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Dollies

I’ve just deleted a draft blog in its entirety.  Sometimes I’m just not feeling it!

Re-energised by last night’s well-received public performance of a couple of my songs, sung previously only amongst friends, I have knuckled down and captured instead a couple of musical anecdotes from the past couple of months. 

(1) The builders ruined our hallway floor in their haste to be helpful and shift our piano from one room to another. We are determined not to repeat the mistake on its necessary return journey. So, with an unusual degree of marital agreement, we determine to engage a specialist with the right equipment to execute the reverse manoeuvre without further damage. I am almost immediately on the internet sending a message to a likely looking outfit and in no time at all, I get a phone call and make a booking. This is a small local firm and we are patting ourselves on the back for keeping the suburban economy going. (We were recently saved by a local carpet shop and fitter, having been badly let down by John Lewis, so our focus is even more local than before.)

And I am pleased to say that not only does the job get done faultlessly, but it also provides a joyful comedy skit. At the appointed hour, our doorbell rings and my recent telephone correspondent announces himself as “Steve – come to move the piano.” His pal is in the van, procuring the necessary large-wheeled transportation implement. It turns out that both these operatives are called Steve. Boss Steve and Other ‘big friendly giant’ Steve. Chuckle Brothers? Certainly of a bygone age somehow. Worryingly probably both older than either of the regular inhabitants of Jillings Towers. But they have their Dolly.  I mention that this impressive wheeled contraption is not dissimilar from the cut-away skateboard Mr J likes to employ in other furniture removals, but this just meets with confused expressions, and they set their minds to the logistics exercise they have been employed to carry out. 

And so it begins. “You got your end Steve?”

“Yes Steve”

“Here we go. You got it Steve?”

“Yes Steve”

“Through this doorway Steve. You OK there Steve?

“Right Steve, yes Steve”

“Round to your left Steve.”

“Yes Steve.”

“Have you got it Steve?”

“Got it Steve”

“Watch for that door Steve”

“Got it Steve”

“To me”

“To you Steve”

“To you”

“To me Steve”

Back in its rightful place thanks to Dolly

I retire, unable to contain myself and cry a little, hopefully unseen, in the kitchen.

I fortunately manage to pull myself together sufficiently to adopt a coquettish (or perhaps faux-pleading) stance and suggest to the Steves that, were I to find a tenner about my person, they might be persuaded to move the sofa as well? Well, that worked marvellously and with no more ado (but quite a few more “To me, to you, Steve”s) my house was almost all back in the right place.

They packed up their Dolly and, clutching their hard-earned dosh, made their jolly departure.

(2) Continuing the Dolly theme (see what I did there?), I managed to find a cheap ticket for the highly-rated musical Hello Dolly! for a night when I was responsible for Daughter J’s cat and had access to her central-London flat. This was a ‘living the dream’ sort of evening – walk from “my” Charing Cross-adjacent apartment to the London Palladium clutching my absolute-bargain-ticket-containing App, breeze through bag-check, explore the bar and other facilities and discover my excellent Stalls seat – halting only briefly for a breath-stopping moment of realisation that although I have a cheap ticket, I am paying almost half as much again for the glossy programme!  More fool me, I suppose, but having started collecting programmes for all my theatrical events, I struggle to give up this somewhat ridiculous habit. I try to disguise my annoyance, fearing public branding as a cheapskate.

This is a magnificent production. I have never before been to the Palladium, nor have I seen Hello Dolly so this is a proper treat. Imelda Staunton is superb and the whole company are at the top of their game. I treat myself to an ice-cream in the interval and, once that is finished, I am just settling back into my seat when I am showered with liquid from behind. Not just a small spray, a proper half-pint of something – on my head, on my neck and down my back. I register my disappointment in typically British fashion: a tiny gasp, an irritated shrug and a slight sideways nodding of the head. I do not turn around – the lights have just gone down and the action is recommencing on stage.

The shock settles as the music swells. I touch the crown of my head – please let this not be sticky as well as wet! Reassured, I try to concentrate on the on-stage action, but there is such dribblage down my back, that I silently grab a tissue from my pocket and gently – then in fact much more firmly – dab my neck and back to try and absorb as much of the liquid as possible.  Whilst earlier I had been rather impressed and pleased that there was such good air-conditioning in this old theatre, I am now rather regretting my lack of forethought in not bringing a blanket with me!

Shivering calms after a while and I am immersed instead in the on-stage action. The well-known strains of the Hello Dolly number begin, but to my horror, there is an unwelcome accompaniment from the row behind me. I shudder (those damp-back shivers returning) as I try to reconcile myself to the modern trend of singing along at West End musicals that I have read about in stage press articles. It seems, however, that the rest of this audience are more in my own camp and someone further along the row makes a subtle attempt at ‘shushing’ the two ladies immediately behind me – yes, the very same drink-spillers.

Another reprieve and my shoulders are nearly dry now. But this reprieve is rapidly followed by a reprise of the Hello Dolly number, and this time my rear neighbours are not only singing but clearly sobbing snottily along to the music at the same time. Yes, there is pathos on-stage, but mucus-filled bathos surrounds me. No amount of shushing can deal with this, and my fellow audience members stiffen their upper lips anew, face forward and ride out this latest assault on decorum.

Of course, the production rolls on unhindered and we reach the curtain call at which point there is no hesitation to stand for an ovation that is surely expected these days but in this case probably more than deserved. Clapping and photo-snapping completed, I turn to exit the row – and a clearly-inebriated woman in the row behind me slurs -“I’m SHOW shorry I ruined your evening! I’m SHOW shorry. It was only water – I’m SHOW shorry tho” – as she appears to be about to fall over the seat-back towards me. ‘No, no, it’s fine!” I lie through gritted teeth and no attempt at a smile, as I redouble my efforts to get out of the end of the row without engaging further. Her friend grabs her, also wobbling, and I make my escape. I am halfway down Regents Street on my walk back to Daughter J’s flat before I calm down, and then – naturally – my default of ‘oh well, it will make a blog-post’ kicks in and I switch to jaunty girl-about-town mode for the remainder of my walk. Ho hum.

The cat greets me and I genuinely feel that he is less disappointed today that I am not his usual mistress than he has been earlier in the week. He proves this later by joining me in the bedroom to sleep on my feet and snuggle (purrs and all!!!) on my shoulder only when it is an appropriate time to wake up in the morning. This, I feel, is a completely wonderful breakthrough. *

I’ve just booked a little trip away to the Canaries to indulge my need for travel and exploration. I have never been to any of these islands before, so I will class it as a new country even though technically and officially it is just yer common or garden Spain. Just further away.

Hurrah for that, and here’s to the anticipated postponement of the early-dark evenings.

*This was not a breakthrough at all. The cat later left an unwelcome present on the bed without my noticing, to be discovered on Daughter J’s return. When she told me, this made me very cross indeed, more with myself for closing the bedroom door so quickly when he emerged to prevent him getting back in there and proving impossible to eject when it came to be time for me to leave. I don’t think there has yet been a completely successful cat-sit and we were so close this time!

 

 

 

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