Dorian Grey: Famous for remaining outwardly the same whilst his fateful portrait grew old and twisted, reflecting on canvas that which the flesh did not: The passage of years lived through cruelty and deceit. It is a potent story and its moral point was hammered not-too-subtly home by Matthew Bourne’s latest production of ‘Dorian Grey’ based, very loosely, on Wilde’s novel. In Bourne’s adaptation Dorian is a want-to-be model lured into the fashion world by his narcissistic fascination by his own image as it appears staring at him in reflections and through the lens of a camera. Basil (all long hair and leather trousers) is the photographer who creates the photos with which Dorian becomes so fixated. Between Basil and Lady H, the devastatingly elegant, crushingly disdainful fashion agent, Dorian is seduced by visions of his own beauty and the darker sides of his mind is tantalized and flattered. The result? The Inevitable and we watch him spin out of control and finally come to his pitiless demise.
A billboard poster for the perfume he becomes the face of called; - you’ve guessed it – Immortal, falls apart, as if left in bad weather, the black ink running from his eyes creating an affect like he is crying blood, but this is not his portrait. In Bourne’s production he is haunted by another man with terrifying likeness to himself. You see this man appear to Dorian through the seething mass of bodies, writhing around high as kites faces in a club – baring striking resemblance to the gay daylight-hours clubs in Vauxhall (so I’ve heard) – or in the 'new boy' brought in to replace Dorian at the agency when he goes off the boil due to excessive drug binges.
Eventually Dorian ends up going loony and smashing Basil's head in with his own camera. Lewd scenes follow with bodies strewn and bleeding, suggesting a massacre. The final image is of Lady H stalking up to Dorian’s presumably O-D’d body and straightening his still-beautiful face before stepping back to allow the tidal wave of photographers to stream in and immortalise his demise and final destruction.
A few days later, a routine trip to the post office to get my passport photo taken and send off for a new passport oddly enough turned my mind back to Dorian Grey and the identity of a representation which becomes more lifelike than the orginal. As I trotted down Farringdon Road on my way back to the office after handing in my application form, complete with payment and regulation characterless mug shot, I began to ponder.
That photo, taken that day, with my hair scraped off my face in a little photo booth in Farringdon Post Office was to be scanned onto my new passport and be a symbol of my identity for a whole decade. It will represent me to countless officials and become a more reliable proof of identity than I am myself. Without it people will remain unconvinced. So that photo will remain me even if I change. 10 years from now I’ll be 36. No longer in my mid twenties but not far off 40! Believe me, from where I’m sitting that seems inconceivable. At 36 customs officials shall peer doubtfully at the photograph that young girl and back at the woman in front of them and I will remember that sunny day in August 2008 when I actually looked like that.
But 36 is still pretty damn young in the grand scheme of things so I won’t dwell on that but I do find the idea fascinating. What adventures have I a had since the last photo was taken! That little 16 year old girl stuck in my passport has taken me to so many places although little did she know it at the time. I wonder where the 26 year old will lead.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
Bella Italia!
Not the most original statement but one that you can't restrain from bursting forth when faced with the golden light, intoxicating smells and general aesthetic explosion of joy and colour that is one of my favorite countries in the world.
A marvellous antidote to the inevitable tedium of the daily grind (no matter how interesting it might be). Out came the passport, on went the backpack and I skipped out of work on a Wednesday lunchtime with a light step and a glad shout.
Swift pints of Kronenburg at Stanstead and on to the tortuously musical Ryanair flight to be sold extortionate beverages by brown-faced Italian air stewards. I tried a 'gracie' on for size and found that 'gracias' slipped out in its place, sign of much linguistic confusion to come...
Three girls, 2 cities, 4 days. Squealing excitement, purring contentment, brow furrowing debates, eye-prickling heart to hearts and much laughter all with a back-drop of extravagant baroque architecture, golden Italian sunlight, olive groves, wild flowers, white-washed churches and accompanied with as much delicious wine and amazing food as we could manage. Which is a lot. In a companionable haze of happiness we floated around Puglia, delighted to be back in Italy which is the setting for so many of our shared happy memories.
Bari had been given a luke-warm press so I prepared the girls for bland city-scapes and uninspiring streets with a hint of crime lurking in the back streets. We were all much cheered, therefore, when Bari's Centro Storico turned out to have all the marble paving, windy narrow streets and twinkly pizzas lined with umbrellaed restaurants that we could ever wish for. A good place to start and, appetites whetted, we set off for The Florence of the South: Lecce.
Built with an ornate flourish of such enthusiasm, Lecce boarders on the ridiculous. Where Florence maintains a cool restraint and masculine authority, Lecce is its flouncy-skirted little cousin kicking up its heels to reveal lacy petticoats and luxuriating in an abundance of frills. The architecture is elaborate and (I've used the word already but it is a good one) extravagant. Lacking the Italian composure it resembles more the Spanish inclination: An orgy of stone carving adorning facades.
A little silly but totally gorgeous and our Imperial Suit in the B&B Centro Storico certified (if there was any doubt in our minds) that Lecce was a magical place and we would all be happy to drop all and come and live here at the slightest encouragement.
The history of Puglia is partly what makes the place so extraordinary. Greeks, Romans and Normans have passed through here leaving their mark in one way or another and to drive around the area is to drift from one remnant of ancient civilisation to another, scattered amongst endless olive groves and nestled in sandy bays.
It seemed wise to let Ellie do the driving and so Posy and I were able to sit back and enjoy the scenery while Ellie skillfully negotiated her way through the Italian traffic almost always remembering to look the right way when pulling out on the continental side of the road...
