I had an email from Facebook: ‘Today is Alex Cosgriff’s birthday.’
To be honest, I was offended; as if I need some mindless, faceless mass to tell me the date my child was born.
Get lost, Facebook.
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Uh…oh…um…nearly forgot: happy birthday, Spud.
My house is cluttered; you know this.
You also know that from time to time the mess gets me down even though, for the most part, I can live with it.
Last Wednesday was such a day.
This was my train of thought: I‘m never going to get rid of this stuff. Well, not until there’s just me, anyway, and I can decide without argument what stays and what goes.
Here’s what I said to the Hub: I can’t wait until you die and I can get rid of this stuff.
Worst wife ever.
Wonder if I’ll get a Christmas present this year?
The songover is Alex’s voice
You readers must be wondering why this blog seems to have turned into an Alex Cosgriff fan page. The problem is, the Hub does nothing; Wary Boy tells us nothing; I remember nothing. Alex is the only one who does anything worth writing about.
I can tell you that I did something on Sunday that I did exactly a year ago, but without the defecation: I went to a brass band concert with my friend Alison. I enjoyed it.
That’s about as interesting as it gets; if you want the poo story, I suggest you re-read last year’s visit.
This week, Alex is singing in a concert – with some dialogue, including narration by someone from The Great British Bakeoff (not Paul Hollywood or Mary Berry) – of the songs from Miss Liberty. The cast is singing with a 40-piece orchestra.
Miss Liberty is a forgotten musical by Irving Berlin. As far as is known, it has never been staged outside of the States, and has rarely been staged there. As a result, the concert at Sheffield University is creating noise here and in the US. There have been some radio interviews and articles on the BBC, The Stage, Playbill, Broadwayworld and elsewhere.
For the background story on why it is being staged, read here.
The concert takes place on two nights, including four songs for one night only:
…on Thursday 10 December 2015 audiences will have the opportunity to hear world premiere performances of four songs that were cut before the musical opened on Broadway in 1949. They were discovered by McHugh and Malone in Berlin’s papers at the Library of Congress and special permission has been given to perform them for one night only by the Berlin estate.
Can you tell me, then, why I spent all of yesterday upending Alex’s room to find the two suits, one jacket, one shirt, several ties, and two pairs of trousers Alex simply MUST have if he’s going to appear on stage this week? And why that was a complete waste of time when I couldn’t find half of them – the suits in particular – and Alex suggested I look behind the door…and there they were? I’m not in it, so why is there so much work for me? That boy is taking a liberty.
I suspect I’ll get payback in being able to poke fun at him, however: Alex, who thought the modern dancing he did in Godspell was naff (and read here for how I let that slip to the choreographer), is going to TAP DANCE without benefit of any training whatsoever, in front of a live audience.
I’m cringing all ready.
Hee hee hee.
The Tree of War is no more. Now it’s death in Macbeth.
Alex is playing Macbeth. Here he is in rehearsal:
Photo (C) Cog Photography
That boy knows how to commit to a part. So much so, he passed out briefly last night when the Witches yanked his head back while he was hyperventilating. Fortunately, the Witches were the only ones who noticed. He said he came to, mumbled for a moment, then went straight back into his line.
He’s a physical actor. He bruised his hand quite badly in The Tree of War, punching a piece of wood each night. He also hurt his back a little, falling (as per the script) from the wall going over the top. He didn’t say anything until after the run because he didn’t want any of that ‘health and safety rubbish’ putting a stop to his performing.
Here’s the Macbeth trailer:
An interesting fact: WordPress spell checker suggested ‘machete’ for Macbeth. Who knew blog hosts could be so Freudian?
Image from PictureSpider
I’ve had a busy few weeks, giving poetry readings and attending poetry events of one sort or another. A lot of saliva flies around at poetry readings; have you noticed? Sibilance by its very nature demands a level of spit not seen anywhere outside of a snake hissing contest.
The result of all that liberated discharge, however, is that at some point I contracted a cold. I felt rough – really rough; rougher than a cold should make one feel; but I am of a delicate nature, of course, as I might have mentioned once or several hundred times. I was useless for the first three days and then the mucus began its exodus and then it eased and then I started with a sore throat and then the sneezies came.
