60 Going On 16

Coming soon - to a cinema near you

You may recall my occasional mention of the monumental efforts we so often have to make, here on the fringes of Exmoor, to enjoy a smidgen of culture: round trips of 50 or a 100 miles or more to tap into all that a large town or city has to offer. Living in London, as I did for the first half century of my life, it was all there on my doorstep and I was spoilt for choice. Added to which, in the 1980s I was working for a blue chip company that was a major sponsor of the arts and I just happened to be a member of the sponsorship team . . .

The National Theatre was a short walk alongside the Thames from our head office and I was truly in drama heaven when the company decided to sponsor the newly opened NT Studio because, yes, there were tickets - to all NT productions. As I was the only member of the sponsorship team who lived in central London (so didn't have to fret about missing the last train home), I ended up with the lion's share and saw as many productions as I could, including Pravda, Mrs Warren's Profession, Wild Honey, Yonadab, The Cherry Orchard, Brighton Beach Memoirs, Dalliance, The Mother, Coriolanus, and Anthony and Cleopatra, with actors such as Ian McKellen, Anthony Hopkins, Irene Worth, and Judy Dench.

Up in the attic is a trunk full of programmes, not just from that time, but for every single theatre performance I've been to since 1961, when I was 13 and saw Stop the World I Want to Get Off , starring Anthony Newley, at the Queen's Theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue (for those of you who like historical detail).

So, yes, much as I appreciate the beauty and peace of the spot I now call home, a small piece of my heart remains in London, although I rarely visit these days. However, if I can't get to see London productions, it seems that some, at least, will come (almost) to me, thanks to the advent of NT Live. This brings live NT performances to cinema screens not just in the UK but, as I discovered last week, to screens around the world.

Which explains how my dear friend, the Only Other Blonde in the Village and I, managed to see a live performance of Oliver Goldsmith's She Stoops to Conquer in the unlikely setting of Taunton Odeon last Thursday. Like me, the Only Other Blonde, loves the theatre - we are both old enough to have seen Olivier in Othello and The Entertainer at the Old Vic - so we wondered how watching a screened live performance would compare with actually being there.

We're happy to report that It compares very well indeed, not least because you can see the actors in close-up, which means that you don't miss a gesture or an expression. Then there are the bonuses: Emma Freud's interview with director, Jamie Lloyd, and panning shots of the NT audience, for example, all of which help to create a hint of that unique anticipatory atmosphere at the NT just before a play starts. Discovering that we were part of a global audience of many thousands was, we had to admit, rather thrilling.

Our anticipation, as it turned out, was well founded. It is a superb ensemble production*, of the kind at which the NT excels, although that in no way detracts from some excellent individual perfomances, including David Fynn as Tony Lumpkin

Sophie Thompson as Mrs Hardcastle

and, for Corrie fans everywhere, the wonderful Katherine Kelly as Kate Hardcastle

who, in a clear case of art imitating art, is required to spend part of the play masquerading as a barmaid.

Our West Country audience loved it, laughed long and loud, and joined in the applause at every opportunity - and no-one munched popcorn. That must be a first for the Taunton Odeon, which sells popcorn on an industrial scale.

So, yes, we will definitely be going again and please can the NT send as many productions as possible our way? And, for once, I'm going to give the sponsor, Aviva, a bit of a plug because this truly was an inspired and apposite use of a major company's sponsorship budget. Unlike my bank's, which is used largely to sponsor motor racing . . .

If you live in the UK, mainland Europe, the USA, Canada, South Africa, Australia or New Zealand and love theatre, check here to see if NT productions are shown at a cinema near you. There are also Encore screenings, so if you missed a production the first time round, you might be able to catch it at a later date. I'll be back in Taunton in June to see an Encore screening of Frankenstein, with Benedict Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller and, this autumn, there's the prospect of a new play starring Julie Walters, Helen McCrory and Rory Bremner. I'm trying not to weep about what I've missed to date.

NT Live is, like the best of ideas, impressively simple and it means that many thousands of people who are unable to go to the National Theatre in London, for whatever reason, can still enjoy what it offers - at an affordable price. Our concessionary tickets were just £14 each. 

On the downside, we think that if it is going to host screenings from the UK's most prestigious theatre, Taunton Odeon really does need to up its game in terms of customer service. There was confusion at the ticket office, whose staff could find no record of my online order or payment. Not the first time this has happened. And why does the Costa franchise not serve decaff coffee, only mega-strength blow your socks off stuff? (Really, not everyone wants to be awake after midnight, buzzing from a caffeine overdose.) As for the young man who checked our tickets, 'Enjoy the film' wasn't quite what we were expecting to hear (did he really not know?), prior to an NT performance. And, please, could he remember to hand out the castlists, which were - as later became apparent - stacked in front of him and not expect members of the audience to have to troop back from their seats to ask him for copies? Small things, maybe, but together they make a significant difference to the overall enjoyment of an evening . . . at the theatre. Because that was the thing, inside the auditorium, it was easy to imagine that this was exactly where we were. Front of house, it was most definitely Taunton Odeon.

