Let it all fall sometimes || An interview with Natasha Hodgson
People talk a lot about the various sacrifices and indignities of motherhood. And my god they’re right to! Sleep is ever-elusive, nursing bras are profoundly unflattering, and it’s frankly extraordinary how much food I might find in my eyebrows at the end of any given day. But for me, one of the most mournful sheddings-of-the-self has been the relegation from my chosen seat on the bus - top deck, front seat1 - to the cursed, squished-in pushchair section. When you’ve got the best seat in the house, you are the irrefutable king of the bus. You can, should you wish, pretend to be the driver! Beep beep! And, crucially, you don’t end up in situations like this….
So there I am, on the bus, wedged in the cattle pen. It’s the killer combo: relentless rain all afternoon, a jam-packed bus. I feel acutely aware of the space I’m taking up with my pram; my fellow travellers are nose-to-nose and damply furious. Then, as the bus grinds to a stop, a young woman comes hurtling down the stairs. (Was she on the Top Deck Front Seat? We can’t rule it out.) As she flies into view, I happen to notice that she’s holding the most extraordinary bright blue plate. Marbled azure glass, flecked with gold.
Then suddenly - she wasn’t.
There was an almighty shattering sound, and shards of blue glass scattered across the floor.
I see the plate-dropper’s mouth open in a shocked, silent O and without pausing to think I immediately start scrabbling around on the damp, filthy bus floor to help find the pieces. I’m gathering them up by the armful, in a moment of uncharacteristic optimism. Perhaps she could still put it back together? Seems unlikely, but hey, I’m no ceramicist!
The scene that follows unfolded in slow motion…
As I’m picking up the pieces, shard by shard, I grow increasingly aware of something disconcerting. There’s an unmistakeable tack between my fingers. The plate is… sticky?
It was at this moment that I realised the plate wasn’t a plate at all.
It was, instead, an enormous disc of what I can only assume was beautifully decorated sugar glass. And this once-beautiful thing, a delicate piece of undeniable craftsmanship, had combined with the puddly-muck on the floor of the bus to form a sort of blue and grey… toffee. At this point, the woman, this absolute chaos-monger, looks around with eyes (ironically) as wide as plates, gives me a forlorn look and an apologetic, thankful nod, and leaps off the bus. Gone.
There was no time to unpack what had happened, but with hindsight I have nothing but questions. Why was she carrying an enormous piece of blue sugar glass? And why hadn’t this seemingly precious, demonstrably fragile thing been wrapped up properly?? We are forced merely to speculate. The only certainty available to me in that moment was that I was bedraggled as a wretch, pram in tow, and was now coated from finger to forearm in bright blue caramel. Like a godforsaken cross between Winnie-the-Pooh (elbows deep in the honeypot, as per usual) and, let’s be honest, a Smurf.
As other passengers became aware of my predicament, most studiously ignored me (fair enough actually), and one lady held out a single, slightly furry tissu. A true kindness from her, but the thought of cleaning up Sticky with Dry?? No. A sensory hell. I’m shuddering even now just thinking about it! I then realised that one of the smaller indignities of motherhood could now be my salvation: I’m never knowingly more than a metre away from a Wet Wipe. But now a predicament. I was packing wipes, sure, but how to delve in my bag without creating yet more blue horror? My only option was to humble myself further, and ask a stranger to rummage in my bag.
Having agreed to the quest, this passenger (the real hero of the tale) paused mid-search, assessing both my situation and the contents of my bag, and said, not unkindly: ‘At least you must be used to holding sticky things?’
An extraordinary thing to say to a stranger, certainly! But sir you were not wrong.
A Poem
A Poem for Someone Who is Juggling Her Life
by Rose Cook
This is a poem for someone
who is juggling her life.
Be still sometimes.
Be still sometimes. It needs repeating
over and over
to catch her attention
over and over,
as someone who is juggling her life
finds it difficult to hear. Be still sometimes.
Be still sometimes.
Let it all fall sometimes.
from Notes From a Bright Field (Cultured Llama, 2013)
The eagle-eyed among you, with memories far better than mine, may remember that I shared this poem back in 2018.2 I hope you’ll agree that it felt too apt not to warrant a repeat appearance.
It needs repeating
over and over
The Cameo
My guest this week is Natasha Hodgson3
What would you love for people to know about your work?
I would love them to know about it at all, so what a fantastic opening question. I am a bit all over the place with the things I make - I wrote and was in a spooky/sexy/funny podcast series called The Sink for BBC Sounds. I co-wrote a musical called Operation Mincemeat that I was also in, though I am not anymore, other people do it now. I make other silly podcasts with my friends Kill The Beast. I recently started a Substack called It’s All Good Stuff where I recommend things that I like. And I am currently in a legal battle with my sponsor, a difficult yoghurt company whose expectations of my content delivery differed vastly from my own, so though I do believe intensely in the product (“so yoghurty, your feet will fly like Pegasus”), I will not be promoting it here.
What might people be surprised to discover about your work?