It was at that point, lying in bed feeling very sorry for myself, that I remembered that I had once read that you can’t sneeze with your eyes open, or your eyeballs will fall out.
Now this is one of those things that I believed I didn’t believe, so when I felt a sneeze coming on, I decided to try to keep my eyes open. The things we invalids have to do to keep ourselves amused.
When it came to it, however, I chickened out. Apparently, I do believe that if I sneeze with my eyes open, my eyeballs will fall out. I was assailed with a terrible image of a huge sneeze and…plop…plop…stinging eyeballs caused by carpet fibres (apparently you can feel carpet fibres even though your retinas are literally detached. In my world, anyway). I could hear myself screaming at the Hub, My eyes! My eyes! Don’t stand on my eyes!
There was I at three a.m., 52 years old and afraid to sneeze in case my baby blues fell out. (My baby blues are actually hazel, but ‘baby hazels’ doesn’t have the same ring to it). I think may have overdosed on the cough medicine.
Tell me you’ve got a similarly ludicrous fear; please. Eye don’t want to be alone.
Everything you need for village living
The conversation went like this:
Friend Pam: Look at these fabulous desserts at the restaurant where we took Mum and Dad for their anniversary.
Tilly Bud: Drool…
Friend Pam: I’ll take you there one day; you have to eat these puddings; they’re fabulous.
Will she, bud?: Droo…l
Friend Pam: Hang on a minute…your birthday’s coming up…I’ll take you for a meal on your birthday!
There is a God: Thank yo…r….oo…l…
And so it came to pass last Wednesday that I found myself heading out of Manchester and into Burnley. To misquote Field of Dreams (and, in fact, tell an outright lie for comic effect), the only thing we have in common is that Pam came from Burnley; and I had once heard of it.
Pam suffers from a chronic condition: she cannot plan an event without it being a huge success and, as we were heading in that direction, she reasoned, why not go up the famous Pendle Hill (never heard of it) and be tourists in the famous Witch Trial/Trail area (never heard of it). We could see the famous Eye of God (never heard of it) in the famous centuries-old church (never heard of it) where her husband had proposed to her (I’ve heard of him); call in at the Elizabethan Towneley Hall (never heard of it); eat lunch there (definitely heard of that!); call in to see her parents for some northern hospitality (we’re all famous for that up here); and finish off at the famous pudding restaurant (which sells other food but, seriously, who cares?).
The woman is a genius.
We had a fabulous day. Pendle Hill was gorgeous; the witch business was fascinating and a little sad (hanging innocent women gets me like that; I dunno why). The church was…open. It was hard to believe we were in 21st Century Britain when we could walk into an open, unmanned church and be trusted not to damage/steal anything. Amazing. Of course, it probably helped that it was situated halfway up a mountain in the middle of witch country.
I forgot to take my camera but Pam obliged by taking photos with hers, including my request for a pic of the inside of the public toilet – it had a high cistern with a chain! I was back in my childhood (complete with cold seat) particularly as, technically, it was an outside loo. Pam and I have a friendly rivalry going to see which of us is most common and I think I win because I was born in a Liverpool slum and come from Irish peasant stock (hence the Liverpool slum): an outside toilet with a lock was a step up for me.
My favourite spot: The Long Gallery. Can you see me way back there?
Towneley Hall was wonderful. Walking through rooms which have been inhabited by who knows how many people over the past 500 years is one of my favourite things to do and I’m afraid my mouth got stuck in the Wow! position until it hurt Pam’s ears. But that’s to be expected of a slumdog, of course. I was, like, well impressed.
There was a slight change of plan when we saw the queue outside the restaurant door and, as we’d only had huge slices of cake for elevenses we decided – which is to say, Pam decided and I went happily along with any plan intended to feed me – to head straight for pudding paradise and eat there, calling in for a brew at Pam’s folks’ afterwards. Which is just as well as Pam’s Mum was having her feet done and didn’t really want her guest to see that. I don’t know why; I’ve got feet; I know how the whole thing works.
