July 21, 2014
On a meal deal at the Menier – one of the best theatre experiences. Lovely food served quickly and washed down with wine. And so to see Forbidden Broadway – the pisstake of the current big production musicals running in the West End. Well, obviously it was originally about the Broadway ones, but perhaps ‘Shafting Shaftesbury” or ‘Dreary Drury’ just didn’t cut it.
So this is the second time I’ve seen this – the first time about 5 years ago in the same theatre, but this version is updated and relates to current shows. And it is great. Obviously helps if you’ve seen the actual shows to get all the in jokes, but even though I had not been drawn in to see The Pajama Game up town, I knew enough about it to find the Menier’s “Revival Game” a cracking number. They basically say the things most people are thinking and do it with fabulous singing voices and humour themselves. The four-strong cast takes us through all the big ones: Billy Elliot, Lion King, Miss Saigon, Phantom, Wicked, Matilda, Once, Jersey Boys, West Side Story,….. too numerous to mention, but the best for me had to be the fantastic parody of Les Mis just before the interval. The superb farce of them pretending to get on and off a rotating stage is making me snigger at the memory. The classic ‘Master of the House’ overblown, over acted and with lyrics along the lines of ‘Half an empty house, still we never close”, and the bored extra singing “On my phone”, about how all she wants to do is get out of there.
The second half was not as strong, with some solo bits I could have done without and references to stars who I didn’t know. But still a great night out if you enjoy a well executed revue show in a fabulous little theatre.
July 13, 2014
So last night we are having people round for dinner and split the meal so that hubby doing starters and I’m doing mains and pud. I’m thinking slow roasted lamb. Easy. slap the veg and wine in a casserole pot and job done. Made it before and works a treat.
As hubby is roasting tomatoes and will want a highish heat, I decide I will leave him the oven that I have been cooking the chocolate mousse cake in and use the second oven to slow roast the lamb. This is a new cooker and in fact I’ve never used the second oven before, but seriously, what can go wrong? It’s just a matter of turning a dial. Unfortunately when I go to take the lamb out just before the starters are served, I realise it is still raw. Despite having been in the oven for seven hours. Well, not completely raw, but even the surrounding carrots still weren’t cooked. We have six guests and no main course. I call hubby in from outside, trying to keep the hysteria out of my voice.
We transferred the lamb to the main oven whilst we tried to figure out what to do. Luckily on his Waitrose trip he had bought Sunday’s roast and it was beef. And in fact he’d bought two pieces for some (still unexplained) reason. So we cut them in to smaller joints, turned the heat up full blast in the main oven and slammed them in. The roast potatoes were transferred to the second oven to keep warm. The green beans flopped limply in the pan, gently overcooking.
We sat down for starters, ate slowly and forty minutes later the beef was carved, the potatoes burnt and the green beans mush. But we served it anyway and our guests had to eat it. There was no other choice. I was drinking for England and trying to remove the carbonised potatoes from the dish. But there was no salvaging this meal. We could only apologise.
Still, this morning we thought that at least we have the lamb for today. But no. Unfortunately it is still inedible as now it has been overdone by being blasted with the beef and being left in the cooling over overnight. Even the onions and carrots are black.
July 7, 2014
Hubby and I have just returned from our second holiday in three weeks. I could get used to a one week on one week off kind of flexitime. But the main reason for this second jaunt was to see the Palio; the bareback horse race around the central square in Siena. But this is no simple horse race. This is a horse race steeped in tradition and pageantry and machismo and dates back for nigh on 400 years or so. One thing it is not is a contrivance for tourists. In fact they make no concessions for tourists with no readily available timetables, information or announcements. Everyone who matters (the locals) know exactly what happens when and where and exactly what you should be doing.
Siena, a beautiful walled city, is divided in to 17 districts (contrada) represented in colours and symbols and the residents of that district are baptised in to it. They each have a chapel, a social club and a museum. All the boys of Siena must learn to play the drum and do flag throwing and they are taught this in their contrada throughout the year. Only the two best flag throwers from each contrada will represent them in the Palio parades (and compete for the title of ‘Most elegant’), along with one drummer. The parade on the day of the Palio is two hours of non stop pageantry, flag throwing, trumpeting and men in tights.
