To the End

Well, can you believe it? It is the 21st anniversary of the release of Blur's debut album, Leisure.

Blur, in case you didn't know, are an English alternative rock band comprising of Damon Albarn, Graham Coxon, Alex James, and Dave Rowntree. They burst onto the scene in 1989, christened Seymour, but as the Blur we all know and love, have remained at the top of their game ever since. To mark 21 years of Blur, Blur 21: The Box was released in July on Parlophone featuring the band’s fine body of work compiled and gathered together. In addition, Blur 21: The Exhibition documents their career as one of the most influential and successful bands of the past two decades.

These commemorations roused two different emotions within me. First, utter joy. What a band! How do I buy it / when can I go? Followed abruptly by heel-skidding shock. Whaaat? 21 years you say? How did that happen? When did I get so old?!

Unquestionably, Blur rocked the music world but they did more than just rock my world - they heavily influenced my formative years and provided a social and musical commentary that was the soundtrack of my 1990s.

Leisurely Listening (1991)

I was thirteen when Leisure was released back in 1991 and can remember feeling spellbound on first hearing She's So High. It's haunting melody and strangely beautiful lyrics spoke to me in a way that I couldn't really understand at the time. I was intrigued, but not fully committed - this was the Grunge era after all and I was into a certain band from Seattle who had a tortured lead singer and a very nice drummer named Dave.

A mildly petulant and experimental teenager, I wore dreadful long, flowery skirts with all-the-way-down buttons, shapeless cardigans and heavy black boots. I sighed a lot and hang out at the local youth club, listening to Nirvana and trying to make sense of the world as my hormones raged on madly and I thought modern life was rubbish. I went to the obligatory teenage parties and tried hard to impress the boys I liked by head-banging to metal and grunge, resulting in the unfortunate predicament of only being able to move my head with the aid of a sharp burst of Deep Heat.

I listened to There's No Other Way and prayed for something interesting to happen. My Mum prayed I wouldn't get a nose ring.

Modern Life is Conflicting (1993)

My fifteen-year old self crawled out of bed, sat up and started to pay a little more attention. I liked the celebration of British heritage, the absorbing but cheeky lyrics and the attire that screamed posh-geezer. I was enamoured by Damon's face and had a penchant for Graham's glasses. Yet, it was the music that was transfixing me. It was melodic and lush, intertwined with punk rock, frazzled guitars and fast drums. I listened to Chemical World on repeat; that recurring guitar rift and Damon's hypnotic voice.

My eyes and ears loved Blur but the sounds of my streets spoke of something else – I had begun to go out to ‘night clubs’. Yet, I’d stagger home and listen to Chemical World in my headphones until the early hours of the morning. It gave me what I needed; effervescence; a little sparkle.

Then Parklife was released and it was obvious that nothing would ever really be the same again.

Brit-Popscene (1994)

Quite simply, Parklife contains two of my all time favourite songs. To The End is one of the most powerful love-songs ever written.

End of a Century is 2 minutes, 45 seconds of pure genius. The opening lyrics 'She said there's ants in the carpet. Dirty little monsters. Eating all the morsels. Picking up the rubbish' still gives me goose bumps.

Walking through London with this song coming out of my headphones, something strange happens. The landscape around me starts to slowly slide away. It collapses and morphs and suddenly I am enveloped in the red, white and blue of 1990s Great Britain. I am eighteen again, in blue jeans paired with my trusty blue Adidas Gazelles. I am proudly sporting a white and blue knitted zip-up cardigan, in an attempt to emulate the casual sportswear look of my heroes. My old pink Fiesta is parked in the drive and I am studying for my A ‘Levels, working two jobs and bursting with boundless energy.

It feels like I am part of something revolutionary and very important, and although me and my fellow teens are drinking far too much and infatuated only with ourselves, it's all OK. We are part of the Cool Britannia movement and with its huge cultural significance that is enough for me. It is irresistible.

Showtime (1994 - 1995)

I didn’t see Blur live at Alexandra Palace in 1994 (although I did buy the now chunky looking VHS) but I did make it to the gig at Wembley Stadium with my sister Michelle and our friends. We worked our way right to the front to get a suitable view of Damon and the boys.

The crowd was rowdy and preparing to mosh, the noise was deafening. The heat, the power, the intensity was all-consuming - girls around us started to faint and others waved frantically at the security guards in need of a great escape. Michelle said she was off and was helped over my head, followed by both of our friends in quick succession. For a while that left only me in that slamming, pulsating crowd. Soon, the heat became too much (I blame the cardigan) and so I dejectedly waved for help to the burly security man. Strangers' hands lifted me along the crowd to safety, but all I could do was stare transfixed at the stage.

