There's Snow Business Like Snow Business...

Car's stuck in the drive, snow's still falling, and I can't get to work...what a pity ;)

With the snow coming down thick, winter settling in and the temperature continuously taking a nose-dive, I've noticed a lot of 'What to do...' list-type doo-das popping up on google and blog circles and what have you. Now, I'm like a child when it comes to snow. By this, I mean I will happily play in it for about five minutes but as soon as anyone even gives me a look that says they're thinking of throwing a snowball I run inside crying like a five-year-old... However, purely out of curiosity, I had a little peak at a few of these lists - usually very imaginatively called '10 things to do in snow...' or '12 things to do in snow...' or, in one disastrously badly-written instance, '47 things to do in snow...' - you get the picture, I'm sure. Now, whilst stretching these suggestions as thinly as possible, I couldn't fail to notice that every idea pretty much boils down to one of the following:

• Write things in it.
• Use it violently.
• Build things out of it.
• Hide in it.
• Find fun and dangerous ways to travel on or through it.

I can say, without reasonable doubt being cast, that all of these, if done for a long enough period of time, will end one of two ways; either you'll become too cold and you'll go inside or you'll fall over, become to cold, and go inside. If we disregard the above, the absurd and the insane - such as leaving water balloons out overnight to freeze before using them as dodge-balls in a field where the snow is too deep for children to run away [people are scary on the internet] - then we are left with just one category of things which can be done for entertainment when it snows:

• Have fun indoors, doing something warm, whilst snow, incidentally, just happens to be falling outside.

So remember, as beautiful as it is, it's also cold, wet, treacherous and by February, if my own prediction proves right, will be a constant feature on the news as Britain will have run out of salt by then...again... Follow my lead - do something productive with your day, curl up with a cup of coffee, then brave the cold and the small screaming children to get to the pub. Just like any other day, eh?

The Last Orders

Ever found yourself wondering what would happen if some of the greatest figures in Victorian literature were to find themselves in a tavern on a bitter Winter's night?

Well, a group of drama students studying at Exeter University did just that and, through the course of an evening and, I assume, a couple of rounds of student-priced pints, they formed a theatre company; Stupidity Street was born.

Then, on Halloween, the company brought a host of unlikely and undesirable characters into Exeter’s Bike Shed Theatre in a promenade performance that set a standard which others may find it hard to live up to.

In The Last Orders the audience, seated haphazardly around the room on sofas and barstools, become part of scenery. Betsy [Sally Naylor] and Nancy [Eloise Tong] begin to serve drinks and pies, thoughtfully provided by Mrs Lovett [Mel Barrett], who is next to appear on the scene, along with a dangerously drunk Mister Sweeney Todd [Nick Limm].
Enter next a flustered and cautious looking Doctor Jekyll [Nick Smith] who positions himself in a dark corner, making sure Betsy is always in view. As he talks concernedly to her about whether his acquaintance, a Mister Hyde, has been around lately, a fop enters, introduces himself as Dorian Gray [Harry Boyd] and proceeds to flirt shamelessly with the barmaids and make eyes at male members of the audience.
The last of the assumed-villains to enter is a foreigner, a Swiss man by the name of Frankenstein [Abbi Davey], who requests a room for the night, whilst always looking over his shoulder, trying to steer clear of the others in the room and keep to himself.
The scene falls silent as a slim, stern-looking man enters the bar and, with all eyes on him, asks confidently for nothing but water. This man is the great, and until recently deceased, Sherlock Holmes [Emily Holyoake].
Throughout the course of the night, four characters are apparently murdered, and it is up to those who remain standing to figure out who is responsible.