I wrote and performed the song for the 2020 Lidl Christmas advert. Deep pandemic years. It was feral from beginning to end. We were all just doing what we could back then.
What made you/helped you to choose what you do?
I was always fascinated by comedy, particularly British comedy - I watched a lot of it on the telly with my family when I was little, we grew up eating our tea bonding over The League Of Gentlemen, Nighty Night, Monkey Dust, I Am Not An Animal, Fawlty Towers, The Office, Jam, the Mighty Boosh - it was an amazing time to love laughing. I just sat there with my family with us all laughing away thinking “this please, I want to do this”
What’s your perfect breakfast/lunch for a workday? (What do you actually have for breakfast/lunch?)
If I’ve managed to sort out an item of fruit and something involving an egg (cooked), I’m unstoppable.
Do you have a set morning routine?
2 years ago I signed up for “miniature dachshund puppy” updates on the Pets4Homes website. There is no way I am getting a miniature dachshund puppy. I have a completely different dog, got him a year ago. I can’t get a dachshund, they shed and one of my best friends is allergic to dog hair. But I can’t bring myself to get rid of the update. So every day, I get up, and sadly delete the daily email from Pets4Homes about the latest in miniature dachshund puppies. And then I go about my business.4
Do you have a dedicated/preferred space for writing? If so, what does it look like?
I’ve never been in a living situation yet that means I can have An Office, but that’s the dream. For now it’s mostly whatever sofa or bit of table is tidy. Currently the house I’m living in just has one big room downstairs, which the dog is also in, and that’s no good. He’s not a good colleague. He makes a lot of noise and it throws me off and I shout “I’m trying to be the voice of a generation!” and he barks at me to throw him the ball. It’s not a relationship of equals.
Preferred stationary/tools of the trade? Essential work items?
I don’t mind working in silence, but I prefer some music to be on: but specifically careful serious piano music. I listen to the same two Philip Glass albums over and over again - any music with lyrics and I can’t concentrate, I end up shouting “I’m trying to be the voice of a generation!” and Dua Lipa doesn’t care. Between her and the dog it’s amazing I get anything done at all.
What are your work hours like? Do you try to create a routine for yourself or is that impossible given the nature of your work?
I like to say that I have 4 good hours of writing in me on any given work day. After that, it’s all slop. Whether that’s true, I’ll never know, but at least it means I can stop after four hours. When I am itchy and furious at myself, the pomodoro technique is the only thing to settle down the toddler in my brain. I like writing a lot, my friends and I call it - more loftily than we should - “THE BURDEN”, in that you wake up with a weight on your brain, and it lifts when you write something. I expect this is true of a lot of these types of jobs.
It’s something that was very hard about being in the musical for so long. It was so tiring, for both body and mind, that I just didn’t have any reserves left to write anything good - so THE BURDEN was very rarely lifted, and that made it difficult to live in my body from time to time. Performing every night did help make me feel like I was still at least doing something, but it’s a different kind of burden lift. It’s probably some form of mental illness, but who has the time.
What inspires you? (Name 1-3 things if that makes this massive question easier!)
Watching classic films. Those things are great!
Going to the Edinburgh Fringe - I know we should all have given up on this terrible boyfriend by now but we can’t, we just can’t, it’s the most alive you can be
I find video games very inspiring, in that I cannot fathom making them, how would you even start, and I think that lack of envy or jealousy means I can just purely look at them going WOW. WOW??? Oh man WOW.
What’s your favourite thing about your job?
The ability to make sense of my life and the world through writing down situations that I think are funny
Least favourite?
When I’m performing, I miss writing, when I’m writing, I miss performing. What a situation.
What do you do to get through days when you just don’t feel like it?
It depends on what I’m not feeling like getting through. When I’m on a writing kick, it’s the promise that if I do a COUPLE MORE HOURS (using pomodoro, tricks your baby brain into basically believing you’re doing no work at all) - I can eat a delicious meal. There is nothing better or less complicated than a delicious meal. It fixes everything for me. However, if it’s while I’m doing a lot of performing, and your Delicious Meal windows are compromised, it is more difficult. I find pushing through performing comedy when I am sad, or a bit sick, or frustrated very hard. But you do feel proud of yourself at the end, and everyone claps, which is nice. I also think to myself: you are doing what you dreamed of doing, you ungrateful toad. You want to go back to financial copywriting? You miss those days?? You want to head back into recruitment marketing?? You want to lead the team meeting??? And that tends to shut me up.
Do you have a go-to treat to get you out of a slump?
I honestly believe there is no trouble in my life that a huge bowl of pesto filled-pasta, covered in cheese, a cup of tea and an episode of Peep Show on cannot solve. In my head just now it’s the one where Big Suze orders the very expensive bottle of wine “A barolo is always nice?” I’m laughing just thinking about it
Go-to work sustenance, meal, drink or snack-wise?
Oh no I answered it above
What’s your favourite part of the day?
What I love is when it’s 1pm, lunchtime, time to open some crisps and I’ve done 3 hours of brilliant work already. How often does this happen? Irrelevant
Least favourite?