Coffee in Gallipoli overlooking the clear blue Mediterranean waters, lunch in a vaulted-ceilinged trattoria in a little rural town, brought to us by a proud owner, fluent in English and dictatorial over the correct selection and consumption of his food, wine and coffee. Ice cream in Otranto, where lies a magnificent Norman mosaic, and back to Lecce for another dreamy evening of scrumptious food, mucho vino and much world righting. How the days could just drift by in that manner forever...
But alas no! Back to Bari, farewell Posy (back to Madrid) and another lazy day for Ellie and me was we wandered, loosing ourselves amounts the labyrinth of twisting winding streets of the Centro Storico absorbing the sedate post-lunch Sunday atmosphere. Children kicked footballs in little courtyards, women bustled and scrubbed and every so often a tinny cheer and an enthusiastic yelp would echo out of one of the open door-ways as the men watched football in the their pants in the gloomy shade of their apartments.
Suddenly there was a colossal cheer and the streets went from being empty to full of football shirted Italians delirious with joy, leaping onto their vespers, charging about with flags, crying, hugging each other and letting off enough fire crackers to convince someone listening that it wasn't so much a celebration but a vicious riot. Ah the passion of the Latino!
Back to London with a light tan, full tummy and itchy feet again...
A marvellous antidote to the inevitable tedium of the daily grind (no matter how interesting it might be). Out came the passport, on went the backpack and I skipped out of work on a Wednesday lunchtime with a light step and a glad shout.
Swift pints of Kronenburg at Stanstead and on to the tortuously musical Ryanair flight to be sold extortionate beverages by brown-faced Italian air stewards. I tried a 'gracie' on for size and found that 'gracias' slipped out in its place, sign of much linguistic confusion to come...
Three girls, 2 cities, 4 days. Squealing excitement, purring contentment, brow furrowing debates, eye-prickling heart to hearts and much laughter all with a back-drop of extravagant baroque architecture, golden Italian sunlight, olive groves, wild flowers, white-washed churches and accompanied with as much delicious wine and amazing food as we could manage. Which is a lot. In a companionable haze of happiness we floated around Puglia, delighted to be back in Italy which is the setting for so many of our shared happy memories.
Bari had been given a luke-warm press so I prepared the girls for bland city-scapes and uninspiring streets with a hint of crime lurking in the back streets. We were all much cheered, therefore, when Bari's Centro Storico turned out to have all the marble paving, windy narrow streets and twinkly pizzas lined with umbrellaed restaurants that we could ever wish for. A good place to start and, appetites whetted, we set off for The Florence of the South: Lecce.
Built with an ornate flourish of such enthusiasm, Lecce boarders on the ridiculous. Where Florence maintains a cool restraint and masculine authority, Lecce is its flouncy-skirted little cousin kicking up its heels to reveal lacy petticoats and luxuriating in an abundance of frills. The architecture is elaborate and (I've used the word already but it is a good one) extravagant. Lacking the Italian composure it resembles more the Spanish inclination: An orgy of stone carving adorning facades.
A little silly but totally gorgeous and our Imperial Suit in the B&B Centro Storico certified (if there was any doubt in our minds) that Lecce was a magical place and we would all be happy to drop all and come and live here at the slightest encouragement.
The history of Puglia is partly what makes the place so extraordinary. Greeks, Romans and Normans have passed through here leaving their mark in one way or another and to drive around the area is to drift from one remnant of ancient civilisation to another, scattered amongst endless olive groves and nestled in sandy bays.
It seemed wise to let Ellie do the driving and so Posy and I were able to sit back and enjoy the scenery while Ellie skillfully negotiated her way through the Italian traffic almost always remembering to look the right way when pulling out on the continental side of the road...
Coffee in Gallipoli overlooking the clear blue Mediterranean waters, lunch in a vaulted-ceilinged trattoria in a little rural town, brought to us by a proud owner, fluent in English and dictatorial over the correct selection and consumption of his food, wine and coffee. Ice cream in Otranto, where lies a magnificent Norman mosaic, and back to Lecce for another dreamy evening of scrumptious food, mucho vino and much world righting. How the days could just drift by in that manner forever...
But alas no! Back to Bari, farewell Posy (back to Madrid) and another lazy day for Ellie and me was we wandered, loosing ourselves amounts the labyrinth of twisting winding streets of the Centro Storico absorbing the sedate post-lunch Sunday atmosphere. Children kicked footballs in little courtyards, women bustled and scrubbed and every so often a tinny cheer and an enthusiastic yelp would echo out of one of the open door-ways as the men watched football in the their pants in the gloomy shade of their apartments.
Suddenly there was a colossal cheer and the streets went from being empty to full of football shirted Italians delirious with joy, leaping onto their vespers, charging about with flags, crying, hugging each other and letting off enough fire crackers to convince someone listening that it wasn't so much a celebration but a vicious riot. Ah the passion of the Latino!
Back to London with a light tan, full tummy and itchy feet again...
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Squat bars to Worshipful Companies
My Google blogger dashboard has finally realised that I am no longer in South America and has readjusted itself to English again. How depressing. But come on now Katie, you have been back in blighty for over 4 months. Perhaps we should let it go...
And, as the title suggests, it has been a varied 4 months. Endometriosis UK continues to benefit from my labors and is now £4,600 richer as a result. Fundraising, I have discovered, is an interesting and unpredictable affair and people are a damn sight more stingy than I previously thought. With all the good will in the world they are still reluctant to actually put their hands in their pockets and are always keen to refer the giving to someone else. The scatter-gun approach of numerous letters drew numerous blanks. Believe it or not, people actually want something for their money! Who would have thought it? A heartfelt appeal to the members of the charity (who happen to be both the beneficiaries and the benefactors) came up trumps and £1,700 has flooded in. Vigorous bucket rattling and chasing people down the street seems to produce a result as well. That really is fundraising in its rawest form and its effectiveness is massively increased when executed by an army of professional street fundraisers who get some sort of philanthropic kick out lightening the pockets of passers by. A party! That's another good one. A line up of excellent DJs, a nice bar overlooking Camden Lock, a miniscule entrance fee of £3 and yours truly dressed up as a bunny girl rattling a bucket does the trick marvelously. So what have I learned so far? Don't rely people's desire to give to good causes, challenge them directly and wear revealing clothing? Hmmmmm. 'Anything for a good cause' they say...
