Dear Ann, as a matter of fact Siddhi is half Iitalian half Venezulan, she speaks four languages, has lived all over the world her last port of call was Hamburg. Does she call me ‘Jeni the Jew?’ No, but she can if she wants to only she would get the spelling of my name right Anne. I wouldn’t call her the Kraut if she was in the least bit offended. All is well in our unpc world, I am happy to say, so Dear Ann fret not, if I was being racist I would be the first to complain.
It’s just gone 11.30. and the ‘oosbind has just arrived home from his first preview of ‘Ghosts’. He opens on Friday night. I can’t make it as I’m working in Camden comparing a dance night.
I’m going on Saturday with the B child.
We’re sitting at the big table in the flat.The night is still. Siddhi the very tired kraut is asleep in her bed, the river is low and I’m so hot I’ve had to remove my outer layers.
I’ve knocked off half a pot of organic, natural, probiotic yoghurt whilst the old git has just made himself ham and two fried eggs with two slices of bread and butter. My mouth is watering just writing about it let alone having to stare at it over the candle. Do I want ham and eggs? Yes of course I do but I am not succumbing, and do you know why? Because I had a cream cheese and cucumber bagle with a cup of coffee in Fiori’s after the show. Then i wandered into Covent Garden to the Transport Museum to buy The weenie kraut a wallet with the tube system on it so she can get herself round town easily.
Then I met up wth a mate and had a bowl of green beans and potatoes in rosemary before crossing the road to the Haymarket theatre to see ‘Waiting for Godot’ with Patrick Stewart and Sir Ian-I-can-do-no-wrong-McKellan. I would run under a horse for that man. They were terrific but I thought the evening overly worthy, not light enough and not a little snooze making.
I had a chocolate ice-cream in the interval which made me cough in the quiet bits, not good.
So that’s why I haven’t eaten ham and eggs. I’m chocca with chocca…
I left the Haymarket and walked in the balmy night air down Pall Mall, under the arch past ancient buildings which felt just that in the dark, into the Mall, past Buck. House, over the road right down to Victoria. The bus came at 10.46. I stepped into the flat at 10.58.
Stepped out of my clothes, gritted my teeth at the loss of my wonderful old computer and turned on this little tiny laptop.. My theatre companion convinced me to buy a Mac, so Jim will organise that for me at his earliest convenience.
I was taken to the theatre tonight by an old, old friend. She bought the tickets, I bought supper and another friend bought the interval drinks. After the show one went Sarf, one went East and I came home.
It’s now just gone midnight, London is winding down, the old man is on the balcony with a cup of coffee laced with Ricard, a fag and a good job well done. I’m off to me bed to read me book and ponder on ‘Waiting For Godot’ and Samuel Beckett. I met him years ago when he sat in a motor cycle side-car, which was parked up in the forecourt of the Royal Court Theatre. Your man Beckett was the only member of the audience in ‘The Smallest Theatre On Earth’. I provided the lighting by shining a torch onto little Eugene Geasley, the lone actor, who performed Shakespeare for our illustrious Irish playwrite. Beckett had a sense of humour, I wonder what he would have made of tonights offering.
As his two tramps said;
‘It was a good way to pass the time.’
‘Yes but the time would have passed any way.’
Say it again Sam….