imageYes, the entire Clarke clan (including a new favourite child) trooped to the Barbican last night to see the  much-trumpeted, much hyped, much anticipated Hamlet starring Benedict Cumberbatch. Hubby and I had seen him on stage before in the fantastic Frankenstein at the National, and of course I’d also adored him as Sherlock.

And he was good. Yes, he really was. You have to watch him when he’s on – your eyes are drawn to him. And he is amazingly physically adept – climbing up and down the huge ‘last supper’ dining table in the midst of a huge country house that is Elsinore and he delivers text in an easily digestible way. But no one gives a shit about him. Or any of the characters. We can’t – somehow all the real emotion has been sucked out of the play.

I don’t know Hamlet well enough to be able to tell you what was missing or moved around. Was it meant to be seen that he was really pissed off he didn’t get to be King rather than sent mad with grief so threw his toys out of the pram and broke the whole dynasty like a spoilt only child? “I’m the King of the castle” perhaps should have been the opening song rather than Nature Boy….

So I loved him, loved the vast set. hated the pointless costumes which were non-descript.  Couldn’t get Ophelia at all –  pathetically child like and too quirky to ever have been believably loved by Hamlet or seen as a future daughter in law by Gertrude – she came across as about nine years old. Polonius and Gertrude each had their moments but were essentially dull and leaden, and don’t get me started on Rosencrantz and Guldenstern who were like intense sixth formers playing their parts. The grave digger was great (as was the person catching the skulls he threw!) but really this wasn’t one of those Shakespeare productions where you come away thinking how amazing it is that we are still watching this 400 years later. It was one of those where you think “I can see why people don’t like Shakespeare”. But I still love the Cumberbatch and would go see him in anything he’s ever in on stage. I just wish he’d had the benefit of a better cast and director.

IMG_2092The John Lewis ‘Click and Collect’ service sounds ideal. Shop online and pick it up the next day at your local Waitrose. And it would be ideal if it was that simple. But it isn’t. Far from it. I have ranted before about the atrocious car parking in West Ealing Waitrose – both the design and the customers’ inability to walk more than ten metres – and it means one arrives in the shop already ready to punch someone.

Immediately on your left is the Customer Service counter where ‘Click and Collect’ customers are directed to. Unless they suddenly decide to put it in the frozen food aisle without telling anyone. WTF??

So, you tell them the number of your order and you hope they will turn round to one of their cupboards behind them and get it out. But no. Because it isn’t stored there. The parcels aren’t stored anywhere near where the desk is. They are stored literally as far away as possible. In the warehouse past all the food aisles, past the homewares, past the toilet rolls, past the booze and past the pop. And the person you have given your order details to can’t leave the desk until a colleague comes along as they can’t leave it unattended. That would be poor customer service. So we wait. There isn’t an intercom system to ask someone in the warehouse to bring the order. A person has to walk from the desk, all the way to the warehouse, find the order and come back. I have never managed to collect anything in under 15 minutes. I can drive to John Lewis in twenty and there are times when I think that may have been more sensible.

Surely West Ealing Waitrose could set up a counter near to where the goods are stored. At Christmas they have a gazebo outside and despite the shedloads of orders it is quicker for customers as the staff simply have to turn round and rummage in the tent behind them. Why they don’t make it a permanent feature or set up the service close to the warehouse I don’t know. Is it in fact a sly way to make you do some shopping there even if you don’t want to? I turned up today and was told it would be at least ten minutes. No I didn’t have any shopping to do. And I waited. And thought I’ll go get milk and bread as the time ticked on. I ended up buying a few other things and spending ages at the self-service checkout (“Remove last item from bag. Remove last item from bag. Wait for assistant. Wait for assistant”. AAAAGGGHHH!!). I go back to the Click and Collect point and still no parcel for me. Twenty minutes later it feels like Click and Neglect. But eventually it arrives. In the thirty minutes it took I could have driven to Brent Cross myself.

An unspoken Ode

September 21, 2015

Going back to ma roots mon!

Going back to ma roots mon!

Here’s one I didn’t actually perform. We went to a surprise birthday party and all had to wear tartan to celebrate his Scottish roots. I brought the Ode with me but there were plenty of videos and speeches from others that marked the occasion perfectly. But anyway, here it is, never to be heard!

Ode on the Occasion of Hugh’s Birthday

And so we are all gathered here,

To raise a glass or two,

To celebrate the birthday of

Our friend, the lovely Hugh

He’s from a land of great cuisine

White pudding porridge oats,

Stovies, cloutie dumpling

A wee dram to clear your throats

The dress sense is impeccable

Real men wear kilts with pride

And if we girls are lucky we

Get a flash of bare backside

But Hugh has been in London now

For more than half his life

He’s got three brilliant children

And the most fantastic wife

He is charming, he is witty,

He is loyal, he is kind,

He’s hardworking, he is generous

A Scottish diamond –what a find!

