Edinburgh Postscript: Whispers from the Pleasance Courtyard

I've just remembered something I overheard in Edinburgh, from a guy wandering around the Pleasance courtyard trying to drum up interest in his friend's show:

"If you like self depreciating and endearing comedy which lambasts estate agents, South Africans, and the really pretentious people he met on his gap year, you'll LOVE Jimmy."

Is it just me, or is that quite a niche market he's aiming for?

A bit later, on the other side of the courtyard, I witnessed some excellent parenting:

"No, Adam, you don't play with glasses."   (Picture at this moment, if you will, a very annoyed looking man carrying a smallish child in one arm and blindly groping around at the air in front of him with the other.) "Give them back please."

Adam finally got bored, and gave them back.

Father: "Right.  Thank you.  Now, count to 600 for punishment."
Adam: "Oh, can't I just go to 300?"
Father (firmly): 600.  And consider yourself lucky I'm only making you do it in English."

Friday Night Writers' Club

The first rule of Friday Night Writers' Club is that it's perfectly fine to talk about Friday Night Writers' Club.

Friday Night Writer's Club (both shirt AND shoes are advised) is something a few classmates and I came up with after we finished a creative writing course couple of months ago.  The idea is pretty simple: we'll meet up once a month for drinks and dinner, and bring a piece of writing to share. Over the course of the evening we'll read each other's work and give feedback, offer support, make suggestions; basically do all of the things which we did lots of during the course, and have been missing since it finished.

Tonight is our first proper meeting, and I'm really looking forward to it. This month, we've all written a 1500 word short story containing the phrase "when I am Queen". It sounded simple enough at the time; but the story I've ended up writing is absolutely nothing like the one I thought I was going to. I'm dying to find out what the others have come with. I'm also dying to hear how they tackled the writing process itself.  Because writing is fun, but it's also hard and frustrating, and it makes you do crazy things.  

And I do mean crazy.  The other morning I was pacing around my flat shouting quite loudly at someone because  he knew a big juicy secret about someone else and was refusing to tell me what it was.  Which would be fine, except for the fact that both parties were completely fictional, made-up characters.  Made-up by me, incidentally, and you'd think that would mean I'm entitled to the information, wouldn't you? Or indeed, would have access to it?  Apparently that's not how these things work. 

That will sound completely bonkers to a lot of people, I'm sure. To a few people, though, and I count the friends I'll be seeing tonight among that number, it will make complete and utter sense. I hope.

Have you seen Warhorse yet?

If the answer is no, and you live in or near London*, this is what you need to do:

Put this blog down NOW and go and find a credit or debit card.  (Preferably your own, but if for some reason you can't find one of your own, then, well, .......... needs must and all that.  Not that I'm not condoning petty larceny or anything.)  Got one? Good. Now, here's the box-office website;  click that link, and book yourself a ticket. RIGHT NOW.  If you are the kind of person who gets a bit squeamish about going to the theatre on your own, then book two tickets; you can worry about finding someone to come with you later. Hey, I'll even come if you like.  Just GO AND BOOK  NOW. (I'd pay that little bit extra and sit in the stalls, if I were you. But I'll let you decide that for yourself: I don't want to be too militant.  Just GO AND BOOK YOUR TICKET(S) NOW.)
 
Done?  Have you checked your email for confirmation details? Written down the booking reference somewhere nice and safe? Excellent.  You may resume reading.

I am not normally this bossy.  In fact, in real life, I'm not bossy at all. (Occasionally guilty of employing passive-aggressive manipulation techniques to get my own way, if the occasion calls for it, but definitely not bossy.  Ask anyone.)  But I saw Warhorse recently (no, really? I hear you ask) and loved loved loved loved loved it. In fact, I would even go as far as to say that Warhorse is quite simply

The. Best. Theatre. Experience. I. Have. Ever. Had.