I am praying for the strength to dig in and climb out the other side
I forget the name of the place where we ate because I was too busy stuffing my gullet with a delicious carvery (which could have been called a spoonery because the meat just fell off the bone and the chef told me that sometimes he has to use a spoon to serve it) to write it down. Pam tells me it’s called Sycamore Farm. Check the desserts:
Now tell me it wasn’t worth turning 52 just for that.
We rolled out of there for the short journey to Pam’s parents’ house and I’m not sure that it wasn’t the best part of my day. Her parents are lovely and her mother is adorable. She hugged me despite never having met me before and then gave me an entertaining rundown of some of her neighbours, past and present. They included friendly drug addicts who ran in to help during a crisis to the creepy bloke who introduced himself with the words, I’m not a paedophile and I’ve got a letter to prove it. Pam’s Mum – or I should say, Pamela’s Mum, because that’s what she called her the whole time; no one ever calls Pam Pamela, she’s too friendly to be full-named; but you know what mothers are like. As I was saying, Pamela’s Mum wasn’t convinced by the not-a-molester, though she was glad to see him go when he was arrested for his cannabis farm and stealing his neighbour’s electricity to supply it. I can’t decide which of her neighbours was my absolute favourite, but it’s a toss-up between the biker who stripped and rebuilt his motorbike many times over fifteen years, in the middle of his living room and partner and children; or the dominatrix who kept a dungeon in the basement but lived elsewhere.
Don’t think that any of this is my usual hyperbole; I swear I had it straight from the horse’s mouth – which was wearing its false teeth at the time, as she happily informed me. Only the best for Pam’s friends.
I think I love her.
Thank you, Pam, for giving me a brilliant day, showing me a fantastic time, and for having a wonderful mother.
All photographs courtesy of Pam Robinson.
It’s been quite a week. We spent all of Saturday afternoon at The Tree of War rehearsal, filming and photographing background stuff. Monday evening we were at the press preview; the show opened on Tuesday. It is phenomenal.
I can’t tell you how good this new piece of theatre is: the music, the lyrics, the story. And to see it acted and sung with such passion and enthusiasm; to hear the wonderful music from the live band; to come out crying after every single performance…there is no one involved in this production who doesn’t believe that it is something special, something above the ordinary.
One of the most consistent comments – though you heard it here first, last year – is that it belongs on a West End stage. As I stand behind my camera each night and listen to the audience as they file out, many sobbing into their snotty tissues – men and women – I hear them saying it over and over. People with no connection to the show rave about it; and they are right to do so.
Some reviews, personal and professional:
Ollie Mills’ and Rachel Mann’s masterpiece is beautifully poignant, thought-provoking and utterly authentic.
Scottish hard man Dougie (Jamie Rahman) gives a sweet rendition of ‘Being A Lad,’ and it’s a stony individual indeed who won’t be moved to tears (as I was) by the heartbreaking climax. 4 *
Philip Caveney, Bouquets & Brickbats
I thought Alex really brought out the personal, but also universal, pain and intensity of the WWI horrors. As the show progressed, he displayed real pathos – having been excellent too in the earlier, happier, scenes. I thought both he and Sam made very strong leads. But then I felt the whole cast was strikingly good – having, I judge, been brilliantly prepared by [Ollie].
A personal email to Paul from Roderic Dunnett, a professional reviewer, whose official review will be out shortly
Comments left on the official The Tree of War Facebook page:
Went to see one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen today! Well done to all the Cast and Crew of The Tree of War you were AMAZING! You completely reduced me to tears.
Amazing piece of theatre! Really powerful.
Just got back from watching The Tree of War what a fantastic play each and every cast member played a brilliant part, it should go on TV or all around the country, well done to all of you, it was just brilliant.
It was, quite simply, one of the most powerful pieces of theatre I’ve seen. Oliver Mills’ score is brilliant and if he and Rachel Mann don’t make a cd I shall be really disappointed. The cast were all fantastic. Sam Gilliatt and Alex Cosgriff in particular. Remember Alex’s name. He’ll be winning Olivier awards one day. I don’t know if they have any tickets left, but if they do and you’re free, go!
