This morning I had acupuncture and whatever she did the needles released something.
I cried in the car.
I cried in the loo.
I cried in the shop.
I cried in the studio.
I damn near cried on the show, only I held myself together with some herbal tea and Steve Campen, my producer/mentor/confessor and wind-up merchant.
When I left the acupuncturist I drove lazily towards Battersea Rise. I had the roof down of my car, the sun was out and the pollution nearly unbearable, but by the time I reached the graveyard the green leafy trees had sucked up some of the lethal emissions.
Two lovely dogs came into view. Their dog walker sneezed, I shouted ‘Bless you’ she shouted ‘Thank you’ and we both laughed, and so begun my day.
The show was fine, loads and loads of you emailed and texted, its a good job we recycle all the paper, SATS, Zero Tolerance, Alarm Clocks and uniforms, you were wired for sound.
I got back to the flat in 20 minutes, there was nothing on the road. The flat looked like Widow Twankies laundry. The errant daughter brought home two bags of fag infested finery to wash. Yuk, students stink.
I then went out to the barbican to see ‘BORIS GUDONOV’, a co-production with ‘Cheek By Jow’l and a Russian Company. The whole production was in Russian with computerised subtitles running throughout. The staging was simple and stark, the acting seriously good and the evening two hours and ten minutes without an interval. I couldn’t follow the story, it was like a Shakesperean History play, but I could follow the dynamics. If anybody wants to see how to make theatre work with old, experienced actors working alongside young thesps. Then this is the one to see. It was so good watching real ensemble work. And the love scene was rivetting. Brilliant evening. Thank you Barbican. I would highly recommend it.
The drive home is so lovely from the Barbican. Through Smithfield meat market, left into Blackfriars and then I opted to go down Fleet Street. The Courts of Justice are so imposing you can smell the history. Over Waterloo bridge, with the purple lights from the National Theatre and the OXO building all pink and daft. Down to Lambeth Bridge and back over to the North. I like driving past The Tate Gallery and Churchill gardens, where I had my very first psychic reading from a woman called Betty Balcombe.
Down the embankment, all at 30 miles an hour and then back South over the Pink Sherbert, Albert Bridge, and before you can say Battersea Square. I was home.
20 minutes from Russia with love.
It’s 23.13. and the old man will be back any minute. There’s no food in he’ll have to have a tin of baked beans and a cuppa, come to think of it I may just join him.