For each Palio only 10 contrada will race. The other seven will automatically compete next year and then three are randomly drawn to make up the ten. Only those competing in the Palio are allowed to decorate their contrada with the flags and tapestries representing them. As you walk around Siena it is like being in an opera set with these wonderful buildings dating back to the 12th and 13th centuries bedecked with colourful flags and lamps which are only displayed for the four days of the Palio. The morning after they have all disappeared except in the winning contrada. Similarly the residents wear their contrada colours and scarves. But this is Italy so it’s not a football scarf, it is a square of silk worn usually as a triangle around the neck.
It is such a mental experience. The maddest race I have ever known. Horses (no thoroughbreds allowed) are randomly allocated to each contrada and they hire a jockey to ride it. They raise money all year to pay for the best jockey they can as he’s going to be riding in the race having only just met the horse three days before. (And it is ‘he’ except once in 1957 a woman was chosen as she had been the stunt double in a Hollywood film that featured a woman jockey in the Palio so a contrada chose her to ride for them.) Then there are a morning and evening trial race in the over the next three days until the Palio itself.
On the first training race we saw – with a fantastic view from an apartment balcony – by far the best way to watch the Palio if you can – we didn’t understand the rules and thought the blue and white jockey was unable to line up and causing havoc as the other horses got jumpy and fretful pushing against the rope that is the starting line. When they did finally set off, the rope did not fall cleanly to the ground and horses got their legs tangled in it falling over and throwing their riders off.Others fell off round the tight bends and one was running with his horse down the back straight until he eventually remounted.
But we discovered that in fact the horses line up according to the draw that is made at the start of the race.The final horse then does not have to line up until he wants to. And in fact may take ten minutes, half an hour, an hour until he decides to. Once he waited so long it had got dark and the race was abandoned! The tension at this point is incredible. Silence from the huge crowd as the horses start champing at the bit, and jockeys can use their whip on each other and each other’s horses. This is a no holds barred kind of race. And then the final jockey decides to go and a huge firework is let off to start the race. Three bareback laps of a tiny, tight bend, sloping track with I don’t know how many people yelling them on.
And then the winner crosses the line, and another huge firework explodes and everyone runs on to the track. The winning contrada immediately goes to claim the Palio itself – a silk hand painted banner that hangs near the equivalent of a royal box – they climb up and pull it down and then parade with their horse back to the stable.
There are no announcements at all. This is all a well-rehearsed machine oiled over the centuries. The drummer of the winning contrada was overcome with emotion, sobbing in to his velvet tabard. And everyone sang. Just like they had sung every day leading up to the race. Just like they sang at the end of the contrada dinner we went to. And at the horse blessing we went to. And you could feel this was where opera is at home. The incredible set, the drama, the tears, the big Italian voices soaring in to the sky. Nessun dorma indeed.
June 18, 2014
Had a lovely lunch with some friends the other day. Invited folk over and asked them to bring a bite and a bottle. And I didn’t coordinate suggest or organise what people brought. It was entirely their decision. Whatever they felt like bringing. I’ve done it before and yet again it worked incredibly well. Amazing really. The first time I did it I had a few texts and calls in advance asking what to bring, but I abdicated responsibility. “Whatever you like, honestly”, “Would a Greek salad be ok? ” ” Really, it doesn’t matter. Buy a packet of crisps or make a pavlova, I really really really don’t mind”. Because I don’t . I don’t care. If we had ten tubs of coleslaw and nothing else I would be happy. Partly because they would have all brought the aforementioned bottle as well, but also because we can send out for pizza if we need feeding. It is their company I want. Their tales, their laughter, their fun. The food is incidental. But incidentally it has always been fabulous. And bizarrely it has always worked out every time I’ve done it. Some bring starters nibbles, others mains, some sides and some desserts. Amazing. Or is it? In truth it is probably what we should expect rather than numerous identical dishes. But it does surprise me how well balanced the spread always seems. And so bloody yummy. One thing many of my friends have in common, is that they are good cooks. And there is a swapping of recipes and tips as we tuck in.
This time the sun shone on us and we enjoyed the new garden furniture. It’s a table and settee. Worked perfectly and I am so pleased with it. Especially as we’ve never had decent garden furniture before. And the day became evening and we kept going. Some left for their evening adventures and those like me who had no plans for the night continued to chat and drink and play the music louder. Ah how simple to enjoy the conversation and camaraderie. Friendship is a wonderful thing.