I don't use those words (or those full-stops) lightly.  They come from someone who saw Luke Perry's bare bum in the stage production of When Harry Met Sally. Twice.**

Seriously, though, I do see a reasonable amount of theatre, and not all of it features ex-members of the 90210 cast getting their kit off, and I can't remember the last time a production blew me away as much as Warhorse did.  I took my Mum, and she loved it too.

It is phenomonally good, for all kinds of reasons: of course there's the terrific story, which is based on the book by Michael Morpurgo, so its brilliance is almost a given.    I raced out and bought a copy the next day (also Farm Boy, which is the sequel) but haven't had a chance to read it yet so I'm not sure how much of the dialogue came from the original text and how much of it was made up by Nick Stafford, who wrote the stage adaptation.  What I can say is the language used is beautiful and powerful and evocative. Phrases like "shooting their bullets into our bones" have been haunting me for days.

Technically it's brilliant; the set is very simple but is brought to life by clever lighting, audiovisual projections and sounds.  Attention to detail was really impressive; tiny, subtle touches - the sound of seagulls in thre distance, for instance - added volumes to the tone and atmosphere in the room.

Then, of course, there are the animals.  You might have heard the rumours; there are some horses in Warhorse. (They go to war.)  You might also have heard the rumours that there aren't any actual horses on the stage - just pretend, puppet ones.

They don't look anything like that.  But I imagine that the above, or something similar, is what most people conjure up when they imagine horse puppets. The ones on stage, though, were absolutely nothing like this; they were incredibly constructed and creatively engineered, and most importantly they were completely and utterly convicing.  The people operating them, who were visible on the stage but barely noticeable, managed to capture even the slightest moves; a tiny shift of the ears, a twitch of skin, the rise and fall of each breath.   Again, it was the attention to detail which was astounding; more than once I had to remind myself that these weren't living, breathing, creatures on the stage.

There were other animals, too: a comedy goose practically stole the show*** in the first half, adding some welcome light relief, while later, during battle scenes, black crows pecked at the bodies of dying soldiers and horses.  It was a small but brutal addition; the added poignancy struck deeply.

Once you have seen it (what do you MEAN you haven't booked?  Do you not listen?! DO IT NOW for goodness sake) you will be in good company.  As you may have heard, Steven Spielberg saw the production a while ago, and is now working on a film version.  I'm a bit worried about this; I simply can't see how it will work as a film.  As I watched these creatures on stage and witnessed the actors interact with them I found myself falling just as much in love with them as the characters did.  This caused a complete cognitive dissonance; on the one hand I could see with my own eyes that these were just constructions of wood, metal and plastic, being propelled around the stage by humans, but on the other my brain simply refused to process that fact. As far as I was concerned those horses were real, even though I knew they couldn't possibly be. It was nothing short of pure magic.  I'm not convinced that magic won't be lost on screen, but I really, really, hope I'm wrong.






*If you are not in or near London, find a way to get yourself to somewhere which is in or near London, and then follow these instructions.

**I appreciate that this comparison will mean more to some readers than others

***I typed that as "stole the shoe" by mistake, initially; which made me think: there's a phrase which is just crying out to be used as a euphemism. For what, though, I have absolutely no idea.  Answers on a postcard, please.

Er, sorry, Amazon........

I am stunned.  Speechless.  My gaster has been well and truly flabbered. 

Not because some guy in California has managed to destroy 12 acres of woodlands by being really bad at golf*.  Or because I've just heard that one of the founding members of ELO has died after being crushed by a bale of hay.  Those are both stories that sparked my attention today, but the thing which caught me completely off guard recently is this:

My downstairs neighbour, who is a little odd to say the least, recently offered to give me some books he had finished reading. He spends a lot of time hanging around the bus-stop near our flats, and if he's there when I'm waiting for my bus my usual tactic is to say a polite hello and then to bury my head in whatever book I'm currently reading.  So when he offered me his off-casts I naturally assumed that he had noticed me doing this, realised I like to read and concluded that I might be someone who would appreciate them.

