pumpkinstrokemarrow

Sat in a particularly noisy train last night. No new messages but those that there were - from a loud and cheerfully bossy lady - were a pain. BH said I ought to do something about it. First I thought this was a waste of time but then thought that maybe if one keeps complaining it might sink into the consciousness of South West trains. So I collared two decent looking chaps wearing official looking greatcoats and minding their own business just short of the barrier and complained. They looked rather bemused and assured me that they would pass the message on. But what was odd was the way that the act of complaining worked me up into a right lather. I had only been moderately lathered beforehand.

This on the way to Happy Days - last on at the National as part of its opening season back in 1976 or so. Wonderful set which contained what looked very like lumps of real concrete taken from some demolition site - but I would be surprised if a stage could take the weight. The only snag being that the set was so interesting that it tended to distract one from Fiona Shaw holding forth, despite her fine form and tremendous voice. She must be well charged up by the end of the show so I wonder what she does to calm down.

Supposed to be theatre of the absurd which amongst other things means that you get a lot of repetition, significant silences and significant small noises. BH very taken with it all: thought it much more relevant to life today than 'The Seagull' which was our last outing. An oddity for me was that the main (and almost only) protagonist did not take much interest in her surroundings, most of her attention being taken with her handbag, mysteriously refilled each morning with exactly the same contents as the day before. Clearly no mispent youth among concrete cubes.

An up side was that, unlike a lot of modern productions, the whole thing was done and dusted in well under two hours which left plenty of time to make it to the Halfway House where the barman distinguished himself to the barmaid (a rather sexist discrimination here) by paying for a packet of crisps with his credit card. She was both amazed that he paid and that he paid for such a small item with a credit card. This last bit being something that the elder sprog used to do so maybe it is something to do with youth.

Various senior moments in the last few days. Including mistaking my tea cup for the tea pot. But the most odd for me was standing in London somewhere when I happened to smell my left thumb nail. Which had the very distinctive cold, clammy smell of dirty metal. I tried to think of what handrail I had been holding recently and failed - and it must have taken a good twenty seconds for me to realise that the hand in question was full of loose change.