Ollie Mills’ music was quite amazing.
If you live in the area, today is your last chance to see it. There are a few tickets left for the matinée and evening and they are on special offer at £5 each on the door. But booking online will guarantee you a seat.
Trust me: go if you can. If you don’t, you will always regret missing the start of something big.
I suspect my Facebook friends are sick to death of all The Tree of War posts I’ve been sharing – but I don’t care: it’s an amazing show and needs to be seen by everyone. So there.
Blog readers have probably forgotten all about it, so here’s a recap: it’s a musical about life in the trenches, written by a vicar and a (then) university student. Here’s last year’s review of the preview show. The show has been extended, with more songs added – including a solo for Bert. It’s bigger, better and I’m bursting with excitement!
For your interest, there are some cast interview links on the Facebook page (you don’t need to be on Facebook to watch them). Excuse Alex, who – as his mother, I’m sad to report – sounds supremely unintelligent with his ums and ahs. He’s saving everything for the performance. No, really.
Or you can listen to three of the songs. The cast sang at Manchester Cathedral two weeks ago and they sounded phenomenal.
If you live anywhere near Burnage, do yourself a favour and go see the show (September 15-19). You won’t regret it. You’ll be calling it The Tree of Awe.
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French People Take Holidays, Too
A Jock-in-the-bush
I went to visit VivinFrance and her lovely Jock – as in Jock, her delightful Scots husband, not jock, her meathead athlete; though he could have been a meathead athlete in his day, I suppose: he did once play ice hockey in Canada.
The trip was organised fairly last minute but Viv had some ideas to entertain me: a poetry workshop with two of her writer friends; a meal at the excellent restaurant in the village; shopping on Saturday.
Unfortunately (for me, not them; I have nothing against the South of England, honest), her friends went to Cornwall as I arrived in Europe; the restaurant closed so the owners could take a holiday (at the height of the summer season: the French have their priorities right); and Saturday was a public holiday, therefore many shops were closed.
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My hosts are lovely people
I didn’t really learn this on holiday but I need to shoehorn in the fact that when I went to bed, I found a box of fudge under my pillow, called Mrs Tilly’s.
I was too tired from the drama of flying alone to take a photo of my delight that night, but here’s a dramatic re-enactment from the next morning:
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I like to go with the flow
France being closed didn’t bother me – I was with my dear Viv and we read poetry (some), talked poetry (more), critiqued poetry (a lot), wrote poetry (a little). We managed visits to a supermarket and a hardware store that I thought was a supermarket (schoolgirl French never covering le tool shop), as well as the fulfillment of a childhood dream when I entered a pretty boulangerie-patisserie straight out of a French text book drawing. I bought elephant ears, a French biscuit. First introduced to me by blogger Laurie, who sent her home made version from the States, I have long wanted another go at them.
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Nostalgia is weird
On our daily walk into the village – There was fighting on this street during the war, Viv casually threw out; as if the French also have lots of history. I thought it was only us Brits – we popped into a corner shop and I spotted and had to purchase a box of Maizena!
If you don’t know, I lived in South Africa for fourteen years and learned to make gravy with cornflour – Maizena, a popular brand. If there was any other brand of cornflour, I never saw it nor bought it. Even now, nineteen years later and back in the UK, the grocery list often says ‘Maizena’ instead of ‘Corn Flour’. Of course I had to buy a box. Probably the oddest souvenir I’ve ever had. But I don’t care – Maizena!
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French folk are funny
Viv, her lovely friend Annette and I rested during a trip to the seaside (I don’t think France wanted to meet me – even the tide was out). A man on a bike shouted as he passed, A kebab of old people! It was funny once translated, until I realised that I was part of the kebab.
I wouldn’t mind, but I don’t think he was really French: he was on a bike but he had no garlic, onions, beret, baguettes or striped shirt.
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Goats and lemurs get me going
We had a trip to the zoo: Zoo Champrepus. Say it aloud; it’s fun, especially with the French rising inflection. I haven’t stopped saying it since I got back. It’s up there with ‘giggle’ and ‘hitch’ as one of my favourite words.