June 15, 2014
I have blogged before about my father. I was very close to him as a child. Closer than to my mother as he had an air of mystery about him perhaps. Working away from the home for much of the time when I was very small, and returning often gift- laden on a Friday night. Maybe a comic – I was a big Bimbo fan, or the best present ever was a diamanté hair clip. I remember being in my parents double bed when he came back and gave it to me. I think I had measles hence the special treats of being in parents bed and a sparkly present. I worshipped him.
He very very rarely did the admonishing. Discipline and manners were left to my mother so he could always play the fool and just be fun. But once when I was about three or four I refused to go up to bed. I don’t know why. I think perhaps my parents were having one of their parties and I wanted to be part of it. But in truth I don’t know. Anyway, I refused. So mum asked dad to take me upstairs,which he did. And for some unbeknownst reason my memory is of being taken to the spare bedroom, next door to where Kate and I had our bunk beds. Perhaps they were decorating our room, putting on the polystyrene tiles we would later push our nails in to with such satisfaction. I don’t know.
But he took me up and told me to get undressed and I refused. He told me again. I still refused. And so he had to undress me. I remember making myself as rigid as possible and trying to keep my arms by my sides so he couldn’t get my jumper off. But of course he overcame my attempts and pulled my clothes off and put my nightie on. I started sobbing loudly. But I never gave in. All the time being as rigid as possible. And then hauled to the bathroom and made to clean my teeth. Except I wouldn’t so he did it for me as I continued crying.
And then carried back to the bedroom as I refused to walk. “Get in to bed now Sarah,”he told me. And I said no. I don’t know why on earth I was being so truculent, but I wasn’t giving in. “Get in to bed. Now.” He ordered. And I stood there. Trying to be defiant but with tears streaming down my face I conceded defeat and got in to bed. “Nos da cariad bach,” he said, as he always did. And left the room.
I would probably not even remember the event were it not for the fact my mum told me about it when I was grown up. Apparently dad came downstairs in tears after all this and mum asked him what on earth was the matter so he relayed the events to her. He wasn’t concerned that he might have hurt me with all the pulling and shoving he’d had to do to get me undressed. He feared the lesson he had taught me was that force will always win so there is no point fighting. He was terrified he had “broken my spirit.”
I think we can safely say he didn’t.
Happy Father’s Day Dad. Wish you were still here to celebrate it.
June 12, 2014
I love the Bush theatre, and tonight was no exception. A fabulous intimacy for a wonderfully acted play, Incognito. I’m not sure what story it was trying to tell us and if there was an overacrhing narrative it went over my head, but the numerous vignettes by the four strong cast were engrossing, believable and enjoyable. They each play four or five characters with only accent changes to help us know who they are. And they were spot on. Some poignant, some funny, some intense. I could have watched a whole play about the lesbian couple who fired off each other brilliantly. But the theme is of memory, reality and self. How do they interconnect? What is real? Is there only now? Or at least, that’s as far as I’ve got in my understanding. It would probably be worth seeing again to try to work it out better. But the main enjoyment was the actors. Every one spot on. Memorable. Three stars.
June 12, 2014
Just seeing Bill Nighy was enough. Let alone actually getting to watch him for a couple of hours. He plays Bill Nighy of course, but this time he is a highly successful restauranteur who comes to visit his ex-lover in her squalid flat a year after his wife has died. His 18 year old son had dropped in first, surprising Carey Mulligan as she hadn’t seen him since she left the family home once the wife had discovered the affair. He set the historic scene for us so that we understood what a lovely, privileged life they all led together whilst Carey and Bill carried on. And Carey loved Bill’s wife too – everything was just lovely apparently. No one mentioned the betrayal of the affair, or what they were doing to the wife.
But I digress, and without spoiling the plot suffice to say that Bill Nighy is cast as the go-getting thatcherite, a self-made man, a guy who ‘makes things happen’, whereas Carey is the caring middle class girl who has chosen to work with ‘kids at the bottom of the heap’, living in a freezing flat and commuting from one grim area of London to another. But of course Bill’s character has humour, wit and charm - although his assertion that ‘listening is half way to begging’ was a brilliant characterisation of his misogyny. And Carey is not entirely left wing do-gooder but she does feel her vocation to help ‘even one child’ out of the gutter.
Nighy was a joy and Mulligan’s body language conveyed her inner feelings. But surprisingly I didn’t feel the chemistry between them. That raging passion that had consumed them. I think it was good, but not fabulous. But I have hope that actually this will improve as the run continues. Three stars