But then, last night, he delivered the books.  Just as I had settled down in front of some rubbish telly there came  a knock on my door, and when I opened it, there he was, wild eyes and all, clutching a plastic bag in his hand.  I could see the bag contained book shaped objects, and the book-ness of them was confirmed when he grunted something which sounded a bit like "here are those books" as he thrust it at me.  I said thank you, he asked for a couple of teabags which I gave him (it seemed like a fair swap) and he went back downstairs. 

Then I opened the bag, and the first thing I saw was this:

Regular and long-suffering readers of this blog will understand why my jaw instantly found itself in the vicinity of the floor.  Perhaps some of them, if they have been blessed with an extraordinarily large amount of empathy, will even be feeling the same sense of astonishment that I experienced.

For those of you who are more recent visitors (hello! Do pop in from time to time, won't you?) I should explain: this is a book I ordered from Amazon several months ago and then had an agonising and painful wait for, and then had an even more painful and more agonising conversation with Amazon's customer service department when I thought it hadn't arrived. They eventually sent me another copy, but not until I had fired off several strongly worded emails.  And also moaned quite a lot about it all here.

Just a coincidence, you may wonder? Well, yes, I suppose there's a chance that the crazy man who lives downstairs from me happened to fall in love with little known French author Jules Renard around the same time as I did, and also ordered his impossible-to-find journal over the internet.  Perhaps I shouldn't be so quick to judge.

 But then I dug further into the bag.  The next book was another title I had ordered through Amazon but had never (I thought) arrived.  Hmmmm.  The third, a book which I won in a prize draw several months ago but had never (I thought).....well, you get the idea. Three of the books he was giving me were MY OWN BOOKS. 

The other two were books about Jesus. Seriously. I have no idea where he got those ones from, but I'm pretty sure he didn't read them.   Or maybe he did, and that's why he decided to give mine back.

He's not exactly the sharpest tool in the playground, and I suppose he might genuinely have made a mistake (I mean three mistakes) by taking my post.  Or, and this is quite possible, he just doesn't understand it's not appropriate to steal someone's possessions and then return them by pretending to be doing a good turn.  I don't know.  It's all very unsettling.

My main problem is deciding what to do the next time I see him.  I don't particularly want to confront him, but at the same time it would be quite nice not to have to wait for six months to read any books I order from Amazon in the future.   I do have a copy of The Book Thief in my flat which I could give to him by way of return ("hey, thanks for those books - here's one I've finished with!!")  but I'm not sure he'd get the sarcasm.

Sunday Night Music Club

I almost forgot tonight. But don't feel neglected, I also forgot it was Fathers' day in Australia. I am a terrible daughter.

Isn't Wodehouse glorious?

I know I'm not saying anything new. There's a quote from Stephen Fry on the back of the volume I'm currently dipping into : "You don't analyse such sunlit perfection, you just bask in its warmth and splendour" he says.  And who am I to argue with a national treasure?  These are some random bits:

Barmy went to the door and opened it sharply.  There came the unmistakable sound of a barmaid falling down the stairs

I suppose, all in all, Freddie Widgeon has been in love at first sight with possibly twenty-seven girls in the course of his career: but hitherto everything had been what you might call plain sailing.  I mean, he would flutter around for a few days and then the girl, incensed by some floater on his part or possibly merely unable to stand the sight of him any longer, would throw him out on his left ear, and that would be that.  Everything pleasant and agreeable and orderly, as you might say.

It was a lovely summer morning with all the fixings, such as blue skies, silver wavelets, birds, bees, gentle breezes and what not.


A child who, on her own showing, plugged pigs with arrows and set fire to dormitories was not a child he was frightfully keen on having roaming about the countryside at a time when he was supposed to be more or less in charge of her.


He had a broken heart and blisters on both heels.

The Right Time: the director's cut

My goodness, is it Wednesday* already? How did that happen? 

