The House Husband

This morning, I decided to put a load of washing on before I went shopping. I filled the basket up from the bedroom with a black load and was about to put it in the machine when I realised I’d forgotten something. I put the basket down and went back upstairs to retrieve my trackies. Upon my return, greeting me with a mischievous grin was Carmen, all curled up and snugly in the basket, soaking in the human smells.

But I like it here!

I can’t remember her ever doing this before (although, Day-z can often be found curled up in a pile of dirty washing if it’s left in a pile on the floor) and wonder if she’s somehow telling me not to wash our clothes because she prefers them smelly.

I asked her if she wanted to get out now but her only reply was to lay her head down and feign sleep. She moved pretty quickly when I picked the basket up and leapt out looking a bit upset.

I suddenly realise that I haven’t mentioned Dawn’s marmalade. She posted a blip the other day and, in her comment, mentioned she’d been making some. She’s not exactly what you’d call a country kitchen, Kirstie Allsop, WI, jam making type so it came as a bit of a surprise. My comment in reply was that I hoped I’d get to taste it.

On Thursday she handed me a jar with the warning that it was too thick. I told her it was probably in her imagination because it looked fine. I can confirm that she’s mad. Thick? It was perfect! Not too sweet, nice and orange-y, tangy in the right way, perfectly spreadable. I’m not a big marmalade (or jam for that matter) fan but it sure tasted good on my toast.

I think she should add a secret ingredient and call it Dawn-alade.

Ignoring the dire weather warnings from the BBC (we have been on an amber alert since last night; not that I know what that means after all, on the roads it means make sure there’s no pedestrians and proceed as if green) I caught the train into town to visit with the patient at the quarantine hut. It was very clear first thing this morning, looking like anything but snow but as I left home, the clouds, with big bulbous bits of grey had appeared.

The trip across town was, remarkably effortless. Generally, the Jubilee Line is not my friend on weekends but it was running a good service today and I hopped on a tube train almost immediately. Strangely, I can’t say the same for Starbucks. Very unusually, they took an age to get the coffees out. It could have been because one of the staff was a trainee.

At the flat I was very glad to see a much improved Mirinda. She claims it’s a combination of a vast collection of drugs, not leaving the flat for four days and the absence of stairs. Unlike home, if she wants to move from bedroom to lounge, it’s just through a door. At home she’d have to climb up and down the stairs.
Whatever the cause, she is a lot better and should reach her goal of returning to work on Monday. Of course, the other reason for her improvement could be the ingesting of ice cream and cup cakes, a universal cure if ever I heard one.

While I visited, we watched a wonderful film called The Chorus. Susanne recommended it to Mirinda years ago and we’ve only just got around to watching it. It’s a lovely French film that we thoroughly recommend to anyone who loves a story about ordinary people making a difference against the odds. It is beautiful. The music and singing is haunting. And the acting is superb. How they manage to get such brilliant performances out of little kids, I’ll never know. I always remember the youngsters Mirinda tried to teach in the mountains. They hid any talent for performance well away from any public scrutiny.

It was nominated for the Best Foreign Language film at the Oscars and I’m amazed it didn’t win. The one that did was a Spanish film called The Sea Inside which I’ve never heard of. It’s the true story of a guy fighting for 30 years in favour of euthanasia and his own right to die. Doesn’t sound very entertaining if you ask me. I prefer The Chorus.

Anyway, all good things must come to an end, even visiting hours, so I was all too soon on my way back home. The weather had turned even colder. Mirinda stepped out on the (steel) balcony in her bare feet and instantly regretted it. Fortunately I wore my big Russian great coat so was snugly and warm.

Coming out of the Jubilee Line at Waterloo, I walked by the big entrance and it was snowing. Very lightly and without much effort, but it could have been a portent. A big electronic sign in the main station proclaimed that all was well but if the weather was to deteriorate, things could get bad. That’s like saying, if you stand under running water, you’ll get wet! A stupid sign if ever I saw one. I texted Mirinda to let her know and missed a wonderful cultural reference she made.