We can’t believe he’s sixty

It surely can’t be true

He looks no more more than twenty five

Our friend, the lovely Hugh

So charge your glasses, raise them high,

We give thanks to both of you

And wish the birthday boy the best

Our friend, the lovely Hugh.

table manners being taught

Table manners being taught by an expert

Searching for a work document on an old memory stick, I came across this Ode that I wrote for Dad’s 80th birthday back in 2003. My sister and I performed it together at a party she organised and hosted for him at her home. We took alternate verses and I think he loved it. Not quite up to his inimitable standard and style, but imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and he loved a bit of adulation.

The evening went on with a cracking poem from our son – playing on his Grandfather’s embracing of computers despite his advancing years, and then a fabulous, well rehearsed song and dance from the granddaughters to an Abba classic -Mamma Mia I think.  His genes coming out in all of us in one way or another. Still miss him.

As ever – the standard caveats apply to my Odes – there are in jokes that make no sense to anyone else and you sometimes have to work hard to get the rhyme and rhythm correct. But they’re usually alright on the night!


So here we are in Crackley Lane,

On a night we’ll all remember,

To celebrate our Father’s birth,

A few years ago in November.

He didn’t sparkle much at school,

Outshone by little sis,

But he could make a damn good bow,

By soaking sticks in p***

Then College for a little while,

More union work than courses

But then they knew what lay ahead –

They signed up for the forces

The Navy served our Father well –

And he rose beyond a rating,

He loved the Naval life it seems –

To have an audience-in–waiting

For here it was the seed was sown,

The obsession with oration,

He’d raise a toast or make a speech

And get well deserved ovation

And so through Aber second time,

Then Chester when he’s thirty

And didn’t he think his ship was in

When he met the Flatmates Flirty.

As actors both they played their parts

I’d say there were none greater

Our mother in the leading role

And him, behind, a waiter

But all that was rehearsal,

For his biggest greatest part

As husband, father and now Taid,

Who we love with all our heart.

He is certainly a one-off

For which they broke the mould,

But we wouldn’t want it otherwise-

He’s worth his weight in gold.

The awful jokes, bad manners,

Never listens when you speak,

Asks questions with no answers

Drives us mad and makes us weak.

But he gives us entertainment,

A rich and varied life,

So here’s to Dad at eighty,

And who got him here – his wife

Am loving the fact that the NHS information on body piercing uses ‘shot glass’ as an alternative to the traditional ‘egg cup’ in an effort to ensure its readers understand what kind of volume they are talking about.

“You can do this by submerging the area in a clean jug or bowl containing a saline solution (1/4 teaspoon of sea salt per egg cup or shot glass of warm water) for a few minutes at a time.”

Is this a sign that the nation no longer knows what an egg cup is or don’t have access to one, whereas shot glasses are universally available in every home ?



Meeting a Uni mate after work we wanted a central venue to drink,eat and relax in. I thought Dishoom as I love it but you can’t book and it’s quite a speedy affair rather than the leisurely chin wag I was envisaging. So hubby suggested Tredwell’s, literally across the road from Dishoom on Upper St Martin’s Lane. And I wasn’t disappointed. We arrived early and perched at the bar where I drank., yes you’ve guessed it, gin and tonic. Sipsmiths as you’re asking. And perfect it was too.  

Then we transferred to diner style  table with couchettes and settled in for the evening with attentive service and a tempting menu. We chose the Tredwell’s platter to share as a starter – pork sliders, chorizo relish and sticky chicken wings which were gloriously tasty. My main of a burger ( surprise!) was nice and soft in a brioche bun and we finished off with gorgeous salted caramel truffles and a Caribbean coffee. Ok I admit only I had the Caribbean coffee and my sensible mate had non alcoholic decaff. 

It’s a great place to meet pre or post theatre or, like us, just to meet. Easy ambience, good food, good service and alcohol on tap. What’s not to love? 

Mistress America.One Star

August 15, 2015

Friday night and nothing in the diary meant emergency drills came in to action. Hubby booked us in to see a film with great reviews and on at the Gate – one of those civilised cinemas where you take take your wine inside and it’s still in a real glass not plastic.

After a lovely meal at Granger and Co – lots of interesting ingredients and punchy flavours – we settled in to our seats to watch Mistress America –  a “quirky comedy drama” about an 18 year old student, new to New York who meets up with a 30 year old Manhattanite who is about to become her step-sister.

Nothing about this film rings true. I don’t believe or care about either character. The student looks nearer 30 than 18 and although well acted, the dialogue is so desperately trying to contrive our reactions that it loses any veracity. It’s trying to be deep and meaningful about relationships but comes across as something written by someone who doesn’t really understand how they work – none of it hits home for me. And it also purports to be a comedy, yet falls short on that front too. An occasional smile, but no laughing moments. One star.



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