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

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.