Momentarily, it was perfectly silent. Just me floating up in the air, watching the instruments move and Damon's mouth opening and closing but no noise coming out. It was hypnotic. Suddenly the music was intensely loud again and I was thrust back into reality and directed to an empty seat in the stands. I was alone for the remainder of that gig but it remains one of the best I've ever seen.

Modern Life is very good actually… Blur are back

Tonight sees Blur headlining a special concert to mark the Closing Ceremony of the London 2012 Olympics and if their headlining gig in Glastonbury in 2009 is anything to go by, it is bound to be a fitting farewell to the greatest Games the world has ever seen from arguably the greatest Band the world has ever seen.

Blur are the perfect choice to play to the country's current state of beautifully frenzied patriotism. It's almost like being back in red, white and blue 1990s Britpop. It really, really has happened.

I would never claim to be the biggest fan; I wasn't there in the mud on that historic Sunday night at Glastonbury and although I desperately wish I could be there tonight, I'll have to make do with listening to and watching the euphoria live instead.

Despite this, I will probably follow them until the end. (Jusqu'a la fin).

Whenever that may be.

It's the small things...

I don't get the opportunity to devour the weekend papers any more these days, usually still rifling through them on the subsequent Wednesday but this past Saturday, I did.

I read the The Times Magazine back to back and finished my tea and toast with Robert Crampton's 'Beta Male' column. It was a brilliant, witty and unpretentious piece on the simple things in life that he takes great pleasure from. My interpretation was that as you get older, it's the little things that really matter and make you happy.

Inspired by Robert here's my list, in no apparent order. By no means exhaustive, it's a start.

Getting a seat on the tube on a journey that lasts longer than five minutes. Drinking deep, dark rum in an old atmospheric pub and telling the same joke that I feel like a pirate. Pouring all the words that swarm around in my head into my blog and having at least one other person liking it, not counting my amazing Mum. Laughing with friends so hard that you get a pain in your stomach and you say through tears 'stop, please, no more' even though you don’t really want to stop, ever.

Finding an Evening Standard distributor on a Friday night with an ES Magazine and reading it all the way home or, even better, on Saturday morning in bed. Running outside with the wind in my face, music in my ears and feeling as free as a bird (and flipping the bird at men who think it’s hilarious to honk their horns at women exercising). Pretty much anything by Jack Johnson, despite people saying his music is blithe, soft rock and writing unenthusiastic reviews, especially the line in Flake that goes I know she loves the sunrise. No longer sees it with her sleeping eyes which reminds me of endless journeys across New Zealand and filling pages of travel diaries. Big glossy, hot-off-the-press fashion magazines with style and substance that take hours to pore over.

Goats cheese, preferably warm and assembled with roasted vegetables, although a smattering of beetroot is also a winner. When you witness a comedy trip or slip in the street, not one that causes the person an injury, but rather one where the person carries on regardless and you bite your cheeks to stop giggling. Face painting. Aubergines. The smell of paint and just-lit matches.

Random conversations with strangers on the tube that make you proud to be a Londoner, like the one I had with a lady on the Victoria Line last weekend after we both witnessed a grown man openly picking his nose and examining his findings. 'I see men do it all the time, the worst are the wipers' she said with eyes rolled to heaven as we chatted all the way up the escalators and out the station and said goodbye and I got a really nice warm feeling inside and wondered, why can’t we all just get along?

Being by the British seaside. The first and last page of a new book and that incredible, evocative scent. People watching around Redchurch Street, E2 - shorts, a My Little Pony jumper, brogues and a bow tie? Why ever not. Singing loudly, with Mariah Carey patented hand gestures despite not possessing a decent singing voice to accompany them. Being with my nephew Freddie, especially when he looks at me pensively with those big blue eyes, holds my hand, and laughs when I sing I Wanna be Like You from The Jungle Book for the thirteenth time.

Football on a Monday, Tuesday, Saturday and Sunday; on the TV, coming out of the radio and in my newspaper. Football chants such as 'is there a fire drill, is there a fire drill...' directed at opposing fans who sneak out early when they're a few goals down. Rhubarb and Custard, in real life and boiled sweet form.

