I write another blog about my travels. I just updated it with yesterday’s and today’s instalment. With some quirkiness, but it all sounds marvellous really.
What I have failed to document are the underlying dodgy tummy issues we both seem to be having. Just seems to be too much information. And of course, we are making the best of it. But we have both confessed to each other that perhaps we should scale down our schedules a little for future holidays.
Then of course we get through each issue, come out the other side with new experiences under our belt, and do it all again next year.
Or perhaps, after this pandemic palaver, there will be no travel industry left, so that we can happily troll down to Bournemouth instead with our Imodium…
I was not going to post whilst away on holiday. I have just spent a wonderful – if exhausting – 10 days in Namibia which I have been documenting (relentlessly!) elsewhere.
Although we had connectivity on our phones and saw headlines, I avoided reading any details. I have been temperature tested three times in airports in the last two weeks, but other than that, have successfully ignored Corona Virus. Not sure Namibia have any cases yet.
But now, arrived in Cape Town, I made the foolish decision to watch some Sky News on the TV in our hotel room. And to check my finances a little.
So, I guess things have not been going well…and I’m relieved we have a couple of huge bars of soap in our house for when we get home.
And to make me yet more aware of our global fragility, there is a Load Shedding program in place in Cape Town to deal with electricity/power shortages. This means that our hotel has to use a generator at certain times of the day and restricts power usage as a result – and we have short complete darknesses when they switch from one to another. Quite startling when in the shower!
It also means that traffic lights stop working from time to time, making for an interesting ride from the airport to the hotel in our unfamiliar hire car.
I still feel strange binge-watching things. I guess I still cling on to the old-fashioned idea of watching a TV series one episode at a time – usually once a week in the same time slot. In fact, it is far more convenient to watch when it suits me.
So, with a huge amount of ironing to do yesterday and no-one else in the house for a few hours, I watched back-to-back episodes of ‘The Split’ on BBC iPlayer. Then felt weirdly guilty.
Last week I had re-discovered the whole of 1990s ‘This Life’ on iPlayer: one of my all-time favourite shows. I watched two of those in a row as well. Ah nostalgia with a modern-day viewing twist.
If only I could bring myself to sit down and watch TV during the day, then I could make a lot more progress with these box-set or binge-watches. But, for now, that is a rule I simply can’t start breaking so early in my retirement.
Off to the park for a march around and a pod-cast instead!
I went to see a musical in the West End one evening this week – Dear Evan Hansen at the Noel Coward Theatre – at the request of my daughter as her birthday present. Unusually I had forked out a bit more for very good seats – and we were not disappointed.
In fact, when I had booked online, there had been a small hiccup whilst I tried to buy two of a block of three and ended up having to call the box office to sort things out for me, which they efficiently did in a friendly way.
I was a little surprised that the resulting ‘orphan’ seat next to me remained empty as the performance began, as I thought it was a sell-out and people are always asking for those last-minute empty seats, but happy days.
However, a few numbers into the first Act, there was a commotion and a guy with a plastic beaker of whisky and ice pushed his way along the row (we were in the middle) and plonked himself down next to me. Oh well, never mind.
Weirdly, within minutes of his arrival, a scene which had just commenced onstage suddenly halted and the cast members disappeared. There was an announcement about a technical hitch and the house lights came up for a while. This newly arrived guy asked us if we thought this was part of the show – we thought not. He then launched into a rambling diatribe about how everyone would now be on their phones tweeting ‘OMG, I’m in the theatre and guess what…’ – although I don’t think they were. He started speaking more loudly so that people turned around to look.
The show resumed (a bed had been stuck onstage and we think they had to reboot the stage-management programme to get all the scene changes to work) but he was still restless and muttering a bit. I couldn’t concentrate properly on the stage – it definitely stopped me from feeling as emotional in reaction to the performance as I would probably have otherwise been.
The interval arrived and none of us left our seats for the bar bunfight. My daughter and I had holiday plans to discuss, so chatted away to each other, my back to the weirdo. But he interrupted us to congratulate us on talking rather than looking at our phones which, he said EVERY other audience member was doing (exaggeration although not without some truth, when we looked around).