As is normal in England, the train was very toasty. What’s not normal is that it was announced 20 minutes before it was due to leave so I didn’t have to stand around on the breezy concourse for very long.

During the trip home, Mirinda sent me a text to say the snow had started at Canary Wharf. By the time I reached Farnham, the snow was starting to settle. I knew I’d timed it right. Any later and I think this post may have had a different ending.

Walking across the railway crossing was a slippery affair so I decided to get a taxi home. This turned out to be a very good idea as our street was covered in snow, forcing the taxi driver to slow right down. I almost slipped over just walking across our drive. It would have been an awful walk home.

Of course the poodles were outside and covered in snow.

Our street, just before I went to bed

And so back to work. Another day working through the eleven portraits of Prince Albert and creating/amending people records. At one stage, it was so dull, I actually created a few events in the events authority! I was quite dismayed to discover there wasn’t entries for the Boer War, the Crimean War or the Battle of Waterloo. This was rectified and saved my sanity.

Last week, Nick (at work) was involved in setting up the Art Fair. This is a set of 56 art stalls from some major galleries in London, outer counties and international countries. It’s sort of like a huge mall of very expensive art. They are nearly all originals or limited edition prints. They are also quite expensive – the cheapest one I saw was a small line drawing by an insane Major General which was selling for £450.

But the loveliest one was a pre-Raphaelite painting by Hester May Bridgewater. I said to Mirinda that it was fortunate I didn’t have my credit card and her with me. We both love the pre-Raphaelites but will never be able to afford one of the well known ones (they sell for millions when they do appear from private collections). As I said to Mirinda, this one would be about our only chance of owning an original.

Oh, I was sorely tempted. I even snapped a photograph and sent it to Mirinda so she could be sorely tempted as well. Mind you, when we discussed where we could hang it, we thought it would probably be too big for our little house and would have to go on permanent loan to a gallery somewhere for a pretty fee.

The Mystic Sphere by Hester May Bridgewater

At the entrance to the Art Fair, and the bit that Nick (at work) had been actively engaged in, was a long line of Science Museum paintings with the central theme of the moon. They chronicled man’s vision of the moon through the ages, growing in accuracy as telescopes improved. My favourite was the one showing the moon inhabitants all playing in grassy fields, their bat-like wings ready to launch them off the ground if need be.

The entrance to the Art Fair courstesy of Nick (at work)

Apparently a member of the public mentioned to someone that one of the pictures was actually hanging upside down. It was a painting of the lunar surface. At first everyone was a bit sceptical. I mean how could any picture of the moon be either upside down or not. It is a sphere, after all. However, it was right next to a plaster model of the same picture and was quite clearly upside down. Poor Nick (at work)! He had to rush down there with someone handy so they could turn it round.

I should add that the Art Fair was actually called Watercolours Works on Paper, which is a bit wanky, if you ask me. That reminds me. A couple of Americans were on Breakfast the other morning talking about possibly producing a US version of Only Fools and Horses. When asked how they would change the language to make it understandable to American audiences, they said it was a hard task but they were going through finding American slang that would fit. They didn’t have anything specific (it’s only in the planning stages, after all) but figured they’d use non-swear words like ‘wanker’.

Poor Bill and Sian! Breakfast is live and regularly receives letters from irate viewers when anything borders the mildly rude but swearing creates a veritable barrage. They suddenly started speaking loudly, trying to cover up the word that had already been spoken and any others that may emerge. The two guys were very embarrassed and the rest of the interview proceeded without any more slips.

The thing is, I would have thought ‘wanker’ was pretty unacceptable on US daytime television as well – particularly a morning show. I know they regard ‘pissed’ as a normal word meaning cross. Still, it was very funny and nearly had me falling off the lounge, where I was lying in the usual morning practice of waking up.
Wanky though the title may have been, there’s no argument that it had a prodigious amount of very beautiful paintings with very impressive price tags attached.