Staring at Van Gogh’s The Café Terrace on the Place du Forum and getting lost in the starry background and dreaming of drinking red wine in Arles. Getting uninterrupted sleep and exclaiming 'over 8 hours sleep...yeah!' in an I'm really approaching my mid-30s manner. Gravelly, hearty London accents. Walking for hours. The coast and the countryside. Friday post-work drinks - alcohol before 6pm, a fusion of departments and when 'I'm just having 1' turns into 8. Saturday morning, Saturday lunchtime, Saturday night.

The Specsavers advert when the couple mistake a nice comfy bench for a roller coaster, due to insufficient eye wear. Silly, but it's the faces when the photo is taken that gets me every time and reminds me of having your photo taken on the log flume at Chessington World of Adventures and having it made into a keyring for your Mum. Choreographed dance routines in music videos - dramatic hand and head movements, fancy footwork and showing off, alongside a pulsating beat. Reference: Gaga. Going out for dinner - either posh restaurant or the Turkish Okabasi on Bethnal Green Road whose name I won't reveal so you won't take my table.

Receiving handwritten letters, cards, and invitations through the post which you can keep in a big trunk of stuff rather than forward, reply or delete. Getting all dressed up. A rare black cab. Tea brewed in a tea pot, drank from a proper big mug of tea. My parent's house. The cab drivers from Central Cabs in Walthamstow who always wait till you're safely inside and Mick the controller at base who reminds me of my beloved Granddad. Making a list just to take pleasure from crossing things off it. Comedy tube drivers that announce the stations in a song-song way, or wish you a really good day and deserve a medal for services to disgruntled commuters who have lost the will to continue onto Finsbury Park. Saying thank you, and getting a heartfelt 'you're welcome' back.

Teenagers giving up their seats for older people. 2-4-1 face wipes and £5 off Boots No 7 vouchers, providing an opportunity to purchase superfluous mascara which creates Extreme Length and Extravagant Lashes. Coconut, vanilla and cocoa butter scented body lotion. Essentially smelling like a cake, but a happy cake. Being on my own in the house - pottering, eating cereal out of the packet, and listening to obscure playlists on Spotify (Five Star, the soundtrack to Oliver! and Madonna's White Heat - Get up, stand tall. Put your back up against the wall. 'Cause my love is dangerous. This is a bust). Being with Alex in the house.

An open weekend with no plans. Poached eggs and avocado, together. Watching the last two Sex and the City episodes, An American Girl in Paris (partes un et deux) with that beautiful dusty grey Versace Couture dress, the 'I am someone who is looking for love. Real Love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can't-live without-each-other love' line and the Carrie/Big trip in the hotel corridor. Lunchtime drinking. Green and yellow fields flashing by from a train window.

Holidays and weekends away, particularly Day 2 when you're finally detached from your iPhone, Pad and Pod, London is detoxed from your system and time has no concept. Prints. Art postcards. Free Museums. Too many rings at the same time. Swearing. Cider, just 1 pint for me please oh go on then, 2 but that’s it. Reading on the sofa, wrapped up in a warm blanket. Silence. Very loud music (especially when it’s your own and you have chosen it).

A clean-pyjamas-clean-sheet-combo on a Sunday night. A big, enveloping hug that lasts for ages especially if the person is someone you love and smells nice. Being with a bunch of friends and looking around thinking, bloody hell these people are amazing. My husband, always.

Where Eagles Fly

Tonight Crystal Palace FC played Cardiff City in the 2nd leg of the semi-final of the Carling Cup. It featured an own goal, a sending off, gasp-inducing misses from Cardiff, some absolutely shocking decisions from the referee and a final place cruelly snatched away by penalties. I'm glad it's all over, but I had been waiting with anticipation for this game since Palace’s heady victory in the first leg at Selhurst Park a couple of weeks ago, and former slaying of the mighty Manchester United at Old Trafford back in November 2011. Sadly, we are not on our way to Wembley and my knees are all a trembly for all the wrong reasons. It hurts a lot.

You see, CPFC will always hold a very special place in my heart for many reasons. You can move the girl to the East end but the Holmesdale end will never be forgotten; a bus, a train and the Victoria Line may physically separate us but metaphorically, we're kind of attached.  

I wish I could remember the first time my Dad took me to Selhurst Park as a little girl but unfortunately it's lost in a blue and red haze. I think I must have been around 8, maybe 9 and I knew right away it was the start of a beautiful relationship.

