and gesticulated that the crazy Italian miniature person may indeed take my place in the line. She didn’t know what I knew. That Patsy from ‘Swissport’ handling is indeed a superwoman in disguise and that no problem is too big for her to solve.

When they eventually let me through the door in Manchester, and I EVENTUALLY managed to buy a pair of shoes that were very beautiful but I do not in fact need at all, I headed to the gate to board the flight. The chaos at Southampton and the lack of a usual transfer system in Manchester left me doubtful that my bags would make the connection and I realised that 'bleary-eyed morning Jayne’ should have packed more things in her hand luggage incase the bags did not indeed transition to Helsinki with me.

On arrival I waited at the belt for my belongings and lo and behold everybody elses came and went and mine were nowhere to be seen. I headed, downtrodden to the baggage handlers desk all too aware that tomorrows flight landed well after the ship was to depart the city and that friends of mine had been in a similar situation with their guitars a few weeks previous and had ended up chasing them around Europe from port to port. 

“Oh well” I thought “Even if I have to go on stage in these stinky jeans, at least I’ll have a new pair of well-good shoes to wear” I chuckled to myself.

At the desk I explained my predicament and started to compose an email to the ship to warn them that if I was scheduled to perform the following day, I might not have my luggage. At this point the colleague of the lady dealing with my enquiry popped his head over the desk to ask if I was Mrs Parry

“yeessssss” I sighed, forlorn looking up from my phone “That’s me” 

“Your bags are here.” he retorted. ‘But they have been sent to another belt. Number 33

“I could kiss yoooooouuu” I squealed. He recoiled. I decided not to.

As I headed to number 33, there, in a glass case in the centre of the luggage belt was a stuffed Beaver. A rather dominant looking creature. Odd to say the least,  he looked like he was about to pounce. And as my two bags made their way into view, independently of any other luggage, they came to a halt right in front of the Beaver.

“The Beaver saved the day!!!” I thought “Hoorah for the Beaver” and I immediately took a picture of it and sent it to the Cruise Director and the Stage and Production Manager on the Silhouette merely stating

“Don’t worry. The beaver has saved the day” 

It made me laugh. I grabbed the cases and bounced to my hotel full of beans, not realsiing at that stage that I hadn’t in fact sent the first email to the ship telling them that I had lost my bags at ALL as I had been distracted from the task by my joyous luggage news. 

So that was all they received. An an email from me saying that a Beaver had saved the day. 

" I could try and explain”  I thought to myself.

" NNNaaaaaaahhhh… they know I’m a nutter. I’ll tell them tomorrow” 

Footnote:

Since ‘Beaver-gate’ and now thoroughly convinced that Beaver’s are indeed my lucky animal, I subsequently purchased myself one on Amazon. (Other websites are available) He is a small stuffed version of the somewhat more grimacing example I encountered in Helsinki and I have named him Newman. He has been a big hit on the ship… especially with the dancers in the crew bar and has developed quite a penchant for red wine. 

He is very soft and furry and though I am well aware I am 38 years of age and therefore it may not be deemed necessary or appropriate for me to be travelling with a plush toy, I must admit I find his presence very soothing. He doesn’t answer back, he is very reliable and doesn’t mind being stuffed into my ‘trusty goes everywhere with me’ backpack at a moments notice.

Other passengers on this particular flight seem somewhat disconcerted by his presence on my knee but today for once, I am not in a rush or horribly tired from my travels, so I intend on taking Newman to meet his Muse. Hopefully there will be photos to follow if I can work out how to attach the darn things. 

Newman may appear in subsequent blog posts as he traverses the globe with me. I don’t know how long this will last. Not because I am fickle and may discard him, but because I cuddled him so hard in bed last cruise that he seems to be bereft of any stuffing around his midriff at present. He may need surgery. I’ll keep you posted.

The menacing Beaver at Helsinki Vaantaa Airport who thankfully guarded my bags for me

The bags arrived protected by the Beaver

                                                               New shooooeeeessss

                                                         
                                                             Meet Newman

                                                          Newman meets his Muse

This is fellow entertainer 'Gareth Oliver' with his new mate 'Newman'

Bernard and Brussels... By the skin of my teeth !!!

I’ve found myself an amazing spot under a tree. Its peaceful, beautiful, with sun and shade.. away from the traffic and with very few passers by. I’ve taken up residence here with what feels like half of my worldly possessions as I was determined to be properly equipped today.

Two days ago I walked through a park in Stockholm heading towards the city from the port. It was a glorious day and I was drastically over dressed and under prepared. It was a scorcher, and dressed in jeans and without any kind of refreshment I stopped to look at the almost deserted park and thought how lovely it would have been to while away a few hours there on a blanket in the grass… doing my most favourite thing. Daydreaming. And I did stop a while.. and lay in the grass… but today in 'Wonderful Wonderful Copenhagen' I had my heart set on doing it properly so I headed out from the ship early with my trusty ‘goes everywhere with me’ backpack stuffed to the brim with everything I could possibly need… and much that I didn’t. A change of clothes, a bikini???? sunscreen, a towel, my lap top, wet wipes, tissues, water… I looked like I was voyaging to the pole.