However, let us end on a high note. I give you - the cast:

I've just learned that She Stoops to Conquer was NT Live's most successful screening to date, so congratulations - and many thanks - to everyone involved in bringing it to us. And special thanks to Sara Israel of NT Live for her help with the photos, all of which are by Johan Persson.

(*Michael Billington's Guardian review here.)

A brief encounter, an unwelcome diversion, and a bit of a rewind

The last time I wrote a post, I fully intended to write several more in quick succession; I was off for a brief break in the Chilterns and London; I was enjoying myself; I saw some wonderful exhibitions- and then . . .

And then I got shingles and a frozen shoulder (adhesive capsulitis, to give it its proper name).The combination is a common complication, said my GP, after breast cancer surgery. However, the shoulder is not, as it turns out, frozen. My wise and highly experienced chiropractor who, in a previous career, worked in an oncology unit and at a breast care centre, explained that my shoulder joint had dropped and rolled forward. After breast cancer surgery, we tend to sleep on the opposite side from the site of surgery (assuming that we've had unilateral surgery) and continue to do so as long as we experence any discomfort, however slight or spasmodic. (And then, I suppose, it becomes a habit.)

So there we are: post-Massive Inconvenience shoulder compensation. The chiropractor held up a mirror so that I could see the difference between my two shoulders. I could. Still, a minor setback; the shingles are now gradually disappearing and I have (more) exercises to do and more manipulation to come next week. 

Right, having got that out of the way, I can now get back to the 'what I did on my holidays' post.

* * * * * 

So, I went up to London, didn't see The Queen, but did see this inspirational bronze sculpture:

Union (horse with two discs), by the prodigiously talented, Christopher Le Brun. Read more about sculpture and sculptor here.  It stands at the entrance to the Museum of London, which I was visiting to see one of its current exhibitions, London Street Photography, of which more in another post. 

Even though I studied art history (and English literature), these days I feel less inclined to spend time intellectualising exactly what it is that appeals to me about one particular work or another. One can be too cerebral about these things sometimes; now, I just want to be in the moment, experiencing my response, rather than analysing it. 

But back to Union. I found it quite mesmerising and, as sculpture can so often be, profoundly moving. If you have the opportunity to visit the Museum of London - a wonder in itself - do not miss the horse. 

Slightly foxed by Betjeman

I seem to be several weeks adrift with everything at the moment and here is another post (like yesterday's) that I had fully intended to write last week, as it involves a deadline. And now I realise that the deadline is imminent (next Monday, in fact) so let us press on.

On her last visit here, my good friend M, who blogs at Random Distractions, recommended an excellent literary magazine called Slightly Foxed, to which she subscribes. As it happens, a promotional flyer for this quarterly had been included with my latest copy of Mslexia but I had resisted the temptation as I am trying to limit subscriptions of all kinds. The cuts, the cuts . . . who knows if the winter fuel allowance is safe?

And then she mentioned that over at The Dabbler, there is a competition, about which M blogged here. You, or I, or some other lucky personage, could win a subscription to Slightly Foxed. (If you can quote Betjeman at will, you'll be at a distinct advantage.)

My mum would have been over there like a shot; she loved books, she loved reading about books, she even worked in a bookshop for years, and she particularly loved John Betjeman, who was born a few months before her in the same part of London, and whose father shared the same trade as her father. I think she would have agreed with every word of this appreciation by Hugo Williams, which appeared in the Guardian in 2006.

(And she would have loved this recording of Betjeman reading The Subaltern's Love Song, over at the Poetry Archive.)

Competitions apart, The Dabbler is definitely worth a visit: it's a proudly cultural blog - ideas, books, good writing and much more. Today, for example, there is a post that I find irresistible as it features photographs from Martin Usborne's series MUTE: the silence of dogs in cars. (Hurry, hurry - exhibition ends 9 November.) Wonderful title, although I suspect that Martin has never had a pack of terriers in the back of his car.

I am just a tad miffed that the fall-out from the Massive Inconvenience means that I have to be here, in the South West, being zapped by gamma rays and the whole shebang, instead of jumping on a train and heading over to East London to see MUTE. So I will just settle for taking my chances with The Dabbler's competition and if I don't win, I might start dropping a few heavy hints to my loved ones, in case they're wondering what to buy me for Christmas.

In the meantime, I must get back to my Rebecca West fest, which brings with it the pleasure of the sort of saturation reading one does prior to writing a dissertation, without the fag of actually having to write a single word on the subject. (Although I just might. Write that is. About Miss West . . . )

Five years on

Longstanding visitors to this blog will know that 7/7 is day when I set aside some time for quiet reflection - and for thanks.