Going to a home game was, and always will be despite our league position or the final score, a delight. A quick cuppa at the Greenbrook house in Upper Norwood (thanks Mum) always started proceedings before a drive to Grangewood Park to leave the car and a saunter to the ground alongside other expectant fans. Sometimes you could hear the stadium crowd already chanting as we made our way down Ladbrook Road and if it was an evening game, from the hill you could see the bright glare of the floodlights illuminating the sky. I always liked it when the weather was cold and brisk - wrapped up warm in hats, gloves and a vibrant red and blue scarf I never felt a chill as I held my Dad’s hand.

A quick detour over the petrol garage courtyard on Whitehorse Road for a match programme and sweets, then hurriedly past the orange glaze of the rather ugly Sainsburys and the heaving Club Shop bursting with memorabillia. A final squish through the click, click, clicking of turnstiles and suddenly I was spurted into the club's ground - a sea of red and blue bordering the centrepiece of the green pitch.

Even now, there's such a sense of energy within that red and blue community. Every time I go there, I swear I see the same programme sellers from years gone by. Ever present is Pete the Eagle (and his girlfriend in mascot-land, Alice), whose importance even merits a Twitter following @PeteEagle_CPFC

Pre-match events in recent times also involve a real Eagle taking flight around the pitch before kick off and, rather unfortunately, the Crystals, Palace’s own ‘cheerleading squad’ who were ‘brought in to inspire the players’ and even made the Metro in March 2011 when accused of affecting the team’s form. Sorry ladies, I’m sure you’re harmless and you're certainly popular with the fans, but you whiff too much of the hideous Sky Sports ‘Soccerette’ in my eyes and I do wish we could just enjoy the game.

Attendance has possibly decreased somewhat over the years, but that hasn't quietened the thunderous roar of the crowd, quashed the jumping up and down of the Holmesdale Fanatics or the playing of '25 Miles by The Three Amigos' when Palace score. Even the most prudent of fans forget themselves when the announcer leads the crowd into repeating the scorer's name loudly - Darrrrreeeen AMBROSE! etc.

It’s never an easy 90 minutes. It can be exhilariating. Surprising. Full of ups and downs. Gut wrenchingly, agonisingly painful. But it's always special. 

This little team from South London has a fascinating history. Crystal Palace Football Club was formed in 1905 by the builders of The Crystal Palace and originally played its home games at the cup final ground at The Crystal Palace. They moved to the purpose built Stadium Selhurst Park in 1924, where the team have shared the ground with Wimbledon FC and Charlton Athletic.

 Dougie Freedman, a former player, is now providing paternal leadership to both Palace's young starlets fresh out of the Academy and the experienced older players. We once walked in a Freedman Wonderland but we're now watching him lead our red and blue army hopefully to some form of success. 18 months ago we were on the brink of administration, players were playing for free and fans didn't know what the outcome would be. Now Saint Dougie nearly led the team to Wembley. An amazing feat.

Going to Selhurst Park for me is like finding a big book of memories, blowing off the dust and getting lost in the nostaligia.

Sometimes when I look over to the Holmesdale end, I imagine it's 1988 again. I can see little me and my sister Michelle at the front of the terraces with the other children, excited at the arrival of the players coming out of the tunnel and waving back at our Dad. I'm almost waiting for David 'Kid' Jensen to come out at half time and announce a competition.

Fast forward to the 1990/91 season where Palace finished an astonishing third in what was then the First Division. The squad was full of a host of greats including Nigel Martyn, Richard Shaw, Gareth Southgate, Alan Pardew, Simon Rodger, John Salako, Geoff Thomas, Mark Bright, Stan Collymore, and Ian Wright, most of whom have gone on to find fame in bigger clubs, in management or as a pundit on Sky Sports (*play extravagant fireworks noise here*)

Then, It's the 1992/1993 season and my 14^th birthday is announced on the scoreboard in an opening game six-goal thriller against Blackburn Rovers. I was half embarrassed, half proud. I was 14 after all.

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In around 1995, while a student, I worked in the now defunct Club Shop on George Street in Croydon which was to be was the best job ever. Players popping in, a great work team, free kit each season and non-stop boys coming in all day. What was there not to like for a 16 year old girl? Thankfully I declined the offer to feature in the Club Shop catalogue, foreseeing the endless ribbing I would get from my husband if that ever came out from the depths of the Greenbrook actic. 

Sadly, Palace often lost, and as a passionate and rather emotional young fan I would regularly cry with disappointment. I could barely stay in my seat when an opposing player took a shot at goal, but on making another great save, my Dad would say, ‘Don’t worry Nic, Nige had it covered’ and all was good again in the world.