I wanted to find a quiet space to untangle my busy brain. A full-on few months travelling, working and renovating the house with all the trials and tribulations that come with that, have left me a little frazzled of late so stopping to buy cherries and strawberries for breakfast… I headed in a slightly different direction than usual and low and behold I found a perfect spot at the top of a small but steep hill.

The grass was freshly mown and the towel now laid I set myself up to write this.. allowing myself an occasional moment to stop.. chomp a cherry and revel in how incredibly contented the simplest of things can make a person when its exactly what your heart desires.

I saw him in my periphery at first.. then on closer inspection I realised he was staring at me menacingly as he came into clear view

“Hurdy gurdy blah blah blah” I had absolutely no idea what the Danish soldier was saying to me.. but he didn’t look happy and was in possession of a very large gun.

Smiling sweetly I replied “I’m frightfully sorry… I’m English” donning the most ridiculously over the top anglo-royal accent and gave him my best toothy smile in the hope I hadn’t unwittingly broken the law.

“You can’t sit on the grass” He grunted, bluntly and to the point.

“Seriously??” I replied? “I’m not doing any harm.” I dared to suggest

“It is the rule. Please move” he retorted, emotionless and watched me whilst I hurriedly stuffed my copious belongings back into the trusty ‘goes everywhere with me’ backpack and followed him back to the path. 

Sulking with my strawberries I scuffed my way along the gravel like a petulant school child. It was the perfect spot. I had JUST got settled. I had everything I needed. It took me about twenty minutes to find my way off the windy path and back down the hill into the public domain where I am now residing under a decidedly less desirable tree. Its next to the main road. There are dozens of passers by and I have just removed a rogue intruder from descending into the back of my trousers. I had actual ants in my pants.

I’ve spent the majority of the summer season this year traversing the Baltic sea. I haven’t spent a lot of it thus far in the mediterranean in comparison but it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. I love this part of the world. I think on the whole its my favourite region of Europe. Everyone is beautiful. The ports are beautiful. The sailaways are beautiful and being surrounded by such a stimulus you can’t help but be beatific oneself. Stockholm, Tallinn, Warnemunde, and especially for me, Copenhagen are places I can happily while away the entire day purely meandering. 

Last cruise I sailed out of Southampton on the Celebrity Eclipse and was fortunate enough to be able to travel with my Father. My Dad has seen me perform on a ship before. In fact those of you that have seen my matinee show will be aware that my parents were indeed passengers on the first cruise I ever did. I was 24.. too scared to go alone and so they stumped up the fare and came along with me. But though they have travelled with me since, he has never seen me perform in a theatre before .Other cruise lines I worked for in the past never deemed me a ‘theatre calibre’ act and many a time I was scheduled to perform in a lounge that held at best 250 guests… a thoroughfare with a busy bar and a bar tender with impeccable musical timing. It was almost as if he would WAIT for me to take that little break before the big key change in “I Will Always Love You’ before blitzing the hell out of a frozen Pina Colada. My Dad is my biggest fan and he wouldn’t care if I sang to him on the fire place in the living room as was oft the case as a child. Indeed, my Dad toured with me for many years before I made the lengthy transition to full time cruising. I think he misses being my road-man.

This was a special week for us and as you can imagine, the staff and crew went the extra mile to ensure my Dad had the holiday of a lifetime. We dined in the speciality restaurants, watched the sail away from Stockholm from the Helipad, had a bridge tour.. it was truly magical. As the voyage ended and we prepared to make our transit home my Dad said he was planning to change his moniker.

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

He is known as Bernard which is in actual fact his middle name. He was born Samuel Bernard but he changed it as a child. He had been taunted by his peers over some saying or other that had driven him crazy. Everyone but the passport office knew him as Bernard. I thought it would be very odd for him to change his name at this time of life.

“I’m going to change my first name to ‘You Must Be’” he added.

Bewildered, I dared to ask why

“That’s all anyone has called me all week” he boasted. ‘You must be' Jayne’s Dad or ‘You must be' so proud” he chortled. “I’ve never been more famous. I love it. “ He said. 

I roared laughing at him 

“This is my life though Dad. As much as I enjoy talking to guests after my show and its almost 100% of the time that they are lovely to you, it can be hard being on show 215 days a year” I suggested.

“I wouldn’t mind.” he said “When I retire I’m going to become a professional cruiser. I’m going to come everywhere with you” he beamed.

“No you’re not." I thought to myself. I love him to bits. But he snores like a locomotive.

We made our way down the quayside to wait for a taxi after an amazing morning together in Tallinn, Estonia. It was everything my father loves. Viking ancestry, craft markets, traditional home brewed ales and a feast of grilled meat for two at a local restaurant that could have fed a Nordic army. 

As we dragged our bags we were stopped no less than five times by guests saying goodbye, wishing us well and asking for a photo or two. It wouldn’t have mattered to my Dad if it were five or five hundred times. He was having his fifteen minutes of fame and he wasn’t going to waste it.