So aside from prostituting myself for charity what have I been up to? Thanks to Charlie and Andrew I have been taken behind the scenes, as it were, through the trendily seedy streets of Shoreditch where Banksy's graffiti adorns cracked walls and derelict tube trains loom from the roofs of tatty 'artistic spaces.' Down side streets to knock on half-concealed doors, which are opened only on the uttering of a name, to reveal dark rooms filled with crouching figures bent over fire places, seated on damp sofas surrounded by rubble. We slunk in nodding to the murmuring faces up-turned to greet us, appearing grotesque in the flickering firelight, when a very nice, well-spoken graphic designer called Sean jumped up, greeted us politely, offered us a glass of wine and went out to get bagels. Bagels? What about the crack?! The residents of the Squat Bar, it turned out, were well-educated, artistic people who were just fed up with the extortionate rents charged in London, didn't mind a bit of squalor and rather enjoyed the verity of constant relocation. Since then they were shunted to an abandoned pub, were offered £2,000 to go away by an ambitious property developer and are now, no doubt, formulating plans to break in somewhere else. There is a certain allure to this life-style without constraints. I don't think I'll be doing it any time soon but it must be a wonderful sense of freedom, if perhaps a smelly one.
I have discovered that hob-nobbing with breakbeat DJs and attending small and considerably cheaper parties is much more preferable to being crushed to death in over-priced super-clubs and have renounced them for the time being. I have established and shamelessly exploited contacts for my fundraising party and have found myself truly back and embedded in the London party scene. For the time being at least. But late nights do not go with early starts and I have had several Saturdays when I have been driven out of bed in order to co-ordinate bucket rattling at underground stations, attend writing workshops or drive down to Shropshire for a weekend in the country.
It is rare to get me out of London. Once there the world seems to end at the M25. Gatwick and Heathrow lie within it, I can leave the country but I'm a hard one to get out of London. So when I arrived in a pretty local country pub deep in Shrophire surrounded by rolling hills and old stone walls, I was not surprised to be greeted by people asking me if I was feeling alright. Having already been asked similar when sitting on the ground with a sleeping bag on Streatham High Street earlier that day, you might have considered me to be on a roll. But that is a different story... Wholesome weekends in the country with long walks, delicious food and many giggles are a hearty antidote to the urban circus.
And then there is the Budget Banquet at Lincolns Inn hosted by the Master of the Worshipful Company of Tax Advisors, who happens also to be my father. Up the steps to the Great Hall of Lincolns Inn coats removed and champagne quaffed and I wobble uncertainly on my stilettos aware that I am junior to most of my companions by at least 30 years and tower over most of the room. Conspicuous? Yup. Collin Reid gleefully greeted me and I point out that the last time I saw him he was in a seedy St James member's club with 3 members of the Kings College Choir, all of whom had drank a remarkable amount of potent cocktails, I was reminding him that such innocence as theirs was to be nurtured.... Barry the Bugle then bounded up sporting his 107 tassels (The Worshipful Company of Tax Advisors is the 107th and youngest Livery Company). My father is fitted with gold chain and absurd 'bauble' and I am summoned to be the first to curtsey to the Master.
"MISS KATIE NORRIS!!!" bellows Barry the Bugle and gives me a little push in the direction of my father who stands there in all his finery and receives my curtsey graciously. I am followed by my mother and we are ushered into a room where the tables are heavy with bowls overflowing with twiglets. Twiglets?!
City dinner will never cease to amaze me...
Never dull and filled with unexpected elements. Life continues to be diverting, how lucky I am! Now all I need to do is find myself a job that actually pays me some money, a flat to live in and pretend to be a grown up... God forbid.
And, as the title suggests, it has been a varied 4 months. Endometriosis UK continues to benefit from my labors and is now £4,600 richer as a result. Fundraising, I have discovered, is an interesting and unpredictable affair and people are a damn sight more stingy than I previously thought. With all the good will in the world they are still reluctant to actually put their hands in their pockets and are always keen to refer the giving to someone else. The scatter-gun approach of numerous letters drew numerous blanks. Believe it or not, people actually want something for their money! Who would have thought it? A heartfelt appeal to the members of the charity (who happen to be both the beneficiaries and the benefactors) came up trumps and £1,700 has flooded in. Vigorous bucket rattling and chasing people down the street seems to produce a result as well. That really is fundraising in its rawest form and its effectiveness is massively increased when executed by an army of professional street fundraisers who get some sort of philanthropic kick out lightening the pockets of passers by. A party! That's another good one. A line up of excellent DJs, a nice bar overlooking Camden Lock, a miniscule entrance fee of £3 and yours truly dressed up as a bunny girl rattling a bucket does the trick marvelously. So what have I learned so far? Don't rely people's desire to give to good causes, challenge them directly and wear revealing clothing? Hmmmmm. 'Anything for a good cause' they say...
