Mrs Blog and I like to take in the occasional play. Nothing too challenging, mind. We don’t do thought provoking. Or, heaven forbid, contemporary. More, a nice bit of Shakespeare or something with a few tunes. We like to write it on the calendar in the kitchen so that visitors think we have a social life. (We fill out the calendar with “recycle”, which happens on alternate Thursdays, our dates with the men who come round to fix things that they should have sorted last time, and reminders of neighbours’ holidays so we know when we have to feed their cats.)
September’s looking quite busy already…
But looking back through the July entries reminds me that recent planned “encounters with thespians” have not been working out well.
A fixture in these parts is the annual tour by the Rude Mechanicals. Eastbourne based and loosely described as commedia dell’arte, the Rudes produce a clever, funny new play each year and perform it in the grounds of stately homes, in parks and on village greens across the south east. They were founded in 1999 and Family Blog has seen about 15 of their plays. But not when it rains. When it rains the actors’ white facepaint runs and you remember why you’ve thought about retiring to Spain.
This year we booked with friends to see the Rudes perform The Commercial Traveller in Lewes. It rained. The company acted decisively a mite too quickly, took the decision at 4 pm to cancel the evening performance and watched it turn out fine and dry. We transferred our booking to a performance in Alfriston, a village nearby, taking place tonight. Today it has poured all day. Mr Mechanical himself – it’s all excellent, personally tailored customer care – has just phoned (you don’t get Cameron Mackintosh doing that) to tell me it’s off again. We’ve rebooked for the last evening of the summer run in another village in Sussex. Fingers crossed, and where is that Spanish property brochure….
Why would you want to see an outdoor performance anywhere else?
Family Blog have been Friends of Shakespeare’s Globe for almost the twenty years it’s been open. (I’m sure our friendship is appreciated but he’s written nothing of real merit since we joined.) Twenty years ago we bought cheap tickets and stood in the pit. Now we book seats under cover – at least, twelve inches or so of unyielding wood – and watch the groundlings get wet. In July we had seven tickets for a Saturday evening performance with friends and neighbours but both Mrs Blog and I went down with something nasty and were obliged to bail. I wouldn’t have minded if there had been some decent murdering on TV. But “talent” shows? Give me strength.
Longer term (longsuffering?) followers of this blog will know that it is also a big fan of Mikron Theatre Company who tour plays of social and economic verite around the canals and rivers of England and, less romantically, along the M62 corridor. Mrs Blog and I travelled far to the north – to a marina near Oxford – last summer to see them perform Pure: the Business of Chocolate with a storyline embracing Quakerism, overbearing industrialists, aggressive marketing, a tightfisted landlord and the deserving poor over two different time periods. This year we booked to see In at the Deep End: An RNLI Story which promises tales of “choppy emotional waters”, uncompromising management, “eccentric fundraising” and, no doubt, some deserving poor. We arranged to see it at the lifeboat station in Selsey, along the coast in West Sussex, on our way home from the Oxford area where we were to visit old colleagues of mine, with Mrs Blog’s fellow clan member from our northerly territories also joining us.
It was a highly successful trip – in an “apart from that Mrs Lincoln, did you enjoy the play” kind of way. After a jolly wander round the Oxford colleges and DCI Morse’s favourite hostelries and blood spatter scenes (I spent three years there at uni and discovered hardly any corpses, though perhaps I wasn’t up and about early enough), we were royally dined by our chums in their splendid garden running along the Kennet and Avon Canal. Unfortunately, at the point when dusk’s tentacles (tendrils? dark bits?) began to stretch across the garden and we gathered up the debris in order to continue being witty and enchanting indoors, Blogcousin tripped badly on the decking and impaled herself on a shattered jug of Pimms.
This proved to be both more and less worrying than it might appear. On the one hand she lost serious quantities of blood and was taken swiftly by ambulance to A&E in Reading; on the other, there was plenty of Pimms in another jug.
We were booked for three nights in the Travelodge at Reading Services — westbound. (No, seriously, we’re OK with that.) The patient was staying in hospital overnight and at around 2.30 a.m. Mrs Blog and I returned to the service station which we shared only with a chapter of Hells Angels from Wales and one young man from eastern Europe serving coffee.
The next day was an odd one for all concerned. While Blogcousin lay in hospital recovering from surgery (careful removal of cucumber, fruit and sprigs of mint) and our hosts reported unusually erratic behaviour amongst (no doubt alcohol fuelled) hedgehogs while they were working to remove all traces of the previous night’s incident from the decking. We all had plenty of the victim’s blood and DNA on our clothing and might reasonably be considered suspects.
With cousin laid up it would have seemed highly inappropriate for us to head off to some local National Trust property, funfair or pleasure dome and we needed to be nearby for hospital visiting and potential discharge purposes. Happily our hotel of choice lay delightfully handy for the facilities of a full-blown service station – with all the culinary charm and comforts which that conveys.
We took breakfast there. We wandered about, admired the array of confectionary, remaindered CDs and extensive selection of bottled tap water in WH Smiths; we people watched, studied the news of traffic holdups on the overhead screens (strangely, dated several weeks earlier) and discussed which outlet deserved our custom next. After a long drawn-out lunch we set off again round the “food” court, Mrs Blog looked at some phone accessories (I preferred the out of date traffic news) and we wondered why there are so few attractive people hanging out in service stations these days. Have those glamour days gone for ever?
After visiting the hospital we were keen to get back to our by now favourite seats in the service station to check how the hold up on the M5 near Bristol in June had resolved itself. At this point I started to worry that CCTV might have picked up on the sight of this peculiar couple and their idea of a cheap pensioners’ day out. Indeed, when cleaning staff started to greet us like old friends, I began to see myself as Viktor Navorski (think Tom Hanks in The Terminal), trapped forever in a daily round of the West Cornwall Pasty Company, Greggs and Krispy Kreme Doughnuts.
A further visit to the hospital confirmed that the patient would be enjoying another night of institutional catering and we went back to the service station for dinner. And, a bit later, supper. And breakfast the next morning. Then elevenses.
At which point we received the all-clear to collect Blogcousin and head northwards to deliver her into the arms of fellow clan members.
Which has been a roundabout way of telling you that we didn’t make Selsey lifeboat station for the play about the RNLI so I can’t confirm that it features any deserving poor. But it’s a decent bet.