I know it is bad form and tediously boring to apologise for lack of blog updates, and even worse form and much more boring to offer pathetic excuses for them.  My mum is in town for a visit; I sort of quite urgently need to sort some work out; a few deadlines are approaching, blah blah blah.  Basically the distractions have been flying thick and fast this week; things should get back to normal soon.

For now, as promised, this is the original, longer version of the short story I entered in that competition a while ago and keep saying I will never mention again.  I still prefer this version, personally, but that's just me.

The Right Time

I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognise my face. I try to avoid mirrors normally, and catching sight of my reflection in the bathroom one was an accident. Before I knew it, I had seen myself.


It was just after that nurse arrived. The one who smells funny. I don’t know her name, I hardly know any of their names. I don’t really like nurses. Except that blonde haired one, maybe, who came once. With the fingernails. But that one I had this morning, I don’t like her. She made porridge for breakfast. It was all beige lumps and watery milk, and smelled like wet cardboard. I didn’t want it, but it’s best not to make a fuss. It was easier just to open my mouth and let her put some porridge in. I spat some of it out afterwards, when she wasn’t watching, into one of Walter’s old handkerchiefs. It’s behind the dressing table now, I think. Or maybe I put it in the bedside drawer, where my tablets are.

I look at the clock on the wall, but I can’t read it. So I ask the nurse what the time is. She looks up, and pretends to screw her eyes a bit.

“Those numbers are far too small, aren’t they. We’ll have to get you a bigger clock. I’ll mention it to your daughter. “

I don’t tell her I can see the numbers perfectly. I know where the hands are, too, it’s just hard now to tell what they mean. I used to be able to tell the time. Now, by the time I’ve worked out where one hand is and counted in fives, I’ve forgotten where the first one was.

The nurse says it’s half past ten. That means Jane will be here soon. I wish she was coming later. I tried to ask her to wait until after lunch, but she didn’t listen. She never listens. To her I’m just silly old Mum. But the fog in my head is so much worse in the mornings. I remember better in the afternoons.

The nurse leaves, and I sit on the edge of a chair, practising things I can say to Jane. I hear keys in the door, and she breezes into the room like a Spring day. She’s carrying flowers, and when she gives me a hug her hair smells like apricots.

“Mum!” She smiles “How are you? I’m so sorry I couldn’t come yesterday.”

She has that man with her again. Do I know him? I get muddled with faces, these days. The ones I’m supposed to know I don’t, and the ones I think I know, it turns out I’m not supposed to. Sometimes the people I talk to smile, but not all the way to their eyes, and I know I’ve got it wrong again. I’ll just wait for the man to say something first.

“Hello dear. That’s a pretty shirt”.

“I’m glad you noticed! It’s the one you gave me for Christmas, remember?”

Did I really pick that shirt? Jane has always looked terrible in purple. It makes her skin too yellow.

“Oh, yes, of course, I know that. I just meant.... it looks good on you, that’s all”

She puts the flowers in a vase, and starts to tell me news, stories about people called Charles and Robbie and Jennifer, and other names I don’t remember. One of them has a dog, and it is getting sick, or one of them is sick in hospital and needs someone to look after their dog. I don’t know. The man doesn‘t say much, just puts down the magazines he was holding and sits awkwardly in the chair opposite me. He looks like he would rather be somewhere else.

I smile, and nod like I’m listening. Nodding is good. Suddenly I realise that Jane is frowning. Why is she frowning?

“Mum, where’s your necklace?”

I keep nodding.

“No, Mum, it was a question.” Jane’s voice has changed slightly. She sits down next to me.

“Auntie Rose’s pearls. You were wearing them on Tuesday.”

I know the necklace she means. I’ve hidden it from the nurses. Yesterday, I think. Or maybe the day before. But if I tell her that she will ask me where, and I don’t know.

