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.
2 thoughts on “From Russia With Love”
I love the Barbican, it has an atmosphere all its own. The feel of 60s council estate and good culture is fantastic. Next time you go have your tea at Fish Central, not too far away, best Fish and Chips I’ve ever tasted. The clientele is fascinating, last time we went there was a table full of cabbies and then some folk came in in their tuxes pre barbican or something. And they do loads of different fish dishes. Treat yourself Missus!
Sorry about Jackson, it’s a sad time for you. xxxxHugsxxx Fee
So sorry to hear your sad news about Jackson – I know everyone who has lost a dearly loved pet will be crying with you. Even though you know you have done the right thing it is very hard to deal with the big hole left in your home and your heart. Don’t stop crying, it does help to heal and it does get better.
Usually read you blog at work but have been so busy haven’t logged on for a few days so only just picked up your news.
Loads of love
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