So aside from prostituting myself for charity what have I been up to? Thanks to Charlie and Andrew I have been taken behind the scenes, as it were, through the trendily seedy streets of Shoreditch where Banksy's graffiti adorns cracked walls and derelict tube trains loom from the roofs of tatty 'artistic spaces.' Down side streets to knock on half-concealed doors, which are opened only on the uttering of a name, to reveal dark rooms filled with crouching figures bent over fire places, seated on damp sofas surrounded by rubble. We slunk in nodding to the murmuring faces up-turned to greet us, appearing grotesque in the flickering firelight, when a very nice, well-spoken graphic designer called Sean jumped up, greeted us politely, offered us a glass of wine and went out to get bagels. Bagels? What about the crack?! The residents of the Squat Bar, it turned out, were well-educated, artistic people who were just fed up with the extortionate rents charged in London, didn't mind a bit of squalor and rather enjoyed the verity of constant relocation. Since then they were shunted to an abandoned pub, were offered £2,000 to go away by an ambitious property developer and are now, no doubt, formulating plans to break in somewhere else. There is a certain allure to this life-style without constraints. I don't think I'll be doing it any time soon but it must be a wonderful sense of freedom, if perhaps a smelly one.
I have discovered that hob-nobbing with breakbeat DJs and attending small and considerably cheaper parties is much more preferable to being crushed to death in over-priced super-clubs and have renounced them for the time being. I have established and shamelessly exploited contacts for my fundraising party and have found myself truly back and embedded in the London party scene. For the time being at least. But late nights do not go with early starts and I have had several Saturdays when I have been driven out of bed in order to co-ordinate bucket rattling at underground stations, attend writing workshops or drive down to Shropshire for a weekend in the country.
It is rare to get me out of London. Once there the world seems to end at the M25. Gatwick and Heathrow lie within it, I can leave the country but I'm a hard one to get out of London. So when I arrived in a pretty local country pub deep in Shrophire surrounded by rolling hills and old stone walls, I was not surprised to be greeted by people asking me if I was feeling alright. Having already been asked similar when sitting on the ground with a sleeping bag on Streatham High Street earlier that day, you might have considered me to be on a roll. But that is a different story... Wholesome weekends in the country with long walks, delicious food and many giggles are a hearty antidote to the urban circus.
And then there is the Budget Banquet at Lincolns Inn hosted by the Master of the Worshipful Company of Tax Advisors, who happens also to be my father. Up the steps to the Great Hall of Lincolns Inn coats removed and champagne quaffed and I wobble uncertainly on my stilettos aware that I am junior to most of my companions by at least 30 years and tower over most of the room. Conspicuous? Yup. Collin Reid gleefully greeted me and I point out that the last time I saw him he was in a seedy St James member's club with 3 members of the Kings College Choir, all of whom had drank a remarkable amount of potent cocktails, I was reminding him that such innocence as theirs was to be nurtured.... Barry the Bugle then bounded up sporting his 107 tassels (The Worshipful Company of Tax Advisors is the 107th and youngest Livery Company). My father is fitted with gold chain and absurd 'bauble' and I am summoned to be the first to curtsey to the Master.
"MISS KATIE NORRIS!!!" bellows Barry the Bugle and gives me a little push in the direction of my father who stands there in all his finery and receives my curtsey graciously. I am followed by my mother and we are ushered into a room where the tables are heavy with bowls overflowing with twiglets. Twiglets?!
City dinner will never cease to amaze me...
Never dull and filled with unexpected elements. Life continues to be diverting, how lucky I am! Now all I need to do is find myself a job that actually pays me some money, a flat to live in and pretend to be a grown up... God forbid.
Monday, December 17, 2007
British Theatre, Hogmanay, Marathons and Swinging...
Do we invite the devil in and give him dinner without fully realising who he is? Are we all so preoccupied with worrying about the presence of evil that we fail to see it when we encounter it? Perhaps what is right in front of our faces is just too awful to comprehend.
But how can I worry too much about such heavy issues when the Sugarplum Fairy is just a twinkle away, spinning on her toes in Covent Garden? My eyes start prickling as soon as the overture starts and those gorgeous red velvet curtains split apart the Royal Crest and reveal Drosselmeyer scurrying about his workshop and wrapping the Nutcracker up for Clara. How can all fail to be right with the world?
But then again we live in a world that drags innocent animals into our conflicts, allowing them to be riddled with gun fire and torn to shreds on barbed wire. Did you know that over 8 million horses were killed in the 1st World War?
You might think I've been sitting idle but I've been on an emotionally exhausting tour of British Theatre. From the neat Swiss play 'The Anarchists' at the Royal Court, which explores the dangers of appeasement, to the Royal Ballet's 'Nutcracker': A delicious treat of almost heartbreaking loveliness which reduces me to a simpering fluff-ball every time I see it. And then 'War Horse' at the National Theatre. It can be no mean feat directing and staging a play when your main character is horse called Joey but they did it. And not only did we totally believe that the contraption of wire and wood, manned by three whinnying and snorting actors, was a real horse but we cared deeply for it and I do not think there was a dry eye in the house when Joey finds himself caught up in the barbed wire of no-man's-land and stumbles across the front-line trenches. But then the National always pulls em out of the hat like that.
I know I keep saying it but I am a very lucky girl. Determined to make the most of having me right where she can see me, Mum has been busy booking tickets to see all sorts of things. The National again tonight, Glyndebourne in the summer... there is no end to the treats.
But how fast time flies once routine locks you into a daily rhythm to which you move without much consideration. Mondays become Fridays, all too soon Fridays become Mondays and Januarys become Februarys and it dawns on me that I have been back for over 2 months and what happened to my blog?! The longer it’s left the more daunting a job it becomes so this is me doing some serious bullet biting.