“I don’t like it any more” I snap. “I’ve put it away”. If I sound angry, maybe she’ll talk about something else. That works sometimes.

The man speaks.

“They do this”, he says. “Squirrel things away. I read about it. You talk, I’ll look.”

He starts to open drawers. Suddenly I feel a burning sensation in my stomach, and I don’t need to pretend to be angry any more. What does he think he’s doing poking around in my clothes?

“It’s not in there.” My voice rises, but the man ignores me.

“Jane, tell your friend it isn’t in there””

“My friend? Oh Mum.” Her eyes fill with tears. “But you know Charles.” The man puts an arm around her and she looks at him the way she used to look at me when she was a little girl. He strokes her hair and murmurs something in her ear.

“It’s rude to whisper, you know” I hear myself say. I don’t like making Jane sad, and I know I have, but don’t know how. Still, I don’t want that man looking in those drawers. My personal clothes are in there. Slips and things.

“Sorry, Edith” he says. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m going to wait outside in the car while you and Jane have a nice chat.” He looks at the magazines as he leaves, and then looks at Jane. She nods. They don’t notice me watching. No one ever notices me anymore.

“How about a nice cup of tea” Jane says, and bustles off to the kitchen before I can answer. While she is gone, I look at the magazines. I don’t read them of course, just look at the pictures. They are all of other people’s flats, which look the same. These are odd magazines.

“Garden’s looking nice” Jane says, coming back with the tea. “Harry is doing a great job, isn’t he?” Harry lives next door. Walter never liked him much. Shifty eyes, he always said.

“I suppose so” I say. “I hope he’s not been in the greenhouse. Walter would have hated that.”

Jane sits down.

“Mum, Charles and I have been thinking....”

“Charles? Do I know Charles?”

“OK, then Mum, look, I’ve been thinking. This house is getting very big, and maybe it’s time to start thinking about, you know, whether, you’d be better living somewhere else. Look, I’ve brought some ...”

“But I live here. This is my house. I like it.”

“Yes, Mum, I know, but now it’s just you.....”.

“This is Charles’s idea, isn’t it?” I interrupt. I still don’t know who Charles is. But it seems like a good thing to say.

“Oh Mum. A minute ago you said you didn’t even know Charles”

I have said the wrong thing, I know I have. She sounds cross.

“Of course I know Charles”

Jane sighs, and hands me one of the magazines. “It’s both of us, really”. She says. “Just....have a look at these. Some of them seem nice. Please. We can talk about it later.”

I shrug, and we sit in silence again. It is so quiet I can hear the clock on the wall ticking. I pretend to drink my tea for something to do.

Jane reaches into her purse, and pulls out a box. “Look, I’ve brought you something” she says. Inside it, there’s a watch. No hands, just big green numbers. I can see it is 10:52.

I like knowing what time it is again. I don’t know what to say. Thank you doesn’t seem enough, but it’s all I can think of.

“Oh, it’s nothing” she says. “I just thought you’d like it.”

She helps me put the watch on, and we keep drinking our tea. The magazines with the houses in them sit in a silent pile on the coffee table. I notice my reflection for the second time today, in the window. I can see Jane too, sitting next to me. For a moment I am confused. Two reflections. The purple shirt; is that her or me? I touch my left ear to check, and one of the reflections copies. That must be me. I’m getting smaller.

Jane watches me, and smiles. She puts an arm through mine. “Aren’t we a handsome pair”

I smile back, and look at my new watch, and at the yellow flowers in the hallway, which are just like the ones Walter used to grow. I look at my daughter and the awful purple shirt she has worn especially. She looks tired. Maybe it’s time. I look at the magazines again.

“Do any of these flats have gardens?” I ask. Walter would want me to have a garden.

*Yes, yes, I know it's also the first of September, and the September-ness of today is a much more astounding quality than its Wednesday-ness, univerally speaking.  But I was supposed to do a truckload of things in August and hardly did any of them.  I am calling today August 32nd.