We politely chatted to him for a while – even shook his hand at his instigation and gave our names, as he gave his – David. He said he was a critic (really???). He also said he had been thrown out of another theatre sometime for making loud comments. He repeatedly asked how much we had paid for our seats – I wouldn’t say. He clearly had several chips on his shoulder and several more grammes of something else in his bloodstream. He wanted to know what we did and when I replied that I was a writer (I love doing that – haha) he wanted to know what I wrote and when I spluttered ‘mostly corporate stuff’ (don’t know why – perhaps I didn’t want to admit to this blog!) he insisted derisively that that meant I just wrote press-releases. Not sure what would be wrong with that, but it clearly made me an inferior being of some sort.
Kate tried to shut him up by saying something about it being her birthday treat but he seemed to mishear and asked ME how old I was, to which my answer was almost unprintable so he rewound and suggested 45, which – ridiculously – amused (and pleased) me so much that some of the angst disappeared for a short while. But it didn’t last. He had a go at the ladies in front of us about checking their phones instead of talking to each other. One of them was really upset as she was checking in with someone ill at home. Honestly, people do use their phones these days. I even do it myself! It’s up to them – as long as they switch them off again after the interval is over.
He also tried to launch into the Brexit topic – but was so rambling we didn’t really know what point he was trying to make. He kept saying this was his first visit to the West End for a while, having been in Birmingham for a while. I’m sure I was not alone in wholeheartedly wishing he would make a rapid return there.
I am hopeless in these situations. How to ignore him without being rude? Is it ok to be rude when he is clearly not following conventions of politeness himself? Would he become violent or more disruptive if I didn’t play along? Why was I stuck with this idiot when I should be able to enjoy my time with my daughter? Grr. Angry and scared at the same time.
As the lights went down for the second Act, the guy leant across and told me that the person the other side of him had just told him to ‘f****** keep quiet’ or something like that. My heart sank – would he kick off now and if so, what would I do?
Fortunately, he became more subdued and seemed to sink into quietude. Maybe the whisky was sending him to sleep a bit.
At the end of the performance, predictably the audience rose to their feet, cheering and clapping wildly. I think my neighbour was one of very few who did not bother to stand, nor did he applaud at any point in the evening. As the applause died away, I steadfastly chatted to my daughter facing away from him until she confirmed he had left. I really did not want to end up emerging from the theatre at the same time as him.
As it happens, and despite the fact that this lengthy story may indicate otherwise, we really enjoyed the show and I think I will remember the performances more than the awkward audience bits.
It did cross my mind afterwards – I shouldn’t have left that single seat free for a weirdo to buy, but shelled out for it myself and brought my own David to sit there.
On the other hand, it is nice when real theatre enthusiasts can pick up these lone tickets last minute. This is the first time I’ve come across anyone so strange in the theatre. More usually it would be on the bus!
Let’s just write this down as ‘blog material’ and move on.
Just a few days ago I discovered that my long-planned theatre visit was just one hour long. Almost at the same time, I realised that a gig of my son’s group VoCollective on the same evening had a late start – 9.15pm. There would just be time (according to Tfl) to travel between. Serendipitous.
So I went from a performance of Caryl Churchill’s ‘A Number’ at the fabulous Bridge Theatre to the London Vocal League’s A Cappella series: WeAreTrackless and VoCollective performances at The Crazy Coqs (Brasserie Zédel, Piccadilly Circus).
One minute I was a contemplative audience member trying to fathom out a father’s weird truth from his lies, and understand the impact on his various ‘offspring’ – a proper cerebral exercise befitting an educated middle-aged and probably middle-class performance consumer – and the next I was whooping loudly as my son gave a struttingly camp rendition of Prince’s ‘Kiss’ on the attractive lounge stage.
It’s just gloriously occurred to me that last year we missed British February altogether. We were in New Zealand for the whole month.
I don’t think I have ever been away from the UK for an entire calendar month before.
It will probably never happen again.
We must have missed seeing these flowers while we were away, so I am making the most of them this time round. I love plants that just emerge like this with no renewed effort on my part!
