pumpkinstrokemarrow

Yesterday to a performance of 'The view from the bridge' at the Duke of York's. A two act affair which smelt a little of a) creative writing school and b) old left politics, perhaps not surprising as the young Arthur Miller had been poor enough to need the prizes offered at creative writing schools, albeit twenty years before writing this play. Must have been a precocious talent, as the programme tells us that he won two such. Good stage design, which worked well for me. First act seemed a little slow, second act much better. I thought afterwards that this may have been because the lead (Ken Stott) was on stage pretty much the whole time and was saving himself for the second half. Must take some discipline to knock it out night after night. The programme also told us that the play runs frequently on GCSE syllabuses which is presumably why there were lots of school parties there, entirely females as far as I could tell. Modest amount of giggling and squealing but pretty well behaved. I wonder if the writers of syllabuses get free tickets or other kick backs?

One thing, however, was quite clear. The play was on a differant plane of consciousness than Slumdog. A serious business about matters which remain serious. Some real people with some real problems. Rather than a social worker documentary about a poor country with glossy trimmings. (Which started life, I learnt yesterday, as a television film which got spotted and so got a free upgrade to the global market).

One additional, minor beef about the film. At one point the slumdogs are riding a train and using a rope to facilitate their activities. Point 1, the rope looked a bit unlikely. Rather new and fat. Point 2, the slumdogs did not appear to have been shown how to use it, and made no use of the rails on the tops of the carriages to belay.

To round off the evening, on the way home on the train, I was surrounded by a small gang of what sounded like gilded youth, that is to say youth with well off parents. They started off by having a serious discussion about their parents' drinking habits which was slightly unsettling. Then they moved onto the business of visiting parents. When, where, how often. What's the point? Quite oblivious that I might well be a parent. But even more unsettling, they rounded off the session with a discussion of the choice and duties of god parents. They were quite serious about this too. Perhaps I had, inadvertantly, stumbled on a church youth club outing to the big town?

Started off the week by feeling a bit sorry for bankers. Must be hard to run a business in the full glare of the public eye and with arrogant young Treasurocrats breathing down your neck. Second guessing whether corporate hospitality at the Chelsea Flower Show is a good idea or not. Telling you to lend more money or else - when the whole problem started by your doing just that. But then I remembered that if they had not got us into a pickle there would have been no need for the public to get in on the act. And rounded off the week with the late boss of RBS declining to give back most of his outrageous pension. Other bankers must be hopping mad that he is not falling on his sword and doing the scapegoat thing. I would have thought that the scapegoat thing would have done wonders for the public image of bankers and their greed. Puzzles me why someone who is clearly very able and who I presume to be comfortably off, finds it so hard to do it. He presided over a monumental c***-*p and ought to take some rap, along with all those shareholders whom he trashed. Napoleon got packed off to St Helena with a just couple of servants when he lost his last throw. Just about honourable retirement. Why should this banker expect more?