Because Mirinda is still flat bound (that’s the same as house bound but six floors up), I went straight to Canary Wharf from work to buy her critical supplies (cup cakes, ice cream, red and white spotty or striped mugs) and to spend a few hours with her. She needs to be better by Monday so she’s going to stay at the flat for the weekend.

I see it as a form of quarantine and, given the ferocity of whatever she has, I seriously do not want it. As it is I’ve been forced to chew on 1000mg vitamin C tablets just to ward off her voracious germs.
Of course, my mercy dash meant I didn’t get home till almost 9:30, which meant an awfully long day for the dogs to spend alone.

Day-z didn’t sulk and Carmen went delirious.

What a busy Thursday! It started with an early morning and ended with a late night with nary time in the middle for rest.

First up, we had a viewing this morning at 9am so I was up early, generally moving things around to make them more presentable, before hitching the poodles up for an early, freezing walk.

Actually the temperature was slightly above freezing until the wind hit up in the Avenue of Trees. I’m always amazed when winds from the frozen north (Russia) are still bitterly cold when they reach us. It was something like -20 in Moscow this morning and the wind hadn’t warmed up one little bit.

For all that, the park still looked lovely. As the real estate agent said to me, whenever she walks around the park, when she passes our street, she’s very jealous of our being so close. I’m not sure why she doesn’t buy our house then.

Our castle on a winter's morning

There were a few hardy souls up and about with their dogs but none of them within hailing distance so we wandered, more-or-less, unmolested, returning in time to meet the agent at the front door. I was fooled by the lack of two unknown cars at the end of the street, otherwise I’d have taken the girls around again.

The absent car was easily explained, however, when the viewer came out of the house. She is a friend or relative of a woman who lives a few doors down from us. I know because the friend or relative was with her and said hello.

The woman who’d come to see the house actually liked it very much (or so she told the realo) but wanted to think about it (not that that means anything, we’re still ‘thinking about’ houses we viewed years ago). The one thing she was disappointed in, and the realo thought I’d get a good chuckle out of it, was the lack of lawn. Yes, that’s right, she didn’t like the path. Our wonderful, magical path. How is such a thing possible? As Mirinda said, had the path not been there, she wouldn’t have seen a path so much as a swamp leading to the back.

I’m fairly sure I couldn’t sell to someone who didn’t like our path. If I had my way, I’d have it written into the deeds of the house that the path had to stay. It would be an awful waste for it to be dug up gain before it was twelve months old!

With that frightful announcement, the realo left and I quickly grabbed my stuff for the Talking Newspaper. By the end of 2011 I’d been swapped out of all my February recordings by other presenters with more pressing engagements so I guess it was only natural that I’d end up swapping some back in.

David rang me two weeks ago. He’d been given some work to do and couldn’t attend today so would I swap him one of my April dates. And so I was down for today’s Haslemere edition of the paper at 10am.

The group doing the Farnham edition were there, quietly beavering away in the editing room. As it turned out, it was but a short-lived quiet once Judy and I started gabbing away. Judy is one of the other presenters. Included in her team were the Evans’, who I’ve spoken of before. After their recording they told me they listened to our last recording with great joy because they love the sound of my voice. This is odd because I love the sound of theirs’!

After the Mutual Admiration Society had disbursed (by them having to go into the studio) I set to with my own presenter duties.

On my team (well, David’s team, really, though two of them had been swapped as well) were Ron, Lieutenant Colonel David and Christine, with whom I had so much fun late last year with all the stories about Christmas goats, something she still laughs about in quiet moments. Pete the ex-pilot was our engineer.

The recording went smoothly enough with only a few fluffs and nothing as serious as to warrant swearing. I even managed to read my own writing this time. The most interesting find was one of the Letters to the Editor which was from someone who was equally as damning about Neighbourhood Watch. Mary Stewart, the writer, went so far as to write to the theatre and tell them it was rubbish. Here’s a few bits from her letter:

As long term fans of the playwright we eagerly looked forward to this production and have since contacted the Yvonne Arnaud theatre to express our disappointment, also mentioning that we couldn’t decide whether the theatregoers who left during the play, or didn’t return after the interval, were bored or cold, as the temperature in the auditorium was uncomfortably cool.