“I’ve been a fool and accidentally had my sister’s birthday present delivered to my own flat.”
“And also realised that I don’t even have her address. Do you happen to know it?”
On one level this is heartening – ah, they still get presents for each other. I also enjoyed the self-deprecation, which is fairly typical and quite endearing. I was not surprised that he doesn’t have her address. She has moved several times, so fair enough.
However, the best bit, for me, is the query as to whether I – as her mother – ‘happen’ to know her address. It’s not as though we are estranged or anything and he knows I’ve been there. And how else would I be able to get presents delivered to her???
NEXT DAY – after I’d sent the address
“Thanks! Now I’ve accidentally eaten some of the one that was delivered to me…”
I love these nuggets of communication. Whilst I often wish we had longer times to chat and catch up, these small messages can really change the mood of a day.
I’m relieved that it is some years now since my own brother and I gave up getting each other presents. Or perhaps he has continued, but sends them to himself and consumes them quietly at home.
It took me an hour to get to the supermarket today. I kept meeting people. That’s one of the benefits of walking, as long as I have the time to stop – and today, I did. Happily, so did several others. Other non-workers, of course.
I spoke to five different people on my perambulations. Interestingly it was the three men who had time to chat. I must have spent 5-10 minutes with each of them. The two women were charging around – each on their way to something, and back from something else. This is often me as well – slightly late for my next appointment/train/bus. I’m confident (yes, really) they were not trying to avoid me – just too busy this time and actually that was a relief (yes, again, really) or I’d still be out there.
I got tips for theatre visits, a possible lead for someone to help with some accounting work and a reminder about a social event this evening. And made a connection between two people I wasn’t aware knew each other. So, this was not just idle chat (not that it matters).
There was a blue-sky, but it was a cold and still-blustery day. As a result, my right eye was having a fine-old time constantly tipping tears down my face. Only one of my chatterers commented on the waterworks.
Maybe the other two thought they’d better keep chatting to try and cheer me up!
Met with one of my former colleagues yesterday – someone my own age who I’ve known for 30 years. She’s just ‘retired’ too. We had a nice relaxed lunch and compared notes. We even wandered around the shops for a while – something I never do, but it was great to just be able spend unstructured time. We used to meet for hurried lunches between meetings at work.
Apart from a brief scare about tax on pensions (resolved after some frantic research when I got home – phew!), we had a lovely natter about our plans, our recent travels and our families.
Makes me feel a bit less ‘weird’ for retiring early.
Storm Ciara arrived yesterday. They closed the Royal Parks! How very dare they?
Although there are plenty of other places I can walk, the weather was indeed pretty grim and I felt that I was probably more at risk on the local streets from potential flying loft-construction debris, (and maybe even airborne garden trampolines, which we’re told are a thing now – another of the railway’s list of hazards) than from decades-old trees in Richmond Park.
Never mind. Instead, I passed my enforced quiet Sunday time searching travel websites in increasing excitement and anticipation of the next but one holiday.
I also spent valuable hours updating one of my many spreadsheets – indeed creating a whole new page to try and comfort myself that there WILL be funds available to pay for these wished-for hols. Hmm – there is real skill in ‘creative & persuasive’ budgeting.
By 6pm, I had reached peak restlessness. I can’t stay in the house all day unless I’m properly ill. I gave in and went for a short march around the block, getting only slightly wet and less blown about than expected. Even so, I’m glad it was dark, as I still looked a fright when I got back.
I am sorry to report that despite significant stair-climbing and room-wandering in addition to my march, I failed to achieve my daily target of 12000 steps. First time since Christmas Day. Thanks Ciara.
My inferiority complex with the window-cleaner continues.
This time, I waved to him from my upstairs office window when his watering-brush-on-a-long-pole touched the glass. No point offering him tea or coffee (see earlier post), just a cheery wave and a smile.
When he knocked at the door later for his money, he mentioned that I had appeared ‘like something from a horror movie’ at the window.
Not smiling now. ?
Perhaps it would be less frightening (for neighbours and passers-by) if we left the windows opaque with London grime…also a neat revenge on the window cleaner. Ha!
