One day there'll be an app that delivers a short, sharp shock everytime I dare think something like that, because sure enough, it started to rain, and heavily, a mere second later.
So I found a convenience store open that was selling brollies for $10, brollies that weren't a jot on my beloved big red New York umbrella that was so fine and only cost me $5 USD (so less than $5 at the time). This piece of junk was coming apart at the seams just one block later. I miss my New York umbrella. Lots.
Anyways, off to see the Belvoir version of Death of a Salesman. The stage was bare bar a Falcon, as advertised, sitting squat in the centre. It was a lot more shouty, boofy, blokey and angry than the American version, but that's local actors for you. Colin Friels was a far angrier, much more deluded, less sad Loman than Mr Philip Seymour Hoffman, and Biff was more a blustering football playing thug in the mould of a young Russell Crowe, that the fragile and weaselly Biff young Mr Garfield gave us. But there was Hamish there, so I was happy, and the stunningly named Blazey Best playing the hooker had a cackle that could wake the dead, which worked on the bare stage (like I said, bare stages encourage actors to take it big, imho).
I was supposed to be straining my imagination, but I was remembering the sets from the US production, which is cheating, but there you go. The idea of setting the play in and around the old car in the Belvoir version could be considered clever or overly contrived, depending on one's mood. I did like the updating of the you beaut tape recorder to an iPad though, that had a chuckling resonance as Howard walks in with his new toy.
I did enjoy it, though, if enjoy is the word. It was brash, shouty and angry, and had everything to say about the death and unreality and sheer misery of the American Dream, and idea to which recent events have given even more resonance. It was much more clear in this version, perhaps, being a local production, was not afraid to ramp up the anti-American sentiments in the script, it seemed like diatribe, albeit spot on, at times, where the US version was more about the slow crumbling defeat of one man we were made to painfully witness. It was a more human and emotional journey. People exited the theatre weeping profusely. In the Belvoir, it was stunned silence as the house went dark.
Could have done without the protracted death scene on stage at the Belvoir. Not healthy or happy viewing for me. It was like they gave me back my father on Monday, and tore away the sad, pathetic sap, that poor orange peel of a man, on Wednesday (having been tossed away as used peel by the very same dept. as my father, I understand his misery even more). So yeah, I have an emergency stash of dark chocolate bars in the desk drawer, just in case of the shakes.
Got soaking wet trying to get a taxi afterwards. It was raining so hard you could hear the roof dripping in the Belvoir, which was very funny if you'd just seen The Histrionic. Finnaly got a cab, who took me on an additional $20 detour which I did not appreciate, but it was after eleven on a wet Wednesday and it was grab the first cab I saw, despite my precient misgivings.
Got home to find Himself still up (and the streets bone dry, I live so far away it's a different climate) and my very own copies of the front and back door keys at last. I was never allowed a set before, for whatever reason. Still don't have any of the other keys to all the other doors and windows, but I guess he's finally fed up with acting as doorman. Heh. Twenty-one today, then. I wish, right? Curfew is over, though. I feel almost grown up and independent, which is nice before I keel over of old age.
Oh, look, it's raining again. No lunch in the park then. Sigh.
It was so cold this morning. I'm not really used to these low single digit temps, but at least I'm wearing my warmer, daggier gear today. Or, at least, my favourite big russet cardy with the clownishly big buttons. Funny how smart clothes aren't warm at all, and I've been stuck in the smart clobber all week so far.
Mind you, most of my warmest winter gear has been bought on holidays with the family in Scotland, so it's not that flash. You know, you get dragged on one hike through the Cairngorms and you're buying out Tesco of every jumper they have, even the men's.
I think that's why I laugh and mock the tiny skinny actor boys shivering away in The Eagle and Centurion, like the place is so big and bad. Fie, that's what my family consider a Sunday walk, and I wish to god I was kidding.
I remember having to kit out one of my little cousins in his boots, beanie, scarf, coat and mittens for one such walk and he's howling all the while. I tell him he should be a brave little Scottish boy because I come from a land of palm trees and beaches and I wasn't crying. Strangely, enough, this wicked lie works, for a bit. Of course, the moment the first cold blast hits us he's off howling again and I wouldn't be far behind him if not for a need to keep up appearances with the family, and off we set, howling tot in tow, me waiting for DOCS (or UK equivalent) to pounce on us for child abuse, but apparently it's perfectly fine and I try to distract the wee fellow, little mittened hand in mine, by pointing out the leaves on the path which have frozen themselves into abstract leafsicles, frozen blocks of leaves in all shapes and patterns and shades of brown, all down the muddy paths, but he's not having it. It's quiet snuffling by the time we've all finished our mandated forced march through the countryside and return for hot chocolates.
So, if you ever see an Austen heroine step out in inclement weather, it's not lunacy, it's just what Brits do. Aberant behaviour as social norm. But, basically, now you know why I buy up big on jumpers when over there. Also, M&S fit me perfectly, which is just as well, as they (the UK) stuck me with this puddin' shape. My cousins have the exact same arse I do, so it ain't environment. It just is what it is.
Oh man, this week has been busy. Can it be Friday yet? Just Thursday, huh? I never could get the hang of Thursdays...
So it's Friday, and a salient lesson in being careful what you wish for, as I'm not having fun.
Still, there was a pork bun. I'd admired a gentleman's pork buns yesterday (not a euphenism) and just after I collapsed in my seat after my dressing down, which the whole floor heard, he dropped off one of his home made buns on my desk, freshly warm.
Sometimes I feel the need to just cling to random acts of kindness. and it was a very nice pork bun, too. Hit the spot with a nice pot of green tea. It's going to be a day of innumerous pots of tea, I fear. I'm already on my third, tsk.
This is where intiative and hard work get you. Oh wel, at least there was a pork bun.
Meanwhile, grizzling over another gloomy day (it'd be better be gloomy all weekend because I want to wallow in my room and I need the excuse of a rainy day) so no scribbling away in the park again and I'm back on the third part now, which is the most like Hustle it ever gets, and the story of young Freddie, gentlman thief.
He was originally Freddy, a rough cocky chap, if you can imagine Daniel Craig playing Willie Garvin in Modesty Blaise, which I find very easy to do so (I can see Dan as Garvin before I could ever see him as Bond), you know, a bit of rough.
But then I flipped it, and Freddy became Freddie, Frederick Berkeley, Viscount Fitzhardinge, Earl of Falmouth, to be precise, and Neal became the bit of rough (Neal being fresh from the boonies in the backstory I really want to write but dare not). There's a lot of Raffles in there, and I was trying to shoehorn in a bit of Willoughby, but it's all a bit, if I'm honest, gone more than a bit Brideshead. Oh well.
High class Freddie is fun, though, he gets to be unthinkingly callous at times, and he's never done time, because people of his station just don't, they go to rehab, do community service, get let off with a warning or a fine, but they never do porridge, like Neal did (insert Woosterian hijinks here for whatever Freddie might have got up to).
But alas, no park scribbling for me. What ho, inbox.
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