I disagree with the last bit. If anything, the theatre is generally too hot for me though, in saying that, the fact that I didn’t notice the temperature probably means it was too cold for normal people. She continues:

It is appreciated that we all have different tastes, but despite the cast doing their utmost, in our opinion, the play and the set were third rate and uninspiring.

Go Mary! She also gives a reason for all the wonderful reviews the play received in Ayckbourn’s home town, where all his plays premiere:

Perhaps the glowing reviews received at the premiere in Scarborough, can be compared to the story of The Emperor’s New Clothes.

I must say that that cheered me up, considerably. Not that I needed cheering up particularly but it did put a spring in my step on the walk home. Apparently the reviewer in the local paper was also less than complimentary, which prompted Mary’s letter.

Back at home, I just had time to feed the dogs, shower and change because I was soon out again with Dawn. Weeks ago she asked if I’d like to go and see some guy called Steve Knightly at the Farnham Maltings and, having never heard of him, I said yes. Dawn’s taste is pretty much as eclectic as mine so I figured I’d enjoy it. At least I knew it wouldn’t be some of that awful punk stuff that Nicktor likes so much.

Well, it was fantastic. He is part of a duo called Show of Hands, the other guy being Phil who, apparently looks remarkably like the eccentric Marquis of Bath. Dawn looked him up when she arrived home and said he did. Or does…I mean, he’s not dead or anything.

The thing that struck me about Steve was his amazing stage presence. He has a natural charisma that is like a magnet. He came on at the beginning to introduce his support act and we immediately were transfixed by him. I should add that about 99% of the audience were already firm fans, hanging on every word he spoke.

The support act (a couple Steve had heard busking who he walked up to and asked if they’d play support for his upcoming tour) was a couple. Phillip Henry and Hannah Martin were fantastic. He plays (among other things) a mean slide guitar while she fiddles and, sometimes strums her banjo. They play, what I would call, modern folk music with a lot of wandering around the tune in a sort of jazz style.

Phillip Henry and his slide guitar

They are both incredibly talented and their love of music is obvious. I particularly liked Hannah’s song about her grandfather (The Painter) for which she played her banjo. (You can listen to it on their website – it’s the fourth one down on the left.) Her voice is also quite special. My only criticism (and it’s tiny) is that I thought Phillip’s slide guitar was a bit loud and overpowering. It tended to dominate a bit too much, as if the sound engineer (if there was such a thing) only had ears for the treble. Even so, they were superb.

And then, following a short interval in which I bought their CD, Steve came on. He was just brilliant. It has to be one of the best concerts I’ve ever seen. I’d compare it to Don McLean who managed to hold the entire Hodern Pavilion mesmerised for his entire concert, which was just him, his guitar and a chair.

Similarly Steve was alone on stage apart from a load of waiting instruments and he held us all gripped. He is not only incredibly talented as a singer, musician and song writer, he’s also very funny. I would recommend him to anyone who likes folk music and will definitely go and see him again if I get the chance.

Steve Knightly tuning up at the Farnham Maltings

And that was it. Dawn dropped me off at home to a couple of manic poodles. Actually, that’s not entirely true. Carmen was manic but Day-z gets very sulky if we go out more than once a day so she basically ignored me for a bit.

A very sick Mirinda texted me at some unnatural hour of the morning to say I shouldn’t wake her up but, rather, make sure Ben had received her message presumably just before mine. Task complete, I started the usual tidy up required when we have a viewing for there is one scheduled for tomorrow at 9am!

Actually, I received the call from the real estate agent yesterday over lunch. I was watching an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm at the time that he rang. Unfortunately my ring tone is the theme from Curb Your Enthusiasm and I thought what I was hearing was coming from the TV rather than my phone, which was sitting on the coffee table. It wasn’t until the land line rang that I knew someone was trying to contact me.