In fairness, it was still early. I’m not at my best before midday.
I have been trying to persuade myself that there are other reasons (hunching over my laptop longer than usual playing with my new music software or trying to fathom the pension and tax rules has perhaps exacerbated my shoulder pain) but I have to face facts. It’s our lovely new mattress.
I have already alerted the company and they have suggested – and indeed are supplying for free – a thin soft mattress topper. It should arrive next week. But truth to tell, we have been using our own old topper to see if that helps, and it does not.
This is a most depressing state of affairs. After several years of dithering, I had finally got round to buying a new mattress to improve my comfort and replace the old one which is nearly 14 years old. And it has made everything worse. I have had a dodgy lower back since my thirties but have been managing it better over the past few years. Any minute now it will seize up.
Look on the bright side though. Part of the reason the memory foam mattress is causing these issues is, I suspect, that I sleep so well that I don’t actually move at all overnight.
I suppose that, at my time of life, I should be grateful for that at least.
Another evening, another theatre, feeding my ever-voracious appetite for drama, this time in North London at the Almeida yesterday.
A preview performance of Mike Bartlett’s play Albion. The play was performed, by substantially the same cast, just over two years ago to sold-out houses and rave reviews so I had booked ahead a while ago to secure a couple of decent seats.
I loved this production. I particularly loved the staging – a garden which changed with the seasons, from winter through summer then autumn. The planting for summer was performed by the cast in an interlude, with music – and similarly when the plants were supposed to have died away, they removed them and scattered dead leaves on the lawn. More and more flowers or leaves.
The fully planted garden (taken during the interval)
So, these were bucolic surroundings for some truly emotional scenes: grief dividing strong women in a garden. Massive simplification and I’m not going to try and explain more here other than to add that there was an actual rainstorm, a very affecting ghost and quite a lot of mud. There’s a lot to think about in relation to my country in its newly post-Brexit era – perhaps a significant reason to revive the production so soon.
It had crossed my mind at the time of the summer planting that I was in danger of enjoying the gardening display above the acting but, for a number of reasons, not least the individual and ensemble performances, the story touched and moved me. The best of 2020 so far.
Also, there was a young man who took his top off. Unnecessary?
One year ago today, we picked up a campervan to begin our four-week tour of New Zealand. What a great adventure that was! I can hardly believe it’s a whole year ago.
At the campsite where they lent me a can of ‘Oust!’ You couldn’t smell it from this distance.
Looking in my handwritten diary documenting the trip, I see that I made reference on Day 1 to what was to become an ongoing, and extremely annoying, theme of the holiday: the smell in the van. We never completely eradicated it during the whole time, but made good Facebook mileage out of our attempts to do so, which included a great deal of campsite laundry trips and multiple applications of ‘Oust” – the first can of which was kindly loaned by a campsite owner who took pity on us.
Clambering around my cab-over bed, with its limited headroom and awkward cushions and pillows, became a regular event, which my driver (Mr J, who has a less sensitive nose and had chosen to sleep on a more accessible and slightly less smelly bunk) apparently found amusing to watch.
I always enjoy a bit of comedy. Had never seen myself as a physical comedienne until then though…
Despite the dismal weather yesterday, we found some excellent entertainment.
We had lunch in Soho in celebration of my offspring’s birthdays. A long and lazy, and ultimately cocktail-fuelled, few hours catching up for the first time since Christmas.
In the evening I had tickets for a preview of Samuel Beckett’s Endgame at the Old Vic. PwC tickets at a tenner a go. Just for my husband and myself, but I don’t think our son and daughter minded too much. Their conversational contribution was to wonder whether Daniel Radcliffe would be naked (remembering Equus which I don’t think any of us actually saw, but still) and we agreed to let them know, thinking no more of it.
The Old Vic was heaving: it looked like a full-house, inspired either by the big names in the cast (the glorious Alan Cumming starring as well as the aforementioned Mr Radcliffe, Jane Horrocks also featured), or the availability of cheap seats.