It’s 7pm, I’ve done no good work, it’s getting darker every second and the crisps are all finished
How do you define a good/successful day?
I feel like I have SUPREMELY covered this
What’s been your favourite failure? One that you learnt a lot from, or one that you can look back and say ‘well I got through THAT, I’m unstoppable!’
Too many to count. In our musical there’s a number where we, without warning, come on dressed as Nazis. Full swastikas, suited and booted, everything. It makes sense when we start singing - don’t worry guys! It’s funny! - but sadly, one show, the music just didn’t start. There was an issue with the track, and it just… never came on. We were standing there, in silence, in bright light, inexplicably dressed as nazis, in front of a hundred people. And let’s not forget it was the day Mark Gatiss was in the audience. Honestly, whenever it looks like anything Quite Bad is going to happen, I look down and think “at least I am not covered in swastikas, and Mark Gatiss isn’t watching.”
What’s one piece of advice you would give to someone who wants to do what you do?
Only do it as long as it’s still the best fun in the world. Because it’s very very impossible. And it grinds even the best people down. Without immense financial support, industry contacts and phenomenal good luck, it’s almost fucking impossible to make money enough to live. It’s not impossible! We only had one of those three! It can be done! But it took us ages. Ages and ages and years and we didn’t go on holiday or have nice things for a decade. But we loved it, we were having the best fun, so it didn’t matter. Find people you want to make laugh and make them laugh until you want to do something else. And that’s fine!!!
What’s the best piece of advice someone’s ever given you? (Or worst!)
I still remember the worst advice I ever got, it was at university in a creative writing module that I had just started, and the man running it, in the very first session, said slowly and proudly: “don’t write what you know. Write what you don’t know.” And even though I was about 19, and incredibly suggestible, I remember the visceral feeling of “..... what the fuck are you talking about”. Later we had to write a story from the perspective of the carpet. Awful.
What are you evangelical about recommending to people?
The audiobook of Song Of Spiderman: The Inside Story Of The Most Controversial Musical In Broadway History.
What’s your top tip for getting shit done?
Imagine how much the Burden shall Lift
Which three songs should I listen to this week?
Some Music
A playlist for being still:
Any Other Business?
News! The very best Kate Young has written a novel! It’s a sexy gay romcom, joyful and gorgeous and heartfelt and FUN, and consider this the newsletter version of me urgently pressing it into your hands. To get your mitts on a copy at once, you can find it at: Waterstones! Gay’s The Word! Bookbar - my beloved local bookshop! Or from your beloved local bookshop, best of all!
You can also read her Katch-Up Q&A here, from before her novel was even a twinkle! In those days she was merely an award-winning food writer and cook. Some people, honestly.
Lastly, to the lovely people who’ve been in touch - thank you for the nudges! I really want to make more time to write to you. I’m writing this while my son is sleeping, wilfully ignoring my Sisyphean To-Do list, but still pausing every so often (so often) to peer at the blue-glow of the baby monitor screen. My already mole-like eyes are flickering from laptop to monitor and back again, screen to screen to screen. Focus is… elusive. I’m typing away, but then he’s lying right in the corner of his cot, nose pushed against the bars into a snout! That is both undeniably hilarious, and troubling. It certainly doesn’t look comfortable? But who am I to be a backseat sleeper? As discussed, I seek not the back seat!
Be still sometimes.
Oh yes, right.
Be still sometimes. It needs repeating
over and over
I’m juggling my life, as, I’m sure, are you. Spinning lots of plates; dropping them left and right. (Maybe that’s just me.) Time to try and let it all fall sometimes.
More of that. Less, ideally, of scratting around on the bus floor, picking up the pieces. It’s not quite as poetic, for one thing.
Love,
Katya
One of my great joys in this life is getting a text from a friend saying ‘Top Deck Front Seat! Beep beep!’ Double points if it comes with a picture of your feet resting happily by the window. QUADRUPLE points for the text I got last week, purely for spookiness reasons, because it came with a photo of me - spotted in the wild!
She got her phone out to send the Top Deck Front Seat bulletin, looked out of the window and (from her mighty vantage point) saw me in the street, as though summoned!!! AND it was my birthday that day! I was in a neighbourhood I rarely go to, she was only in London for the day, and there we were. Don’t you love it when the world feels so small and perfectly connected like that?
As it happens, Héloïse Werner, singer, composer, and my interviewee from that newsletter, has a new album out next week! The launch is happening at the Southbank Centre (Purcell Room) next Friday, June 28th - so here’s some information about that. I’m willing to bet on it being a beautiful evening.
It was a real toss-up between this very powerful, professional photo, and a photo taken last night of Tash having her nose chomped by my daughter, her goddaughter. An equally powerful, though arguably less professional image. While getting ready for bed, she (my daughter, not Tash) had tricked Ben into thinking she needed to use her potty when she was, it turns out, plotting a triumphant return to the kitchen. She ran in, entirely nude, shouted ‘I’M BAAACK!’ and leapt into Tash’s arms. And who can blame her?