Christmas passed in a tinselly bubble of boozy, gluttonous fun, I saw in 2008 in Edinburgh attempting, rather poorly, to Strip the Willow and got caught up in a couple of Gay Gordons (I leave you all to decipher your own imagery). It is a beautiful city though set on two levels. Half is intricate medieval streets winding up towards the castle; the other is grand sandstone Georgian architecture with wide streets and elegant squares. I wandered with Daisy, and her two old school friends Russell and Anthony, around town on New Years Eve, stopping to sip a pint, absorb the festive atmosphere and, of course, buy two 4 foot-long Highland swords, real of course, from a shop that would let you walk out with machetes pirate cutlasses or those spinny spiked balls on chains usually swung by ogres. I was amused to see that "No glass is allowed on the streets" but anything you can find in an antique armoury is fair game. Boys and their toys... Any reservations I might have had, however, were abandoned when I realised the full extent of photographic (and dramatic) potential of such props and I think I spent the rest of the night knighting people whenever possible.
And then it was January and I got a job. One that had been lined up since Christmas and has had me tossing and turning and breaking out into cold sweats ever since. My mission, which I have chosen to accept, is to raise as much money as I can for a small medical charity called Endometriosis UK. I will spare you the details of endometriosis, if you are interested you can look it up on www.endometriosis-uk.org. They have a place in the London Marathon granted to them by a new Sliver Bond scheme which allows smaller charities to get in on the marathon scene which has always been a major fundraising and profile boosting hoo ha. Having been granted a place on the great philanthropic treadmill, and a chance to nose at the troughs feeding the big boys like Breast Cancer and NSPCC, they ought to prove themselves and demonstrate how they mean business by raising £10,000 on the back of their marathon runner. That is where I am to come in, well, we hope. So I have spent the last month writing letters, phoning people up and trying to organise a party as well as jollying along my runner (who is injured) and doing my best not to do anything stupid like get us kicked out of the race... (The least said about that the better).
Of course my social life has sauntered along, picked up speed and broken into a run. My parents lie in bed in the early hours of Saturday and Sunday mornings awaiting the clip clop of high heels down the steps, key in the door, chain on, light off and kitchen door shut. The next day I am greeted with an exact account of my coming in and timing down to the nearest minute. I have decided that for all concerned it is kinder to have a friend's house to sleep at when I'm out dancing until kingdom come... I am reunited with all my friends and there are dinner parties, club nights, reeling sessions and roller discos to be visited. I even went swing dancing the other day (well witnessed might be more accurate) in a dark sultry club in the city full to the brim with people who clearly to little else with their time. There are exhibitions to see, markets to peruse and cosy pubs to snuggle in, restaurants to eat in, cocktails to drink and people's houses to invade.
Next week is Valentine's Day and exactly a year on from my flight from London to Delhi. I finished re-reading my travel blog the other day and that reminds me, I'd better book that travel writing course...
Ttfn. x
But how can I worry too much about such heavy issues when the Sugarplum Fairy is just a twinkle away, spinning on her toes in Covent Garden? My eyes start prickling as soon as the overture starts and those gorgeous red velvet curtains split apart the Royal Crest and reveal Drosselmeyer scurrying about his workshop and wrapping the Nutcracker up for Clara. How can all fail to be right with the world?
But then again we live in a world that drags innocent animals into our conflicts, allowing them to be riddled with gun fire and torn to shreds on barbed wire. Did you know that over 8 million horses were killed in the 1st World War?
You might think I've been sitting idle but I've been on an emotionally exhausting tour of British Theatre. From the neat Swiss play 'The Anarchists' at the Royal Court, which explores the dangers of appeasement, to the Royal Ballet's 'Nutcracker': A delicious treat of almost heartbreaking loveliness which reduces me to a simpering fluff-ball every time I see it. And then 'War Horse' at the National Theatre. It can be no mean feat directing and staging a play when your main character is horse called Joey but they did it. And not only did we totally believe that the contraption of wire and wood, manned by three whinnying and snorting actors, was a real horse but we cared deeply for it and I do not think there was a dry eye in the house when Joey finds himself caught up in the barbed wire of no-man's-land and stumbles across the front-line trenches. But then the National always pulls em out of the hat like that.
I know I keep saying it but I am a very lucky girl. Determined to make the most of having me right where she can see me, Mum has been busy booking tickets to see all sorts of things. The National again tonight, Glyndebourne in the summer... there is no end to the treats.
But how fast time flies once routine locks you into a daily rhythm to which you move without much consideration. Mondays become Fridays, all too soon Fridays become Mondays and Januarys become Februarys and it dawns on me that I have been back for over 2 months and what happened to my blog?! The longer it’s left the more daunting a job it becomes so this is me doing some serious bullet biting.
Christmas passed in a tinselly bubble of boozy, gluttonous fun, I saw in 2008 in Edinburgh attempting, rather poorly, to Strip the Willow and got caught up in a couple of Gay Gordons (I leave you all to decipher your own imagery). It is a beautiful city though set on two levels. Half is intricate medieval streets winding up towards the castle; the other is grand sandstone Georgian architecture with wide streets and elegant squares. I wandered with Daisy, and her two old school friends Russell and Anthony, around town on New Years Eve, stopping to sip a pint, absorb the festive atmosphere and, of course, buy two 4 foot-long Highland swords, real of course, from a shop that would let you walk out with machetes pirate cutlasses or those spinny spiked balls on chains usually swung by ogres. I was amused to see that "No glass is allowed on the streets" but anything you can find in an antique armoury is fair game. Boys and their toys... Any reservations I might have had, however, were abandoned when I realised the full extent of photographic (and dramatic) potential of such props and I think I spent the rest of the night knighting people whenever possible.
And then it was January and I got a job. One that had been lined up since Christmas and has had me tossing and turning and breaking out into cold sweats ever since. My mission, which I have chosen to accept, is to raise as much money as I can for a small medical charity called Endometriosis UK. I will spare you the details of endometriosis, if you are interested you can look it up on www.endometriosis-uk.org. They have a place in the London Marathon granted to them by a new Sliver Bond scheme which allows smaller charities to get in on the marathon scene which has always been a major fundraising and profile boosting hoo ha. Having been granted a place on the great philanthropic treadmill, and a chance to nose at the troughs feeding the big boys like Breast Cancer and NSPCC, they ought to prove themselves and demonstrate how they mean business by raising £10,000 on the back of their marathon runner. That is where I am to come in, well, we hope. So I have spent the last month writing letters, phoning people up and trying to organise a party as well as jollying along my runner (who is injured) and doing my best not to do anything stupid like get us kicked out of the race... (The least said about that the better).