Nige of course was the great Nigel Martyn, Palace's star goalkeeper who broke our hearts when he left for Leeds in 1996. Nigel once inadvertently gave me a cauliflower ear while warming up before a game. He mis-kicked the ball causing it to swerve backwards, knock my drink out of my hand and simultaneously take out me and my best friend Danuta - right in the kisser. 'Sorry girls', said Nige. 'Ow', said Nicola, with possible concussion and temporary loss of hearing in one ear.

So you see, it’s not just a game of football, it’s a part of me, it's deep rooted. It’s about where I spent my childhood, the special memories it created. It’s about being with loved ones and friends who know exactly what it feels like. It’s taking pride in a perfectly nice area that gets a lot of criticism for no apparent reason other than pure snobbery. It's about being loyal to your local team through both the good and bad times (take note London Mancs) and spending the weekend looking irrationally and erratically at the Sky Sports Football Score Centre app and hoping that Jeff Stelling will tell you that Palace have won.

Yes, we moan and whine and vow half-heartedly never ever to go again/to rip up our season ticket/to support a half decent team. I repeatedly deride bloody Palace for being bloody useless and no matter if we were 5-0 up with 5 minutes to go, I’d still be nervous; there's no denying it. We don't have the money or the stature of a club like Manchester City. We get ridiculed, taunted as being boring 'Nigels' and we certainly don't always have a lot of luck. 

Yet even though my old scarf may be tattered, the corners of the 'Holmesdale - Last Stand' poster that is proudly displayed in the Greenbrook ‘Playroom’ (since refurbished, sadly, to become an outdoor storage space) may be peeling and the face paints are fading, they will always be Super Palace from Sel-hurst and will hold a special place in my heart.

As the Holmesdale Fantatics would encourage me to say, I'm Palace till I die. 

We may have lost tonight and our hearts broken once more, but I'll always be feeling Glad all Over watching this very special team.

The ultimate role model. Aged 4.

Catching up on Lauren Laverne's highly educational Grazia column Lauren Loves... this week I nearly squealed with joy on the tube. Leaping out at me amongst the music, book and deli reviews was a piece on one of my favourite fictional heroines of all time – Matilda.

As the tube accelerated along the tunnel and the blackness whooshed past me, I felt like I was travelling back through time faster than light. My destination, Downsview Primary School, Upper Norwood, London. The year, 1989.

This was the year I read Roald Dahl’s Matilda and was mesmerised by the story and Quentin Blake’s now instantly recognisable illustrations. I completely agree with Laverne when she describes Matilda as a feminist icon. She is a shy, softly spoken 4-year old prodigy whose giant intellect is stymied not only by her despicable parents and her beastly headmistress, but also by her gender.

Matilda is introduced to us by Dahl in the first few pages as The Reader of Books, both sensitive and brilliant - ‘her mind was so nimble and she was so quick to learn that her ability should have been obvious even to the most half-witted of parents’. By the age of 1 and a half she could talk perfectly using the vocabulary of an adult and at the tender age of 3 she had taught herself to read newspapers and magazines before moving steadily onto books.

A voracious reader, Matilda’s reading list at the age of 4 included Dickens, Brontë, Austen, Hardy, Wells, Hemingway, Steinbeck and Orwell to name but a few, which is enough to put any half-witted adult to shame. Including me.

Matilda is constantly told by her gormless and despicable parents, Mr and Mrs Wormwood, that she is worthless and stupid, and overlooked in favour of her very ordinary brother Michael who gets to know all the interesting stuff from his Dad about the crooked second-hand car business simply because he is a boy. Her Mum is no better, a platinum blonde with garishly heavy makeup who thinks ‘looks is more important than books’.

The villainous headmistress Miss Trunchbull, who once threw the hammer for Great Britain in the Olympics and uses children to practice on, deliberately holds Matilda back and observes that ‘a bad girl is far more dangerous a creature than a bad boy’ and ‘Nasty, dirty things , little girls are. Glad I never was one’. All of this leads to Matilda wanting to get her own back and she discovers a psycho-telekinetic power that allows her to move stuff around and spook out her parents and Miss Trunchbull. And this is where the fun really begins.

Dahl’s storytelling is mischievous and comic and Matilda is laugh-out-loud funny. The book contains all the usual Dahlian humour and gruesome words that we knew and loved (blisters, scabs, grubs to name but a few). Who can possibly forget the hat and the superglue, the boy who got his finger stuck up his nose and Bruce Bogtrotter and the chocolate cake? It’s also sprinkled with unexpected stuff that you can appreciate even more now you’re a ghastly grown-up; smatterings of Dylan Thomas poetry and a frightful episode involving her despicable father and a library copy of John Steinbeck’s The Red Pony.