Here’s a bit of Larry:

The phone was across the room and I had a lapfull of poodle so I figured it could wait until the episode and my lunch were over. When I checked, it was the real estate agent who had also left a message on my mobile wanting a viewing today. I had to put him off. When he called me back (as I stood shivering at the bus stop waiting to go to Grimley) he’d rearranged it for tomorrow at 9am.

Eventually Mirinda called to say she was awake. That’s not entirely true. She croaked that she was awake and feeling terrible. She blamed Ben who, it seems, has infected vast swathes of the workforce with his Death Flu. I was then given a shopping list that went from three small items directly connected to health resurrection to an entire week’s worth of groceries.

Then followed the scramble for a pen. Normally I use the shopping list in my smartphone (a great app if ever there was one) but my man fingers can be a bit too big when I’m holding a phone in the other hand so I opted for paper and pen. Since we both tend to use various electronic devices for the dissemination of information in our house, finding a scrap of paper and a pen isn’t always easy.

In about an hour, I found both and asked her again for the beginning of the list. I then went in search of a pen that actually worked, settling, finally, on a pencil. I asked her again for the beginning of the list. Naturally, once I was off the phone, I put the items on my smartphone shopping list app.

I ordered a new DVD player on the weekend and had received an email telling me it would be delivered sometime today with all manner of threats that they would deliver only to me. They list the various things they will not do with the parcel – leave it with a neighbour, leave it in a box, leave it by the front door – and insist if I wasn’t there, they’d drive it back to their depot. I figured I’d not worry about it and then reschedule it for Monday.

Late last night I received an unexpected email telling me that my parcel had left the warehouse and that I could find out my hour slot by the next morning. This was a bit of a game changer. I figured if the parcel was going to arrive at a decent time, I’d wait in and move lunch with Mirinda a bit.

Then, this morning, I received an email telling me what my hour slot was: 11:21 – 12:21. Seriously! How ridiculously accurate is that? Well into Mrs Bale territory if you ask me. I decided to wait for it and then leave for Canary Wharf to visit and shop for the patient.

It arrived just before 12. I dearly wanted to ask the delivery guy about the pinpoint accuracy of the time but figured I could make the 12:30 train if I left immediately. I did and I did.

I’m fairly certain that Waitrose at Canary Wharf, hates me. For instance, the only soups they didn’t have were chicken or beef broth, which they normally have in abundance. And then, in a ridiculously long aisle devoted to breakfast cereals, a wide gap in the display (the only gap in the display) was where the Weet-a-bix used to be.

My first thought was that Ben had obviously been infecting the locals over this side of London as well but when I reached the check-out, grasping my organic Weet-a-bix and creamy chicken soups, the woman in front of me brazenly brandished a normal Weet-a-bix box before my eyes as if taunting me. I almost stole it from her as I left the store.

At the flat we had lunch – roast chicken (which always puts me in mind of dad and his roast chickens at the shop) and lovely fresh crusty bread – a chat and I did the mountain of washing up during which I told Mirinda the entire plot of Whitechapel starring Rupert Penry-Jones (you may remember him from such things as Spooks)…all three episodes (highly recommended, by the way).

The train trip home was crowded and, largely uncomfortable. It’s always the people for the first stop who are happy to stand up for 20 minutes at the Farnham end of the carriage. I bet there’s seats further up the train. Crazy people.

There was a lovely big yacht sitting outside our favourite Turkish restaurant. I quite fancied buying it but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be allowed to park it in our street. I settled for a photograph instead.

Just the right size

The O2 arena (the Millennium Dome) looked rather good in the sun too. I have never been there and think it still looks like they’re building it.

A bit of the O2 Arena on the Thames

Finally, warm and cosy at home, I set up the new DVD player and completely rearranged the media equipment to make it less wired and more discrete. It took me an hour but then everything worked fine and now looks a whole lot better, hidden away in the cupboard.