On the journey to the airport I reflected on what had been such an incredibly special week for us both. Quite nonchalantly we headed to the check in desk, relaxed and full of food and excitedly chatted about the family barbecue we had planned in my garden for the following day. It would be all hands on deck to prepare everything in time for the commencement at 4pm and the arrival of our guests. Because of the home improvements, all of mine and Steve’s wardrobe currently resided in the conservatory. It all had to be rehoused.

I handed our passports over as we chatted and it was at this point it became apparent there was a problem. 

“Excuse me, Mrs Parry” the pretty lady enquired politely

“The passport name for your Father doesn’t match that on his ticket”

Immediately I thought I’d booked him as Bernard Samuel instead of Samuel Bernard

As I tried to explain she interrupted me

“No no Mrs Parry. You have booked his ticket as Mr Samuel Parry”

“WHAT?????” I exclaimed. “Are you sure? Why would I have done that?”

A trip to the ticket desk and a conversation in Estonian between colleagues I was clearly not privy to, we were told that ‘Adria Airways’ wouldn’t have a problem allowing my father to travel on this ticket on this leg of the journey as their policy was to allow up to a three letter error in spelling, which as my maiden name and married name are so close in composition, would enable him to fly. They told us however that when we got to Brussels, where we already had a tight connection, we would have to ask the Brussels Airlines ticket desk their policy as they withheld the right to refuse him permission to travel. We wouldn’t know until we asked.

I don’t mind telling you that at this point I felt very sick. I knew that the Brussels-Manchester flight was the final one of the day. That already we would be pushing it to make the connection and that surely the gods had shone their luck on us so much so far this week that I couldn’t possibly be that fortunate.

How could I have BEEN so stupid? I was really really angry at myself and whilst I did everything I could to disguise this to my Dad, I was filled with utter dread at the possibility of what was to befall us in Brussels. 

“I can tell you’re fretting” he said “Don’t. Worse case scenario I’ll buy another ticket.”

It did nothing to appease my panic. Just as I was about to effervesce right there in airport departures the ground staff announced that our flight would be delayed by at least 30 minutes.

MELTDOWN

I have been travelling for 14 years on my own. As regular readers will attest I have missed flights, been stranded on random caribbean islands, lost luggage, chased ships, regularly met my near demise in taxi’s.. but this is honestly the most worried I have ever been. Because it wasn’t me. It was my Dad. And it was my fault.

I wriggled a lot on the flight. I couldn’t sit still.

On arrival in Brussels we set off running. 

Brussels airport is HUGE. I have made a 45 minute connection here (from wheels down to wheels up) as the Venice-Brussels-Manchester flight allows only that window. If you don’t run, you don’t make it and its over a kilometre from one gate to the next. In this instance we were delayed AND had to stop at the ticket desk whilst attempting to make the connection.

Sweating like a pensioner at Bingo, and with my trusty ‘goes everywhere with me’ back pack loaded to the brim with sheet music and the likes, I pelted as fast as I could to the customer service desk. My Dad in tow. 

“I’m going to kill him” I thought. “He has high blood pressure. I’m going to stress him to death” I was genuinely fraught.

“This is a problem” the stiff, terse and incredibly vertical representative told me.

“This is a very big problem” 

I tried in vain to explain

“You are not LISTENING TO ME”. he raised his voice with such hyperbole that I was that child again… the one that danced on the fireplace .. and I had been scorched. Not by the flames but by his tone.

I listened to him lecture me. Unable to fit in a single word I took the berating and waited for him to finish.

“Please help me” I whimpered, my eyes glazed and utterly bereft of any other offering.

He made a phone call.. in dutch… to a colleague and the musicality of his inflection left me in no doubt he was less than pleased with me.

He hung up. And grimaced at me.

“Run. To. The. Gate

See. Security.

And hope.”

“Thank you thank you” I bawled and set off again… ‘legging it’ as we would say in Lancashire.

The queue for passport control was BEYOND ridiculous. One person for the whole line. Now I was on the verge of palpitations.

Eventually we reached the gate with minutes to spare and I waited my turn to be seen. The gentleman in front of me was having an even worse time than me it seemed. The flight was overbooked and his ticket had been refunded by his travel agent without his knowledge. There were no more seats on the flight! So Dad wouldn’t be able to buy another ticket if they wouldn’t let him board.

MELTDOWN!

I waited patiently for my turn. I tried to speak. I spluttered and flustered and fumbled an erratic spew of literal nonsense. As I attempted to explain my predicament she interrupted me

“Mrs Parry. Jayne. Its fine. My colleague called. I have amended the manifest. No need to panic”

That awful, rotten, needlessly mean spirited man, I thought. But I dispelled it immediately. No negativity I reasoned. Not after I had been so very lucky. I went back to tell Dad and burst into tears. 

“bhbvlrhygherlgbhl” none of it made any sense.

“Jayne. calm down. Its fine. Its sorted” 

It had been a self induced, completely unnecessary, panic ridden nightmare. We were both beetroot-red and panting for breath. And there he was. calm as a cucumber.

I hope I’m that laid back.. when I’m Sixty Four.