Our first stop was to feed popcorn to the goats and I was chuffed when a goat stood up against me to make sure he got his fair share i.e. all of it. It was the highlight of my day until we visited the lemur enclosure at feeding time. The animals wander around amongst the visitors, who are not allowed to touch them. However, they are allowed to touch us. One cutie pie, deciding he hadn’t been given enough, stood up against my leg, wrapping his adorable little paws around me and giving me his best Puss in Boots from Shrek impression (previous post refers). I’m in love. I haven’t felt that aglow since my wedding day. In the zoo shop afterwards I bought a lemur cuddly toy, lemur keyring and whatever lemur else I could find to remind me of my new favourite animal.
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The little fellow who won my heart
French food is the best
Viv and Jock fed me well, including Jock’s homemade Waldorf salad and Viv’s (drool) garlic lamb; but the culinary highlight had to be a trip to their favourite restaurant with some old friends and a bottle or three of good French wine.
Viv translated the menu (which had no prices listed; need I say more?) but I had no clear idea of what I was ordering; I just trusted it would be good and it was, more than good, viz. photos below:
Talking of wine, I couldn’t drink when I first arrived in France (surely a crime against nature?) because I was on antibiotics for an abscess, but I made up for it come Saturday-Wednesday and spent a lot of my time tipsier than the hour before a flight. I don’t think my hosts noticed, apart from the night I sprawled across their couch, giggling uncontrollably at re-runs of M*A*S*H.
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Flying ain’t so bad if you know the pilot
I’m terrified of flying. Mostly, I’m afraid of take-off; once I’m up there, I’m committed and, as a pragmatist, I relax enough to loosen my seat belt to Victorian corset strength. Due to the aforementioned antibiotics, I was unable to have a fortifying beverage on either of my outward flights (to Exeter and then Deauville). I compensated for my unusual sobriety by taking deep breaths, praying really hard, and singing hymns quietly (don’t want people to think I’m nuts; terrified is enough) in the spirit of Whistle a Happy Tune and I Have Confidence. Musicals are good for more than Saturday nights in bed, you know. I could have sung Nearer My God To Thee but I opted for Lord I Lift Your Name On High; it seemed appropriate.
It wasn’t so bad coming back because I still had my pickle on thanks to Jock’s single malt; and on the Exeter-Manchester flight I was delighted to find myself sitting next to a FlyBe pilot (one of six dotted about) who had been on a course, and who flew the route regularly. I bombarded him with questions – How can this thing even take off? What happens if one engine fails? Why don’t we crash? When you’re a passenger, do you judge the actual pilot on his technique? – and he gently slapped me about the head with facts, figures and common sense. He added to his goodness by pointing out landmarks I’d never have spotted, such as Blackpool Tower (you know, that great big pointy thing with delusions of Frenchness) and allowed me to enjoy the first flight I’ve ever almost enjoyed. And I was sat by the window – not a matter of choice; I always ask for an aisle seat so I can be one of the first off the plane when we inevitably go down.
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Families suck
TB: Did you miss me?
Hub: No, not really.
TB: Why not?!?
Spud: We didn’t have one cross word while you were away; and everything got done.
Hub: Yeah. We came to the conclusion that you’re a stress head.
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I was going to tell you about the romantic thing the Hub wrote to me while I was away, but I don’t think I’ll bother now. Suffice it to say, I’ll pay my own way to the moon, thank you very much. When it opens.
Judyt54 made a shocking comment on my previous post – it’s been two months since I wrote it.
I’m sorry folks; I honestly didn’t know it had been that long. In mitigation, I’ve been working on my second poetry collection; been to see VivinFrance; became a school governor; and faffed about reading free downloads from BookBub.
I’ve been wanting to tell you about France (I got back last Thursday) but I was out Saturday (Spud sang with The Tree of War cast at Manchester Cathedral) and Sunday; had a visitor yesterday; and I’m out this afternoon and tomorrow.