Colourful Old Vic on a damp January night
The play was preceded by another short Beckett work: Rough for Theatre II. I find Beckett challengingly weird as entertainment, but there was plenty to think about and enjoy. Alan Cumming was exceptional and not hamming* things up at all – I have probably only seen him in comedic roles or being his flouncy self in the media, so I’m not sure what I was expecting. He was probably more camp in the role than many others have been but toned down from what I might have expected.
Jane Horrocks and Karl Johnson performed from the neck up only, emerging just occasionally from two wheelie bins. (I recall seeing this before – probably back at school – but all other memory of the play seemed lost in the mists).
Daniel Radcliffe did some impressive physical stuff: standing jumps up onto a window sill in Rough; repeated stiff-legged climbs up, and weird jolting or sliding descents from, a tall and wobbly step-ladder in Endgame – which had me ready to shout out ‘Be careful’ (kids would have laughed at me for that). But, unbelievably, he also lowered his trousers to give us a rear view of his thighs whilst he treated his privates with flea powder. No need to look at my husband – we each knew what the other was triumphantly thinking. Not quite naked, but good enough.
I messaged the family WhatsApp group on my way home to say that trousers had been dropped. After a short pause, my daughter’s response was simply “How big?” I’m afraid I snorted before I could remember I was in a busy carriage. Ah well. She claims someone else wrote the question on her phone, and I claim I had no interest in looking.
*despite his main character being called Hamm. Sorry.
Did I mentioned earlier that I wrote a song? I believe in my excitement and embarrassment I did.
Whilst of course I managed to type out the lyrics, which I could then share with my friends, I had scrawled the notes in purple pen on a page of music paper printed for free from a music theory website. Despite my efforts to recall my rudimentary teenage music training, I found it quite a pain.
Since I have now had requests to share the music, I felt I should do more than just photocopy my wonky scribbles. So I downloaded some recommended software – MuseScore – and it has given me a whole new lease of life. I have just spent the best part of two days re-creating and documenting my simplistic tune and adding 4-part harmony to the chorus! Is there no end to the hours this woman has available to waste?
The end result is, of course, no masterpiece and I suspect the harmonising etc adheres to no musical rules whatsoever (because any memory I have of learning the rules is extremely hazy). But the satisfaction of setting myself this challenge and the enjoyment of completing it has been enormous in an otherwise rather quiet January.
I walked for two and a half sunny-but-cold hours in the park this afternoon in celebration – and to make up for sitting at my computer for so long fiddling with the notes.
There is recently-used rowing kit draped on the radiator in our hallway. The first experience of our house, before you reach the depths of untiled splash backs, precarious ceilings and pockmarked plaster, is therefore a whiff of old father Thames and a dash of locker room sweat.
The rowing kit is NOT mine. One other person lives here. Just saying…
I wrote a song last week. I sang it yesterday evening in the pub. It is doggerel* and cod folk music, but written for comic effect to celebrate the anniversary of joining a folk choir.
It was very well received. I wish I knew how to deal with that.
Squashed into a small and dank-smelling space attached to a nearby pub with around 80 other people of mixed ages. Four comedians perform, emerging one by one from a curtained corner of the room. We can see their pacing feet beneath the inadequate curtain beforehand and snatch views of half-drunk pints on their way in and out. At least three of the performers are regularly seen on TV, one of whom was apparently so famous that his appearance was supposed to be kept secret, had pushed the price of tickets up a little (still comfortably below £20) and ensured we were packed in even more tightly than usual. This is a place where big comedians regularly come to try out new material – pretty cool even though it can obviously be a bit hit and miss.
So close were we to our fellow punters that we felt compelled to exchange remarks beforehand. It seemed that we were not at the coolest local gig of the evening after all. Their friends (and it turned out several of our own friends too) were at the town’s theatre attending a Stormzy gig which, by all later accounts, went down an absolute storm. It’s his home town (I’ve mentioned this before).
Debate – which of us middle-aged consumers of said ‘cool stuff’ was actually the more ‘cool’? Haha – neither, I guess, but we mustn’t give up pretending to ourselves or all is lost.
In fact, when I had booked online, there had been a small hiccup whilst I tried to buy two of a block of three and ended up having to call the box office to sort things out for me, which they efficiently did in a friendly way.