Although, at first, it may seem like an easy thing to take a character that has been read about for a hundred years and bring them to life, there have been enough awful adaptations to prove that it is nothing of the sort. Some of these characters appear very one-dimensional in their own books and the effort that went into this production becomes apparent as the characters begin to interact with one another.
Lovett shocked the audience as her sweet sing-songy voice turned to malice as she forced a blade up to Dorian’s neck. Frankenstein, whose accent could have created an overly comical character had it been done badly, came across as cold and calculating in the face of death and entertained the audience with the dry wit of a man trying to escape detection. Dorian’s arrogant facade quickly broke down to reveal the layers of fear and guilt behind the vulnerable and insecure little boy. Jekyll appealed most to the audience’s sympathies as he earnestly tried to protect Betsy from the company around her, however, this warped towards the end as Hyde reared his head and created a bipolar opposite to the unassuming man that had been present before.
As an avid Sherlock Holmes fan, I wasn't sure how I'd react to the role being played by a female actor, however, the posture and movement of the character was entirely convincing and, at moments of low light, the silhouette was that of the great detective exactly.
Todd stole the show, staying slumped in a chair unless at the bar, requesting another drink, and succeeded in making every member of the audience feel threatened, delivering his lines with a voice like gravel and occasionally giving the most sinister smile I’ve ever seen.
Blending descriptions from their character’s books with their own quirks and traits, each actor successfully managed to create depth and mystery in the well-known figures they were playing.
Although science students may have cringed a little when the characters tested a solution for cyanide by adding it to water and waiting for it to turn yellow, the whole audience, without exception, were held captive by the well-acted piece that clung onto its enigmas until the very end.

Rumour has it that, after such an outstanding opening night, The Last Orders may be reviving itself in a new Exeter venue or two.
Missing it once was a crime, to miss it again would be a sin.

We Won't Let This Star Go Out

Esther Earl, who's name means 'Star', was a fantastic sixteen year old girl who died in August after battling cancer.

I was lucky enough to have had contact with her, but cannot pretend to have been particulalry close.
The 'This Star Won't Go Out Foundation' was founded by Esther's close friends and family shortly after her death to benefit the parents of children suffering with cancer as, particularly in America, it can be an incredibly expensive illness as well as an emotionally draining battle.

Esther was a regular blogger and active member of Youtube and made her way into the community of 'Nerdfighters' [people who follow the vlogs of John and Hank Green] and was well liked within this community.
DFTBA records, collaboratively set-up by Hank Green and Alan Lastufka, are offering these bracelets:
CLICK HERE
As a way of remembering Esther and contributing the Foundation set up by those she has sadly left behind.

Anyway, sorry, will be back to posting insane, inane ramblings in the near future, I just had to do my bit to get this out there :)

One of Those Days...

Had a very, very long day. Wrote this on the bus.
It's for the boy who had an even longer day today than I did.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

TOGETHER IN THIS

The brave facade of a hearty laugh
And snaking arms seek comfort
Ripple the bedrock of mere days
As the corners leak and the paint,
Decaying around us, flakes and peels
And flutters down to the once-rotless carpet.

Only we two are holding
This little world of ours
Up, and together, and defended from those
Trying to break down the safety
Constructed in our
Two-man barricade.
Stare at the stars and reach out your hand.
Distance is inconsequential.
Our fingers will meet.

Beige Soul

Got a bit sick of the stereotypical angsty teenagers I was sat on a train with and wrote this...

-----------------------------------

Wanting to be someone famous
Whilst sitting on a train
Headed for the bustling metropolis
Hoping for the rain
To hit your face and then the pavement
As you walk with anonymity,
One underweight epitome
Of the Indie scene cliché.
With your bangs in your eyes
And your lips painted red,
Under your arm is a book
Of classical poets, all dead.
Falling in love on the hour
Just to keep from being bored,
And, still, for all your cleverness,
'Pathetic' is the word
To describe the shallow scratches left
By pangs of pains that don't have names
A calculated charming coldness
Is your only claim to fame.
The drink in your system
And the drugs that you take
Are just painting the picture
You're dying to make.
Waiting to find something
That's enough to inspire
You to take the first step
And set the whole world on fire
But that would take a talent
That you're sadly lacking
So you take another round trip
And forget about packing
Anything but a notebook
And an eyeliner pencil,
Using all negative media
As a kind of a stencil
To feel alive but unknown
Whilst trying to find
The courage that's needed
To leave it all behind
Whether you jump on or in front
Of that bus you can see
You'll only be mourned
For the things you won't be.

Coming Out...

"Thespians do it on stage."

I finished my drama A level last year, before that I did it as a GCSE and ran a small AmDram group with fellow students, I also used to be involved with the New Youth Theatre, a production company with whom I did two large musicals and two dramas. I have loved every second of the past five years where All-Things-Theatrey are concerned.