I’m holding up two fingers to you now – no, sorry: three fingers – and swearing on my previous career as a daily blogger that you’ll hear from me again in your lifetime.
UPDATE:
Here it is!
I received an email out of the blue, inviting me to read a poem of mine on BBC Radio Merseyside. It’s going out at 13:55 GMT today. You will hear me calm and steady. I hope. Because what I really am is trembling and nauseated.
Roger Phillips has the lunchtime show and he contacted me on Wednesday, to say that all of today’s programmes are being broadcast from alongside the Mersey under the banner heading, Turning The Tide. They found my poem about living near the Mersey on The Healthy Waterways Trust website, and asked if I’d be willing to read it for the show. Did Shake have a speare? Of course I agreed!
Once I told everyone I knew that video didn’t actually kill the radio star, reality – i.e. absolute gut-wrenching terror – set in. As many of you know, I am a member of Write Out Loud, the country’s largest poetry organisation, dedicated to getting us all reading our poetry in company. That means I read out a minimum of two poems once a month to a tolerant audience. I also give regular poetry readings at Walthew House, Stockport’s charity for the blind and hard of hearing (the latter seem to be my best audience, if I’m honest). I read to other community groups and last year I did a grand tour of two Stockport churches, sharing the War Poetry Canon to commemorate 1914. I even read the lesson in church from time to time. So no biggie, right?
Wrong.
A follow-up email from Roger about calling me this morning at nine ‘after the news’ had me reaching for the (carefully lined with a plastic bag and toilet paper to stop splashback) sick bucket. Did that mean I’d be live on the BBC? To thousands of Scousers who might find my accent wanting (I’ve moved a lot). What if I messed up? What if I threw up? What if the dogs barked and yapped and yelped and yipped while we were on the phone? Would Mr Phillips pass the recording of me bludgeoning them with a bucket to the police? What was I thinking?!
That’s when I gave thanks for Hairy Boy, my first-born child, my clever son, my current favourite offspring, because he had the good sense to fall in love with Hairy Girl. If Hairy Boy is Mountain Man, Hairy Girl is Mountain Dew: beautiful and smart and – the best thing ever about her; I can’t believe I never saw it before – she works for another BBC local radio station.
I sent off a frantic email: Help! I’m going to be on the radio! I’m going to snatch my three minutes from Andy Warhol (we have just come out of a recession) and I might make a fool of myself because I only have eight years’ experience of performing poetry! and followed it up with a frantic text: Sent you an email! Read it! Today! Now! Are you well? We haven’t seen you in ages xx
She talked me down off the ledge with sensible advice and an admonishment to have fun. Has she met me? Fun is my middle name, as in Tilly Illhavefunifitkillsmelikethistensionangstanxietyprobablywillbeforelong Bud.
So Rog phoned this morning (having spent four minutes in conversation, I think we’re close enough friends now for me to give him a diminutive) just after the news (a man of his word) and I recorded my poem, (feeling like Marilyn Monroe, in a breathy, high-on-drugs way; not a breathy, sexy-in-white way, unless you count the zero colour in my face), holding on to my breakfast, grateful to be unlive, and then dancing a jig around the living room when we were done.
Radio – I think I’ve found my medium. I can sit in my pyjamas, cuddle my sick bucket, and read poetry to the world who, because my poems are for the most part short, won’t have time to reach for the off button before I’m done.
Next stop: hospital radio; a mostly unconscious audience. They’re going to love me.
Happy 30th anniversary, darling. Love you. x
I’ve never liked The Wind in the Willows. I always thought it a tedious story about boyish animals in which I have no interest. I never watched Tales From the Riverbank or those interminable Sunday afternoon short Disney live action films which anthropomorphised mountain lions and zebras; though I did quite enjoy the 1993 remake of The Incredible Journey, thanks to Michael J. Fox and Sally Fields. But that was it for me as far as animals on film and stage are concerned.
Thus it was with a heavy heart I went to watch Alex play Mole in The Wind in the Willows. My son was the only reason I considered watching it at all – stupid Alan Bennett with his stupid fake creatures pretending to be human.