Of course my social life has sauntered along, picked up speed and broken into a run. My parents lie in bed in the early hours of Saturday and Sunday mornings awaiting the clip clop of high heels down the steps, key in the door, chain on, light off and kitchen door shut. The next day I am greeted with an exact account of my coming in and timing down to the nearest minute. I have decided that for all concerned it is kinder to have a friend's house to sleep at when I'm out dancing until kingdom come... I am reunited with all my friends and there are dinner parties, club nights, reeling sessions and roller discos to be visited. I even went swing dancing the other day (well witnessed might be more accurate) in a dark sultry club in the city full to the brim with people who clearly to little else with their time. There are exhibitions to see, markets to peruse and cosy pubs to snuggle in, restaurants to eat in, cocktails to drink and people's houses to invade.
Next week is Valentine's Day and exactly a year on from my flight from London to Delhi. I finished re-reading my travel blog the other day and that reminds me, I'd better book that travel writing course...
Ttfn. x
Monday, December 3, 2007
Or perhaps not...
I think any concerns that I might have had about my friends' progression towards maturity has been quite firmly quashed after Friday night...
But it all started off so civilised! People were milling about sipping (with restraint) from crystal wine glasses, nibbling mini onion bhajis and small-talking over the thoughtfully low music. Air was kissed and champagne corks popped. A few people left at around 11.30 remarking what a lovely evening it had been and then, half an hour later, it struck 12 and we all turned into pumpkins. Or something like that...
Who knows what happens? At what point is a switch flipped and nice, respectable mid-twentiers morph into feral beasts who pour things all over the carpet and try and pee out of windows; who empty out jars of marmalade in order use them to drink from; knock pictures off the walls; break beds and generally guarantee that I will be in the maximum amount of trouble with my parents?
How? Why? When did the background music become pounding Drum&Bass (oh, well that might have had something to do with me) and people retire to corners to snog people I am sure they shouldn't be? And why was there a strange Brazilian woman wearing zebra-stripe leggings, a fur coat and sunglasses dancing with me in the sitting room?! These things will remain a mystery. Suffice to say that A Good Time was had by all.
Dad had promised an early morning visit so at 9.30am, eyeing the alarming stain that had appeared on the new carpet with horror; I slunk off to bed in order to postpone the inevitable wrath until after I had had a few hours of sleep.
Just before I gathered myself together to try and find somewhere to curl up, one of my guests came charging out of one of the bedrooms (which is also Dad's office) looking panicked and cried "I have to go to Kenya!" before diving out of the front door. Oh dear. Either someone was about to miss a pre-organised flight or something unspeakable had just happened in that room... Thankfully it was the former and I think he made it.
In stark contrast to this, and I think with the hope that it might be a civilising influence, Martin took me reeling at the St Columbus Church in Knightsbridge.
Many years ago my Grandfather, who acquired a taste for Scottish Country Dancing whilst living in Shanghai (?!) professed a desire visit St Columbus Church whilst he was staying with us in Knightsbridge. I think he wanted to keep his joints well-oiled so as not to be shown up at the Scottish Country Dancing Society in Brisbane where he was then president (an unexpected setting but perhaps the only place his fake kilt and lack of Scottish Lineage might go unnoticed).
Off we went and Mum and I sat at the side suppressing giggles as we watched the elderly Scots of Knightsbridge hoppity-skip about in an absurdly sincere fashion. It was a sedate flurry of tartan and Laura Ashley. One man had the most fascinatingly fluffy ears I have ever seen.
My second encounter with the London Reels was last January when I was taken along by my oldest friend Lucie. She assured me that it was much changed and an altogether younger, sprightlier affair now. She was right. I was scooped up and whirled around by a very lively man, whooping all the way. Not surprisingly, they are as Sloaney as it gets and I decided it was high time to leave when the conversation was steered in the direction Pony Camp.
This time I had been promised a glimpse of the famous Young Georgians, of whom I had heard so much. So after a spot of milling, a suitable amount of braying and some glugging of free wine, the music started up and we all scurried into formation for the Dashing White Sergeant. I was dancing with Martin and a tall Australian guy who looked decidedly out of his depth. We ruined 2 or 3 sets before we managed to clap at the right time and spin each other in the right direction. We went around the whole room twice and by the end we were glowing profusely and about ready for another glass of wine. The evening continued in this manner the reels becoming increasingly vigorous as the wine flowed. Martin turned out to be an enthusiastic, if not proficient, reeler. His height is such that I could see his jubilant smile bobbing up and down from the other side of the room as he hoppity skipped about. I was hurled about the room by a heel-clicking officer who liked to refer to young ladies as 'totty' and invited me to pose for him semi-dressed, tied to a pillar and mid-swoon whilst being rescued by a Knight in Shining Armour for one of his large 'militrary oil paintings'. Just the kind of thing to adorn the walls of the officers' mess. Oh God. He told me that he had the knight and the armour but was still in need of a damsel. I suggested that Martin would make a much better damsel than me and decided it was high time to leave.
So that is what I have been up to over the last week. The jolliness only to be rather depressingly interupted by the inevitable slog of The Job Hunt. Still, a few positvive responses and a couple of interviews have cheered me up decidedly. Watch this space for the withering reivew of the World of London Recruitment, which is sure to follow.