So, here’s a question for you: What have Tallulah Bankhead, Carol Channing, Minnie Driver and Justin Timberlake all have in common? Apart from being in films I mean. I’ll tell you later.

Today was a great day! I went to the fracture clinic at Frimley Park and was discharged! They don’t want to see me again. I was told, if I needed to see them, that I knew where they were but, basically, I just have to keep up the physio (forever, I assume). I think I’m their wonder patient. They are very happy with my progress and healing abilities. I told them it was the vodka.

I asked if I could have a copy of my x-rays and they let me photograph them but, stupidly, I didn’t take the one with the break! I blame the guy controlling the screen because he missed it. Anyway, this is what it looked like when the plaster came off.

Take my hand, it no longer comes off

Meanwhile at home…it was bitterly cold up the park this morning. Actually, it was bitterly cold everywhere. we even had small flurries of snow when I was at the hospital. But, in the aprk, the icy chill from Moscow was making itself felt. not that it stopped the girls running around like lunatics. Or, maybe that was the idea.

Running back to me in their winter coats...and coats

At one stage, this dog spotted them and sneaked up on Carmen. Scared the living daylights out of her, making her scream and run around my legs. Day-z, leaping to the defence of her big, cowardly sister, then chased the poor thing across the park and back to its owner.

The rare Bat Eared Corgi wants to play with the bashful poodle

Cold or not, it was still beautiful and the girls loved it.

I also had fun with mum, when I rang this morning. Using a wonderful little web-tool called join.me, I was able to control her PC across the Internet. Sadly I wasn’t able to fix her Skype problem but we’re investigating other possibilities. We were able to play with the PC because poor dad was once more in hospital. Hopefully he’ll be out in a few hours.

And, finally, what do Carol Channing, Minnie Driver and Justin Timberlake have in common? Well, they all had a birthday today. Tallulah would have been 110 (had she not died in 1968), Carol was 91, Minnie 42 and baby Justin a very young 31.

I promised to write some more about that amazing mountaineering woman, Elizabeth Alice Frances Le Blond and, not wanting to disappoint anyone, here’s part two.

It’s important to note that she wasn’t just a woman for climbing big rocky hills. She also found time to write books on genealogy. She wrote a two volume work based on Charlotte Sophie, Countess Bentinck, an ancestor of hers. Charlotte was born in 1715 and was a descendent of William the Silent*.

The book is made up from letters that Charlotte wrote to her niece, and which Liz found in 1907, safely locked away in an old Dutch chest in Killincarrick House in Ireland. According to Liz, these letters were written by a “…highly cultivated, highly educated, widely read and brilliantly clever woman of the world, who was on friendly terms with many of the best known people in Europe.”

Liz hints at mysteries and scandals in the introduction, indicating the Dunkelgraf as being one of them. This is a wonderful little (possibly) urban legend which you can read about here.

Charlotte of the amazing hair and impressive dress sense

In order to complete the books, she carried out extensive research in the Netherlands and Germany. She did nothing by half!

We all know about Florence Nightingale but Liz was there too! Volunteering during WWI at a hospital in Dieppe and then, after returning to England, took charge of the appeal department of the British ambulance committee. At the conclusion of the war, she founded the British Empire Fund for the Restoration of Rheims Cathedral.

Always the one for gender equality, she went as far as to create a club for women called The Forum. It would appear that this no longer exists. At least I’ve not been able to find anything out about it!

She died in far flung Wales – Llandrindod Wells, to be exact – in 1934. An amazing woman with an equally amazing zest for life. She’s my hero!

Stopping for a quick breakfast on a mountain in Switzerland

* There’s a number of given reasons why William the Silent was called ‘the Silent’. The one I particularly like is because he refused to talk openly to the King of France about the hated protestants in France at that time, preferring to remain silent on the matter.