I’m so glad I love my son. The show was fantastic!
http://theatredelicatessen.co.uk/
The performance space was an old Woolworths, turned into an arts café – a really cool/funky/epic/whatever-the-hyperbole-is-these-days space. The furniture is unashamedly second-hand, including the bunk beds in the main seating area and old armchairs for the audience in the staging area. The tables are covered with blackboard paint and there are pots of chalks available for patrons’ use. Naturally the Hub and I spent a happy half hour scribbling like infants.
About ten minutes before curtain-up, a scruffy little creature began cleaning up, playing Connect-4 with the child (there was only one in the audience; most children clearly feel the same way about performing pretend-rodents as I do) and fussing about, getting in everyone’s way. That was our first introduction to Mole.
We were ushered into the performance space and – so civilised! – allowed to take our tea with us. I should say, the first performance space, because this was promenade theatre: the audience followed the cast around from room to room. At one point we sat on a concrete floor.
The use of space and props was clever. The river was symbolised by a variety of blue material, waved on a string by two of the cast. Toad’s prison was a stock trolley which Woolworths must have left behind when they cleared out. As the boat containing Ratty and Mole meandered along (a different trolley, pushed by a different cast member), it was passed by a boat going in the opposite direction – I know this because I noticed it was about ten inches long when it was given to me by the girl on my left and I passed it to the Hub on my right, and so on along the first row.
We moved from Ratty’s home and Toad Hall to the Wild Wood – a bare, cold room with lighting and imagination the only props – on to Badger’s sett and back to Mole’s home in the café. Mole and Ratty got into the bunk beds and fell asleep and everyone looked at each other because no one was sure if it was the interval or the end. I think some people left, believing it was the end of the show, but it was actually the interval.
http://www.springfield.derbyshire.sch.uk/category/wind-in-the-willows-2015/
The child who had been rather apprehensive of Mole at first thought it would be fun to shout ‘Boo!’ in his ear several times. If Alex doesn’t have a career in acting, he could succeed as one of those street human statues, because he never moved, not even when he heard his own mother scream as she dropped a large cup of very hot tea all over herself, the table (wiping out some creative doodles, a mean comment and a couple of rather lewd suggestions – made by other people, I swear) and the floor.
I think this was Alex’s best performance yet. He was sweet, funny and stayed in character the whole time. I know he stayed in character the whole time because I’m his mother, so of course I watched him to the exclusion of all others when he was on stage. When he wasn’t part of the dialogue he was scratching at fleas, fiddling and reacting to the other actors.
To be fair, just about the whole cast was excellent, especially Ratty, who had the best lines and made the most of them and the Judge, who was hilarious. Another was the Gaoler’s Daughter – the inspired casting of a male in that role paid off, particularly at the end, when he kissed the boys. The Head Weasel was great and had a compelling but deliberately annoying laugh.
This was a well-directed and well-acted production which made perfect use of the unusual space. But most of all, it was FUN.
http://www.savagechickens.com/images/chickenapologize.jpg
What Should Be An Apology, But Somehow Isn’t
I’ve had a lot going on and no laptop for a while but now everything’s back to normal. I saved all of your blog posts that came into my inbox – some going back to January – to read when I had more time. Then it occurred to me that I never have more time, so I made the decision to delete them all and suddenly I’m six inches taller because the guilt lifted as soon as the emails went into the trash.
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Feeling Yellow
I don’t think I mentioned I was quite ill with renal colic before Easter. Then the tests came back and it wasn’t renal colic after all – thank goodness, because kidney stones would have followed, the doctor was a little too eager to assure me. What I had was a severe UTI (I don’t want to say ‘urinary tract infection’ because that’s a wee bit icky). It had me flat out for a week (the Tramadol might have played a little part in that) and it was several more weeks before I was all better.
Live From Worktown
I had a poem in an anthology published in conjunction with this year’s Bolton Festival. I went along to the launch event. 45 minutes on the train then another 45 minutes trying to find the Octagon Theatre, which is a five minute walk from the station. The Hub’s instruction, via Google Maps (printed out with little arrows drawn on to show me which way to walk. He seems to think I can’t be trusted to find my own way around) was to exit the station, turn left, follow the map arrows. What could go wrong? Plenty, it seems.