But it all started off so civilised! People were milling about sipping (with restraint) from crystal wine glasses, nibbling mini onion bhajis and small-talking over the thoughtfully low music. Air was kissed and champagne corks popped. A few people left at around 11.30 remarking what a lovely evening it had been and then, half an hour later, it struck 12 and we all turned into pumpkins. Or something like that...
Who knows what happens? At what point is a switch flipped and nice, respectable mid-twentiers morph into feral beasts who pour things all over the carpet and try and pee out of windows; who empty out jars of marmalade in order use them to drink from; knock pictures off the walls; break beds and generally guarantee that I will be in the maximum amount of trouble with my parents?
How? Why? When did the background music become pounding Drum&Bass (oh, well that might have had something to do with me) and people retire to corners to snog people I am sure they shouldn't be? And why was there a strange Brazilian woman wearing zebra-stripe leggings, a fur coat and sunglasses dancing with me in the sitting room?! These things will remain a mystery. Suffice to say that A Good Time was had by all.
Dad had promised an early morning visit so at 9.30am, eyeing the alarming stain that had appeared on the new carpet with horror; I slunk off to bed in order to postpone the inevitable wrath until after I had had a few hours of sleep.
Just before I gathered myself together to try and find somewhere to curl up, one of my guests came charging out of one of the bedrooms (which is also Dad's office) looking panicked and cried "I have to go to Kenya!" before diving out of the front door. Oh dear. Either someone was about to miss a pre-organised flight or something unspeakable had just happened in that room... Thankfully it was the former and I think he made it.
In stark contrast to this, and I think with the hope that it might be a civilising influence, Martin took me reeling at the St Columbus Church in Knightsbridge.
Many years ago my Grandfather, who acquired a taste for Scottish Country Dancing whilst living in Shanghai (?!) professed a desire visit St Columbus Church whilst he was staying with us in Knightsbridge. I think he wanted to keep his joints well-oiled so as not to be shown up at the Scottish Country Dancing Society in Brisbane where he was then president (an unexpected setting but perhaps the only place his fake kilt and lack of Scottish Lineage might go unnoticed).
Off we went and Mum and I sat at the side suppressing giggles as we watched the elderly Scots of Knightsbridge hoppity-skip about in an absurdly sincere fashion. It was a sedate flurry of tartan and Laura Ashley. One man had the most fascinatingly fluffy ears I have ever seen.
My second encounter with the London Reels was last January when I was taken along by my oldest friend Lucie. She assured me that it was much changed and an altogether younger, sprightlier affair now. She was right. I was scooped up and whirled around by a very lively man, whooping all the way. Not surprisingly, they are as Sloaney as it gets and I decided it was high time to leave when the conversation was steered in the direction Pony Camp.
This time I had been promised a glimpse of the famous Young Georgians, of whom I had heard so much. So after a spot of milling, a suitable amount of braying and some glugging of free wine, the music started up and we all scurried into formation for the Dashing White Sergeant. I was dancing with Martin and a tall Australian guy who looked decidedly out of his depth. We ruined 2 or 3 sets before we managed to clap at the right time and spin each other in the right direction. We went around the whole room twice and by the end we were glowing profusely and about ready for another glass of wine. The evening continued in this manner the reels becoming increasingly vigorous as the wine flowed. Martin turned out to be an enthusiastic, if not proficient, reeler. His height is such that I could see his jubilant smile bobbing up and down from the other side of the room as he hoppity skipped about. I was hurled about the room by a heel-clicking officer who liked to refer to young ladies as 'totty' and invited me to pose for him semi-dressed, tied to a pillar and mid-swoon whilst being rescued by a Knight in Shining Armour for one of his large 'militrary oil paintings'. Just the kind of thing to adorn the walls of the officers' mess. Oh God. He told me that he had the knight and the armour but was still in need of a damsel. I suggested that Martin would make a much better damsel than me and decided it was high time to leave.
So that is what I have been up to over the last week. The jolliness only to be rather depressingly interupted by the inevitable slog of The Job Hunt. Still, a few positvive responses and a couple of interviews have cheered me up decidedly. Watch this space for the withering reivew of the World of London Recruitment, which is sure to follow.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
New Age 'grown ups'
A week back in London and already the immediacy of my travels is evaporating and memories are being filed away in the 'Long Term' box to collect dust and that rosy tint of nostalgia. On my 1st morning I shuffled into the kitchen, mechanically helped myself to cornflakes and said "Mum, I had the weirdest dream last night. I dreamed that I was travelling for 9 months..." It does feel like a dream, which grows more vague the harder you try to grab hold of it.
Thankfully I have my blog and about a million photos (all neatly put into albums by a very meticulous Mummie) to refer to, which cheers me up no end.
The odd thing about being back is that it is not odd at all. I move around London in that mindless fashion typical of all natives for whom negotiating the streets and transport is as habitual as breathing. 'Beep!' goes my oyster card and I am off, tutting under my breath at slow walkers, head down, heels clopping (my feet complaining bitterly after 9 months of trainers). Christmas lights twinkle and there's London, in all her ordered, 1st world commercial elegance. Nothing changes.
One thing might have changed in my absence is that my friends seem to have slunk into their mid-twenties whilst I wasn't around to keep an eye on them. On Saturday I was at the wedding of a 23 year old friend (the only reason I was not in Colombia). Her mother spent most of the day wandering around saying "Well what can you do?" to anyone who would listen, she felt, I think that it might be a mistake to leap so whole heartedly into the marital state so young but people do have peculiar tendencies. My father was married with one child by my age. Eeek! If this is to be accepted as the norm then I am clearly wasting time.
Daisy informed me that she actually likes her job these days, takes it seriously and works hard. A horrifying revelation really when we are all supposed to be 'down with the man' in a studenty sort of way. Not any more. But then she does read the Daily Mail so I suppose I ought to have expected it...