Another reason why Matilda is so special to me is because my primary school class put on a production of Dahl’s classic for our last ever play. If my memory serves me correctly our pleas to our brilliant teacher, Mrs Mohtashemi (our very own version of Miss Honey) to perform Grease were sadly turned down due to budget and creative restraints (disappointing, but slightly ambitious to turn our school hall into the backdrop for an American high school complete with bleachers, a beach, a drive through movie and a fairground but hey, we were always told to aim high).

So Matilda it was and preparations began. Casting completed, Mums drafted in to do makeup and costumes, Dads on prop duty, and dress rehearsals out the way, it was time for the show. In what was to be Class Seven’s final production, we acted our hearts out and treated a packed audience (parents, siblings, teachers) to a rollicking musical production which brought the house down and had the audience crying with laughter. There were tears too; we were growing up and moving on to big school (which we all secretly hoped would be nothing like Crunchem High School and that there would be no such thing as The Chokey).

I nervously made my acting debut as Matilda, finally making the break away from previous roles such as Nativity Narrator and Recorder Player. My little sister Michelle opened the show as baby Matilda (wearing a nappy, which would never have been allowed in 2011 but was completely acceptable at the time. Sorry Mich.) Ben Crompton played Michael, playing up to the audience with painted on freckles and missing front teeth as he sucked up to my Dad and stuck his tongue out at me. David Whitcher was my miserly, mean crook of a Dad, accessorised with fake bald patch, garish jacket and tie and measly moustache. Devika Gayle played my Nan in Dame Edna-Everage glasses and chic pearls and bag and Sarah Watkins was the school nurse. Then there was Tessa Xioutas, totally splendid as my mum and surgically enhanced with the use of some very clever props and Dolly Partonesque hair.

Michael Norris was the great talking parrot Chopper, perfecting his talk and squawk to a tea in full rainbow-coloured feathers and tights. Christina was absolutely terrifying as Miss Trunchbull, even the parents were a bit scared, and brilliantly humiliated my fellow classmates throughout the entire production - a class that included Suzy Ackerman, Anthony Foulds (who gave an Oscar-worthy performance as Bruce Bogtrotter with the cake), Jenny McKinlay, Tansel Omer and Viresh Patel looking super cute in bunches (girls) and school shorts (boys).

Tania Gornall, Jonathan Duffel, Katy Fraser and Ryan El-Alfy (RIP, always) were grease-smudged mechanics at Wormwood Motors and did a hilarious and faultlessly choreographed rendition of ‘You Can’t Get Better Than a Kwik Fit Fitter’. Definitely not least, Demis Andreou was Doctor Procter in a suit and tie and the obligatory briefcase and Beena Savadia the poor Cook who played an unwilling part in the Bruce Bogtrotter incident.

My heart was broken into little pieces when Matilda finished its long serving theatrical run (1 night) and I left Downsview; leaving behind something so very special. A blissfully happy, innocent time full of fun and laughter and amazing classmates and teachers that I knew even at that age I'd find hard to replicate again in my life.

Fortunately, and rather uniquely I think, I’m seeing Mr Wormwood, my brother, some of the mechanics at Wormwood Motors, my Nan, Doctor Proctor, the talking parrot and the rest of the cast and crew again in 2012 for the next instalment of our Downsview reunion. We’re older and a bit more world-weary now, but it’s still magic when we meet.

Matilda left a lasting imprint in my mind - The book ultimately celebrates intelligence and good teaching but for me it conjures up a whole bunch of emotions just by turning the page.

Yesterday I purchased a fresh new copy of Matilda and I had to resist the urge to write Nicola Greenbrook-Kirby, aged 33 and 2 months in the inside cover in large childish scrawl. On the front cover is Matilda, sat atop a pile of books in a simple cobalt blue long-sleeved shift dress (a nod to minimalism and capturing fashion’s current flavour for the Sixties), the eponymous heroine who was on trend even at the age of 4. If you haven’t read the book since you were a little sprog or have never read it as a revolting adult, please do, you’re in for a real treat. Published in 1988, Matilda is the biggest seller amongst all of Roald Dahl’s books for children. In Britain alone, half a million paperbacks were sold within 6 months.

It’s a funny, warm and intelligent story which sends out an empowering and brilliant message that it’s ok to want to be clever and better and not have to look good, just because you’re a girl.

What a marvellous medicine to swallow.