That pretty much sums up the work side of things. (Well, there were arch Game of Thrones references which I mentioned to a colleague who started wheezing and crying with the on-pointness of my observations, but best not to elaborate here).
Today was nearly bring your cat to work day. He’s not my damn cat, he just hangs around, in a what ho, spinster kind of way, though usually my existence is barely acknowledged or suffered when he’s in a mood, which is most of the time. But it seems once again one of his community owners has gone off on holidays, and scraping by on only four or five dinners a day, the cat has resorted to being demonstrative.
By demonstrative I mean getting under foot when I’m going down the back steps with a basket of washing, recycling or in the dark. Winding himself around me, cheers to my allergies, and, unheard of, leaping up into my arms this morning as I hurried up the path, and then, after being firmly set back down, scampering after me to the bus stop (or wherever I was dashing to, which surely had much food, as I was in a hurry and having so much fun being tripped up).
As my dash to the bus usually involves a chicken run across six lanes of speeding semi-trailer traffic, I could not go that way so I had to run back down the pitch-dark laneway (an old dunny lane) because I know no cat will follow me into the lane – they don’t like it, and neither do I but needs must. It worked, as I shook off my dark pursuer in the dark lane, and just made the bus, but only because of a red traffic light, me wearing a light grey top and it being one of two regular drivers on I’m greeting terms with, who saw me and flapped open the door so I could get on at the lights as a favour. Phew.
Checked for cat as we flew past but hopefully he’d found other amusements. Here’s hoping. I felt guilty about not investigating the clatter-bang the other night when I didn’t hear the possum scrabble back pre-dawn but he must have been doing the walk of shame because he was his usually grumpy thumpy self when he woke up next evening (as much as I hate that possum, especially when he objects to me singing Ramones songs while I wash up, or the ceiling shaking hijinks when he brings, ahem, a date home, I would miss him, and his drunken stumbling when the mangos are ripe, or his grumbling and scratching when he gets up, like an old man).
So that’s the wildlife report. Garden? Ah, well. Between the heat and the neighbours – shrug. Next door actually decided to saw off branches of the pink hibiscus while in full flower. And persons unknown (one of the building crews?) has been using the still bare corner where the veggie garden used to be as an outdoor toilet. Still, my wee cumquat I’d planted there is just loving that. Marmalade, anyone?
Ok, so arts? Saturday was very cosmopolitan. Went into local town for a screening of NT Live’s Julius Caesar, and it was brilliant. Man, I wish I’d been a groundling for that. They had the audience on the floor as the mob, and it worked so well, and they all followed their cues to cheer or jeer, to hold up posters and wave streamers. Much like the Globe, I think Shakespeare really works when the actors are performing to an audience right there in front of them, not the back rows, it brings it alive, as they must give those speeches and hold that crowd, the crowd right in front of them, and carry them with them. Which they did. Somewhat obvious casting of Ben Whishaw as the Oxbridge intellectual Brutus with his tweed, scarf, reading glasses and books, against the man of the masses Mark Antony, played by David Morrissey. Well, let’s not shy away from class, or obvious political relevancy. That worked, too. All in all, because it was cut down and performed in such a heightened atmosphere, it cracked along. An excellent bit of theatre.
Afterwards there was a festival of live music in streets, parks and venues. I listened to a few songs before settling in one café for songs and a strawberry milkshake. My town does café culture now. Sometimes. On special occasions.
I also saw Bell Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra at the Opera House, and that was also in modern dress, and crackling with a fire I’ve never seen in other productions. A rare combination of cast and a simple set of modern lounge furniture, and a sheer curtain screen to project the dates and places, which helped keep track. But mainly it was the actors playing the story as a celeb couple in meltdown, an old school 70s and 80s kind of Mick Jagger vibe, and it so worked. That’s me done. Finally, I get it, and I never need see another production because it worked so damn well. Because it was right, the politics are just something that happen in the background to this super celebrity couple. That’s the way to play it.
TV? Mainly streaming stuff I’m loathe to admit to. I will say how much a delight the entire series of Legends of Tomorrow was, from start to finish, it just kept hitting it, for me, at least. The lesser child of the Arrow-verse, I think maybe the lack of expectation helped, as the show has grown into its own damn thing, and I love it dearly. The whole Beebo arc was just, well, classic, and they’ve thrown my most beloved John Constantine into the mix, and Kid Flash. What is not to love and adore? For me, at least. It made me happy when nothing else would or could. For that, I love it.
Legends is silly, but it has heart, and characters I actually care about, unlike everything else I’ve inflicted upon myself of late. I think American writers struggle to differentiate between flawed and complete arsehole, and sadly every other show made in the world must follow. Perhaps they should only cast actors who are clever enough to find that one speck of gold in a badly written role, and nurture it, like a tiny ember, but sadly, that seems rare. Even my favourite Brit boys seem ground down by US scripts these days.
I mean, I know it’s dark days, but take a note from history. Less angst. More Beebo.