Jess wants a new job with fresh challenges. Remarkable after her swearing alliance to the Yummy Mummy brigade that lunch in Oriels in Sloan Square on their hubbies credit cards. Fundraising agrees with her obviously and she is becoming committed to The Cause.
Oli spring cleans his flat with his brother very Sunday afternoon, an alarming prospect when one remembers the chaotic squalor of which they were so fond a few years ago. Mr Matthews has become house proud. Wonderful.
Martin has found a new group of friends who call themselves the Young Georgians. A group of folk committed to all things Georgian with a fervent enthusiasm for poncing about (I bet). I am to go reeling with him next week and hope to inspect said social circle close up. Ever since he went gallivanting around Balmoral wearing ladies underwear he seems to have lost some inhibitions and is keen to for a spot of tangoing to boot. Marvellous.
Gradually I have been reunited with my friends, not wanting to get it all done too quickly. I am keen to savour the "You're back! Oh how we've missed you!" moments and have drawn them out by not seeing everyone at once. Yesterday it was time for my moment with the girls. Daisy and Jess came charging into the pub yesterday to scoop me up and take me to an undisclosed location (which had been disclosed already by a very excitable Jess the previous day). Much whooping and excitement as we hugged and bounced up and down.
209 Munster Road, is a cosy little restaurant run by a fierce but spunky Thai woman who is an alleged ex ping pong girl. We were to be sharing the restaurant with a party of about 30 Estate Agents so were tucked in a corner where we could witness the braying from over prawn crackers. Alice, Charlie, Zaria, Daisy, Jess, Emma and I had a lovely evening slurping wine and catching up on 9 months worth of chatter. Wonderful.
Tomorrow is my big return party, for which I intend to wear a ball gown... If I can't be over-dressed at my return party then when can I? Then on Saturday night I am going to satisfy a craving I have had since I left London and that is to go clubbing and dance to some proper music! Very excited.
Tonight I am off to Toto's of Knightsbridge with Matt, my obliging neighbour who is humouring me by taking me out to dinner.
So London life ticks on in much the same way, aside from perhaps a slight drift towards the serious for some of my friends, only to be wonderfully counteracted, I suspect, by increased eccentricities. I wouldn't have it any other way.
Thankfully I have my blog and about a million photos (all neatly put into albums by a very meticulous Mummie) to refer to, which cheers me up no end.
The odd thing about being back is that it is not odd at all. I move around London in that mindless fashion typical of all natives for whom negotiating the streets and transport is as habitual as breathing. 'Beep!' goes my oyster card and I am off, tutting under my breath at slow walkers, head down, heels clopping (my feet complaining bitterly after 9 months of trainers). Christmas lights twinkle and there's London, in all her ordered, 1st world commercial elegance. Nothing changes.
One thing might have changed in my absence is that my friends seem to have slunk into their mid-twenties whilst I wasn't around to keep an eye on them. On Saturday I was at the wedding of a 23 year old friend (the only reason I was not in Colombia). Her mother spent most of the day wandering around saying "Well what can you do?" to anyone who would listen, she felt, I think that it might be a mistake to leap so whole heartedly into the marital state so young but people do have peculiar tendencies. My father was married with one child by my age. Eeek! If this is to be accepted as the norm then I am clearly wasting time.
Daisy informed me that she actually likes her job these days, takes it seriously and works hard. A horrifying revelation really when we are all supposed to be 'down with the man' in a studenty sort of way. Not any more. But then she does read the Daily Mail so I suppose I ought to have expected it...
Jess wants a new job with fresh challenges. Remarkable after her swearing alliance to the Yummy Mummy brigade that lunch in Oriels in Sloan Square on their hubbies credit cards. Fundraising agrees with her obviously and she is becoming committed to The Cause.
Oli spring cleans his flat with his brother very Sunday afternoon, an alarming prospect when one remembers the chaotic squalor of which they were so fond a few years ago. Mr Matthews has become house proud. Wonderful.
Martin has found a new group of friends who call themselves the Young Georgians. A group of folk committed to all things Georgian with a fervent enthusiasm for poncing about (I bet). I am to go reeling with him next week and hope to inspect said social circle close up. Ever since he went gallivanting around Balmoral wearing ladies underwear he seems to have lost some inhibitions and is keen to for a spot of tangoing to boot. Marvellous.
Gradually I have been reunited with my friends, not wanting to get it all done too quickly. I am keen to savour the "You're back! Oh how we've missed you!" moments and have drawn them out by not seeing everyone at once. Yesterday it was time for my moment with the girls. Daisy and Jess came charging into the pub yesterday to scoop me up and take me to an undisclosed location (which had been disclosed already by a very excitable Jess the previous day). Much whooping and excitement as we hugged and bounced up and down.
209 Munster Road, is a cosy little restaurant run by a fierce but spunky Thai woman who is an alleged ex ping pong girl. We were to be sharing the restaurant with a party of about 30 Estate Agents so were tucked in a corner where we could witness the braying from over prawn crackers. Alice, Charlie, Zaria, Daisy, Jess, Emma and I had a lovely evening slurping wine and catching up on 9 months worth of chatter. Wonderful.
Tomorrow is my big return party, for which I intend to wear a ball gown... If I can't be over-dressed at my return party then when can I? Then on Saturday night I am going to satisfy a craving I have had since I left London and that is to go clubbing and dance to some proper music! Very excited.
Tonight I am off to Toto's of Knightsbridge with Matt, my obliging neighbour who is humouring me by taking me out to dinner.
So London life ticks on in much the same way, aside from perhaps a slight drift towards the serious for some of my friends, only to be wonderfully counteracted, I suspect, by increased eccentricities. I wouldn't have it any other way.
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