A Walk To Remember,

Now, I know that I am obviously biased, because I love Nicholas Sparks, however I have just finished watching the film adaptation of A Walk to Remember and it made me want to set something on fire because it was SO BAD. 

SPOILER ALERT - If you have not read the book, and intend to do so, stop reading here.

AWTR is one of the best books which Nicholas Sparks has written. It bares a vague resemblance to the story of The Fault in Our Stars, though it did come out a few years prior to that. It is a beautiful story of two teenagers who fall in love and one of them is terminally ill. It's set in small town America a few decades ago and the narrator is looking back at his life from more than thirty years on. One of the most touching parts of it for me is the ending where the man, now in his fifties, is still wearing his wedding ring because he never saw occasion to take it off. His devotion to the love of his young life is admirable and beautiful. 

IN NO WAY WAS HE THIS YOUNG OFFENDER THAT THEY MADE HIM OUT TO BE: Hollywood, you have been a bad bunny. Go to the naughty corner and think about what you have done. 

No really, 

The thing that annoys me is that they changed parts of it for no logical reason. His dad is supposed to be a congressman who is away in Washington regularly, not a cardiologist who left his wife an shacked up with another woman. This was not another story to vilify men who leave their wives and children - what is your obsession? Stop making out that dad's leaving automatically makes their children (particularly the boys) awful people, because it just gives it more weight when people try to use it as an excuse. 

Just to temper that, yes, there are people with legitimate issues because of things that their parents did and did not do, but that's not what Hollywood displays either. 


In other news, it would appear that I have decided that my challenge for Camp NaNo is something along the lines of writing a blog a day. Yes, that was my plan last year and yes it epically failed, but we'll see how well it goes this time.

Catch you later. 


Oh, you do drugs because mummy and daddy

Despite the Protest of Injured Fingers,

I decided it was better to write this early and have it waiting in the wings so to speak, in a kind of Blue Peter, here's one I wrote earlier -esqe style...  And then I forgot to post it! WELL DONE CHARLIE!

It's that time of year again where I start making badly veiled references to camping and an almost feel my readership groaning as they wonder how many times I will do this - All of the times, kids, all of the times. 

As we head into April, the nights are brighter, moods are clearer and the only rain we're praying for is our imaginations. I'm much more settled in my job than I was in November (where I had been in post for a day before the madness started) and I am hoping that there will be time, though not an ample amount I am sure, to commit to the doing of a thing. 

Much like the camping trips of my youth, I am attempting not to plan too much and will be flying by the seat of my pants. Yes, there is a funny photograph which goes along with the memory, no, I will not be sharing it. 

It's going to be a funny old month though. Despite the fact that my Easter plans have unfortunately changed from what I thought they were to be, I am still not going to be in London. I'm going to Yorkshire with my parents and the dog - I'm not sure if I had previously mentioned that they have got a dog, but yes, that's a thing, and we are taking him on his first holiday. As much as my idea of a holiday would be trotting off to a cottage, sitting by a roaring fire and having the dog pottering around, it is not really for the Easter holiday when the temperatures are supposed to be such that the roaring camp fire feels as though it is burning in the air. 

Here is goes, cringe if you must, so I will be pitching up to Manchester mid month, praying for a miracle and a steady stream of ideas, climbing mount improbable and abseiling down the other side, wearing odd socks, getting muddy, getting soaked, eating snacks, though leaving the pork scratchings for the dog, hoping that only my imagination rains and that the trees are alive with the sound of inspiration. Procrastination can take a hike, there will be no one manning its station. Pacck you marshmellows and grame crackers, wash your socks in the sink, layer up on the jumpers and let the wasps drown in your hot vimto drink. The world is going mad, or might have already gone, so hi ho, hi ho, it's off to the Camp Na No retreat we go, with a notebook and pen, we're doing this again, hi ho, hi ho, hi ho. 

Catch you later.