This weekend was the time for the RSPCA Big Garden Birdwatch. The rules are simple. Choose an hour over any of the two weekend days and count the birds. You then record the most of each type of bird that you see at one time. Mirinda recorded our count today between 12:45 & 13:45. Here are her results:

That’s 18 different species! Though we often get another 9 or so. This is a bigger amount than last year which, I hope, is a sign that the birds are returning to the countryside.

Before (and during) the count, I had the camera set up in the garden to try and get a photograph of maybe a woodpecker…or a wren…but all I managed was lots of tits and this siskin.

A siskin saying grace before eating

And then, five minutes after Mirinda had finished the count, I was standing at the kitchen sink and noticed a bird in the banana tree. it didn’t look familiar to me. I grabbed my camera off the dining table and called Mirinda to approach slowly and quietly. She identified it. It was a red wing. I’ve never seen one before, let alone get a photo. It’s nowhere near a good shot but it’s nice to see new visitors to the garden.

A very rare visitor arrives too late

At one stage I switched the camera to watching the floating table. I quite like this show off.

Showing off

After lunch, we popped over to Thursley Common (the place where Carmen decided to have a primeval mud bath last year) for a lovely walk among the swamps and sand. Carmen, just in case, remained on the lead. At the beginning of the walk, just beyond the car park, is a lake. On the lake there was a whole bunch of ducks. All in pairs…except for this chap who was quite keen to show off in front of the girls. I wouldn’t be surprised if the other males eventually saw him off.

Handsome looking chap

We walked for ages. Once you get across the swampy bits, the path is all sand and over soft rolling hills. We saw a few people but not enough to be annoying. Eventually we reached the top of a hill and Mirinda decided we should walk back. For some reason known only to her, she stood and took a close photo of this tree. I managed to get her as she turned towards me.

In the nature reserve

It was a lovely walk but was almost dark by the time we returned home.

On Friday night, Stevie introduced me to a brilliant app called ‘Retro Cam’. It’s a series of different types of camera within the one app. it creates images as if they were taken with the particular camera. I had a bit of a muck around tonight. This is a Polaroid shot.

Scowling in the kitchen

One of my favourite (for there were a few) roles was that of Norman in the brilliant Norman Conquests. I was very lucky to play Norman in all three. Most of the cast reprised the parts each year around Christmas to the delight of themselves and the same audience (I think). Truly Alan Ayckbourn at his best. Tonight we saw him at his worst.

Neighbourhood Watch, which finished it’s two week run at the Yvonne Arnaud, is his 75th play. That’s a pretty amazing canon of work. Is it any wonder that occasionally he gets it wrong. I have read a couple of quite generous reviews but, honesty, it wasn’t very good.

There was even a horrendous actor in it. The guy was appalling. I’m not going to name him because he wasn’t good enough for ANY publicity.

Worst of all though, was the play itself. Not up to scratch and certainly not clever enough. It had lots of laughs – we both had a jolly good chuckle more than once – but, on the whole, the dialogue wasn’t very clever. If anything, the laughs were a bit forced and sometimes just obvious.

Oddly, I have read a whole bunch of good reviews for the plays world premier performance. It’s like they watched a difference play. Seriously!

For the acting, I thought most of the cast did a good job given the material. Particularly good was Alexandra Mathie as Hilda. She was all very nice on the surface but there was something quite scary hiding just underneath. That something peeked out a few times and was ghastly to behold. I felt a bit sorry for her (the actor, not the character) because I thought she was wasted.

I also felt her pain when she had to mime locking up a double set of sliding glass doors. I felt it even more when she had to unlock it the next morning. This sort of thing is all well and good for students or actors learning mime but not for a mature actor working in a ‘straight’ play with a normal set.

Possibly the worst thing about the play was the direction. There isn’t a word bad enough to describe it. A lot of upstaging, uncomfortable and meaningless moves, characters picking up things for no reason…just awful. It made quite uncomfortable viewing.

I’m not going to bother about the set.

The play is transferring to London in April. Dionysus, help them!