Thanks because I was one of the many people caught up in the nightmare of 7/7 but was fortunate enough to walk away uninjured. First fromEdgware Road Station when a bomb exploded on a Circle Line train just outside the station and then, by one of those inexplicable quirks of fate, a short while later from the bomb that blew up a bus in Tavistock Square. (I had walked along Marylebone Road after leaving Edgware Road and eventually managed to climb aboard a bus that was heading towards Kings Cross. But it didn't reach Kings Cross because it was diverted - to Tavistock Square, just before another bomb was detonated on the other side of the road.)  I know how lucky I am.

The government has decreed that there will be no official marking of the fifth anniversary but some of the survivors and relatives of those who were killed will have gathered at the special memorial in Hyde Park, as they do every year. Others will mark the day, privately, in their own way.

Five years on, the memories remain but, this year, I thought I should try to do something positive and practical, as well as remembering. Wishing, as they say, makes it so.

I came across the inspirational story of Davinia Douglass on the BBC website today and realised, immediately, that there was something very obvious that I could do. The photo of Davinia, her face covered in a gauze mask, being led away from Edgware Road Station by fireman Paul Dadge, became one of the iconic images of that fateful day, an image that was flashed around the world. 

The specialist burns unit at London's Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, where Davinia was treated, is a truly remarkable place and the only one of its kind in London. The  care its dedicated team provides to ensure the physical recovery of burns victims is second to none but the team would like to do more; they know that, for burns victims especially, psychological assessment and support are also vital to recovery.

Yesterday, the Chelsea and Westminster Health Charity launched its appeal to raise funds for a dedicated psychological screening programme for the unit. The charity is already half way towards its £100,000 target, which will fund a clinical psychologist's post for two years.

So, this is how I am remembering 7/7 - I'm writing this post, sending a donation and asking anyone else who has at least one reason to be thankful today to follow suit. Just click here.

Thank you.

 

 

A funny thing happened . . .

People can be awfully sniffy about Twitter. I'll admit that I was sceptical, at least initially, but I have found it quite fascinating and now have some very jolly Twitter chums, who often make me laugh out loud several times a day. (When you spend much of the time pounding away at a keyboard - or awaiting inspiration - that sort of diversion is very welcome.) And it's invaluable for little nuggets of useful information and for taking me to websites that I might otherwise have missed.

Today, for example, I followed a link to Going Underground's Blog, which is not necessarily to do with counter-culture - although it might be - but all about travelling on London's Tube system. To endure which, truly, you need to have an elastic sense of humour. And that's where I found a post about wake me up at badges and stickers for those poor souls who have a tendency to fall asleep on the Tube or the bus and miss their stop. 

But the idea itself is not entirely new; years ago, there was a story doing the rounds on Fleet Street - that's when Fleet Street was still home to most of our national newspapers - about a journalist who was rarely sober by the time he caught his train home. This, of course, was not unusual in Fleet Street's glory days but it's generally ill-advised, especially if you live out in the sticks and are on the last train going in your direction. This particular journalist repeatedly woke up to find himself at the end of the line, where he would then have to pay an exorbitant rate for a taxi to take him back home, assuming that there was a taxi to be had at that time of night . . .

One of his newspaper colleagues had a lightbulb moment and suggested that he pin a label to his jacket, stating 'Wake me up at X'. The journalist therefore had no qualms about propping up the bar that evening and in due course climbed on board his train with his 'Wake me up' label firmly pinned to his jacket. Later that night, he awoke yet again at the end of the line and noticed that a second label, bearing the words 'Tee hee' had been attached to his lapel. 

But it's not only journalists whose rail travel arrangements come undone when a little too much grape juice has been consumed. Back in the 1980s, the annual arrival of Beaujolais Nouveau was always seen in with great jollity at the Cork and Bottle wine bar in London's Cranbourn Street. (Maybe it still is.) I would go along with several of the designers, photographers and printers I worked with and they, in turn, would invite some of their clients. One was Mr B, the elderly director of a small building society in Kent. He was always accompanied by his young, blonde personal assistant, who took a keen and close interest in his welfare.  This included accompanying Mr B part of the way home on the train. Which was just as well, because the elderly director never quite managed to do Beaujolais Nouveau in moderation. 

On one such occasion, the young PA escorted her inebriated boss to the train and stuck to him like glue until she reached her station - the one before his. 

"Now Mr B, she said, "don't forget to get off at the next stop." 

Sadly, her words went unheeded; Mr B immediately fell into a deep slumber and missed his stop. He woke up some time later, blissfully unaware of what had happened and, as the train pulled into a station that he assumed was his, he got ready to leave. He opened the carriage door, stepped out and went hurtling down several feet onto what appeared to be a pile of coal. It was one of those stations with a very short platform. Result: a rather nasty broken leg. Mr B was never seen at a Beauloias Nouveau event again. Or so I heard. 

So, if you're working late at the office or planning a lively night out on the town, especially if you are of a certain age, it might be be just as well to get some of those badges or stickers. Not foolproof but better than a broken leg.