For starters, the station had two exits.
I checked them both out and went with the one that most resembled the Google Street View image the Hub had shown me (did I mention he thinks I can’t find my way out of a railway station?). I exited, turned left, walked and walked and walked for much longer than five minutes, not finding any street names matching my map. I walked back to the station and started again.
I exited the second entrance, turned left, walked and walked but not quite so far this time before I turned around and walked back to the station, then around the station, then inside and around the station, then I bought thinking time by raiding the vending machine.
Idea! Look at the wall map.
There was bound to be a wall map.
There was a wall map.
Very pretty it was, too, with a helpful YOU ARE HERE arrow. I could even see the theatre on the map. What I couldn’t see was any indication as to which of the station’s two exits I should use to get to the theatre, nor in which direction I should go, nor any street names that tallied with my well-worn and now a little sweaty map. As pretty wall maps go, it was a bit of a let down.
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The chocolate worked its magic and it occurred to me to ask someone – a very helpful news vendor who told me, Turn right [hear that Hub & Google Maps/Right!] out of the exit that doesn’t appear on Google Street View [okay, he didn’t say that last bit but I could tell he was thinking it], up to the clock tower which is the town hall [or courts or something] and the theatre is just behind it. Which it is, if you come at it from the clock tower’s right if you’re heading up from the station, as I discovered once I had walked the long way around the town hall.
The excitement at actually arriving at my destination meant that for me, the anthology launch itself was a bit of an anticlimax, until I was given a free glass of wine. Everything looks better after free wine, especially on an empty except for a small bar of chocolate tummy.
I chatted to a bewildered Bolton University Creative Writing student, booze making me loquacious and free with all the writing advice she could ever need – Keep a notebook! Follow the muse! Get critiqued! Read my blog! Email me if you have any questions! – until she was rescued when I spotted a fellow contributor, Julia McGuiness, who once held a writing workshop I attended, and who used a few of my piku in a writing book she wrote [see, BUCWS: listen to me and you too can write long-winded and confused sentences in just such a style].
I took photos on my phone, sure in the knowledge that I could fiddle with the phone charger lead and connect it to my laptop to upload the photos to share with you.
I did manage to fiddle with the phone charger lead and connect it to my laptop.
Sorry there are no photos. It appears that I don’t know what to do once the phone and laptop are connected.
Julia on somebody else’s phone.
Spud Acts Again
Over Easter, Spud was at the national Student Drama Festival in Scarborough, sponsored by The Sunday Times, in Joe Bunce’s The Nutcracker [I accidentally typed The Butcracker and I can’t help thinking I’d really like to see that play].
A committee checks out student productions throughout the year and then invites twelve from around the country to appear at the Festival. The Nutcracker won four awards, including Best Director and The Cameron Macintosh Award. I suspect Mr Bunce will go far. I hope Spud is his Facebook friend because it’s often about who you know in the brutal business known as show.
You can read a little about the festival and The Nutcracker here. Spud sent me some photos but I can’t upload them. Is it possible that UTIs can affect your brain? Mine stopped working about six weeks ago.
The Hub and I are off to see Spud play Mole in The Wind in the Willows. More of that later in the week, but here’s a teaser:
Somebody went to hospital twenty-five years ago and all they brought back was this lousy mountain man.
Happy birthday, Hairy Boy.
Love you xx
I am a little fat. I like food; what can I say? I have dull hair: mousey. I don’t wear much make-up and have no need of a dressing table. If I look like a bag lady, I chose my own clothes. If I look nice, the Hub picked them for me. Despite all this, I am a little vain. This photograph is from 2003. I had to go back that far to find one of me that I liked. But I don’t really care: my husband still thinks I’m beautiful and if he doesn’t, he loves me enough to lie about it. I’m lucky. I have two boys. They never lie to me. Still, you can't have everything.
The Laughing Housewife 
I have the funniest readers in the blogosphere (not necessarily ha ha…)