We had a funny episode at work today. Nick (at work) has just started life with a smartphone and has been struggling to come to grips with it. He’s not that keen on a touch screen, particularly for texting, so I suggested he try Swype. He loves it and had spent the week getting used to using it when it suddenly disappeared.

Sometimes it does this – I don’t know why. It’s not a major thing and is easily fixed. Of course that is always going to be dependent on the user knowing how to do it. Nick didn’t so I fixed it for him and showed him how in case it happens again.

While we were discussing the wonders of modern technology, Leona (Head of Something or Other in the Office Next Door) walked by on her way to the coffee and just said in passing that she’d never put petrol in a car and would be hard pressed to know where it went.

Further revelations were forthcoming after this outrageous admission. She has never changed a light bulb…EVER! I have no idea how old she is but she’s at least 30. That’s a long time to have not changed a lightbulb. She actually admitted she didn’t know HOW to change a lightbulb.

This makes her sound a bit dim but she’s not at all. She’s very good at her job and has a bubbly but intelligent personality. She is also well liked. She’s just not very good with ordinary, every day things like the replacement of light bulbs.

This was all before lunch and caused great hilarity in the basement. After lunch, Leona paid us another visit to tell us she had just done something really silly.

She was walking through the museum when her phone rang. It was her dad. They chatted for a bit as she walked along. Apparently they chat quite often. She was probably telling him that he had been remiss in not teaching her the basics of household survival.

As she walked and talked, she reached into her back pocket for something when a cold shiver ran through her body. We all know the feeling. You expect something to be there and it’s gone. A wallet, a £20 note, gold watch. It’s a horrible feeling.

Leona stopped in her tracks, patting herself down, starting to feel quite desperate. She told her father she’d call him back later, she’d lost something and had to go. He, naturally, asked her what she’d lost.

“My phone! It was in my back pocket but now it’s gone!”
“I think you’ll find, you’re talking to me on it.”

After we’d managed to calm down, having all exploded into uncontrollable laughter, this episode sparked the usual conversation about losing glasses when they’re on your head, something I do quite a lot.

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At lunchtime I popped into the V&A, deciding this week to visit the Chinese and Japanese galleries. While there, I discovered the work of Ah Xian, a Chinese artist born in 1960. His work (in the museum at any rate) features four porcelain busts. Given this one is called ‘Bust 34′ I have to guess there’s more than four!

Bust 34 by Ah Xian

I think they are all strangely beautiful but this one was my favourite.

Interestingly, Ah Xian moved from Beijing to Australia in 1989 after Tiananmen Square. He moved to Sydney in 1990 and I think he’s been there ever since. He spent eight years in Oz working as a house painter and five years trying to get political asylum. This display of his porcelain busts was supported by the Australian government via the Arts Council. I’m not sure if that means it was financially or emotionally supported.

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Now, I think it’s about time I admitted the truth. It’s come to my notice that it is a bit of a struggle going out on a Friday night these days. It may be an age thing but after getting up at 6am, slaving over a hot computer for six hours then going shopping for my wife, I felt pretty chilled and not ready for a night on the lash with Stevie B! Of course, that all changed when I saw him.

Last time we met up, Stevie couldn’t drink because he was driving and had work the next day (it was, after all, only his second week there), which was why we planned a Friday night. However, the non-drinking night had been so good that I’d decided not to drink as much as usual, pace myself a lot slower and just enjoy the company and chat. I have no idea whether Stevie decided the same thing but he matched my drinking pace and we both remained delightfully sober.

As usual, we chatted about everything and anything and all ports in between. And then the bombshell that wasn’t, given I have been waiting for it since they were married. Lara’s pregnant. He showed me the 12 scan of ‘Bubbie Beattie’ which I refused to go gooey over, telling him it looked quite weird with it’s teeth on the outside of it’s head. It’s too early to know the gender but Stevie wants a boy. Mainly because there is already an awful lot of girls born in his family and he wants to go some way to redress the balance.

Here he is begging Lara to bring his (forgotten) wallet down to the pub just after she’d dropped him off.

Please Babe!