I am now doing a third year at college but, even though I've been seeing plays non-stop, and even though I've been writing and reading as much as possible, and even though I'm excited about the prospects of studying drama in an insane amount of depth for three whole years at university next year, I am feeling the loss of, what was, a tremendous presence in my life.

I went to my first session of the college's own AD Society today.
Even though I feel drama is a massive part of me, I'm pretty socially awkward a lot of the time, often enveloping myself into a character is a good way of dealing with this problem, so a Youth Theatre is both exciting and a little scary.
I loved it. This freedom to direct and act and bounce ideas against people that can then run with or improve those ideas without worrying about the constraints that exams place on theatre, as a drama exam is, essentially, about knowing which hoops to jump through...and they tend to be on fire.
It was an amazing amount of fun, and even though I'd turned up feeling nervous, I couldn't believe how quickly those two hours disappeared.

A particular highlight for me was when someone found a small bottle and asked what it was.
I muttered "You do know what you're drinking is meant for eye surgery?" and assumed no one would get the reference, but was immediately told to "wear a jacket", which was immensely fun!

Absence supposedly makes the heart grow fonder.
What I've found this summer is that it rips me to pieces.
I think it's fair to say that nothing makes me happier and, even though there is the worry that I'll get out of uni with a BA in drama and no hope of a career, I really can't imagine doing anything else with my life.

Rainy Day...

First day back at college had me stepping on the bus thinking just one thought; Why am I doing a third year?

My only answer is that it seemed like a really good idea at the time. You know, jobs are hard to get, so why not spend another year in free education? Also, I wanted to apply to universities with the best grades I feel I can achieve...but, after a rocky first year, I kind of achieved all that I wanted to in my second year...which left me feeling a little lost today.

On top of that, rather than knuckling down and getting into the gritty bits of the courses I've chosen, the teachers decided to ease us in by getting us familiar with the other people in the class.
No offence to them, I'm sure they're lovely, but I'm sticking around for one year and then hauling out, so, to be frank, I couldn't care less what you're favourite colour is or whether you went to a festival over summer.




Had the afternoon free, which cheered me up and made me realise that, even though I feel I'm lagging a year behind my self, I have a very lovely group of people who have decided to lag with me. Some very old faces and a few new ones.

It ill be these people that get me through this year. Hopefully. Them, and a determination that I will not waste a year. I will make this year count for something, I will test myself more than ever before and, hopefully, with a bit of courage and a lot of luck, I will come out on top, feeling as if it ere all worth it after all.
That, at least, is the plan at any rate.

The West End's Equivalent of a Blockbuster...

I saw Arthur Miller's All My Sons yesterday having heard nothing but fantastic reviews about it. I studied The Crucible all the way back in year eleven and subsequently had all of my interest in the play or the playwright driven out of me by a combination of over-analysis and a very bad film version that we were forced to watch, so I walked into the theatre with a slightly heightened sense of scepticism.

David Suchet and Zoe Wanamaker take the lead roles but one of my favourite actors, Stephen Campbell Moore, was also on the billing and was one of the main reasons I decided to escape to London for a day to see it.

Any apprehensions I had were immediately banished when I saw the set, a beautiful set of garden furniture speckled with the overhead gobos to give a perfectly realistic 1930's-America-at-dusk feel.
I could talk about the clever stage dynamics or the perfect costumes or the thoughtful lighting, but I simply don't have time to write about all of those things and would prefer to focus on the acting, which was, possibly, the best I've seen on stage.

Most people know David Suchet as the eccentric Belgian detective, Poirot, so hearing his spot-on American accent was very nearly surreal.
All of the accents, in fact, were done to a t. I can imagine that even one bad American accent would have ruined the entire play but the actors had obviously done a hell of a lot of prep for this production.

Now, I've mentioned the one of the reasons I went to see this play was because Stephen Campbell Moore was in it. The last production he did on stage, and later in film, was Alan Bennett's The History Boys. I read an interview in which he said he'd been offered scripts since then but none of them compared with that, so he couldn't allow himself to take them. However, when offered the part of Chris, he couldn't turn it down.
So, having come to see the very well-spoken, timid-looking British actor play a challenging role I was pretty upset to see, what I thought was, the understudy in his place. A man carrying off a bold, deep American accent and giving an experienced soldier's view of the world and the war and the distance between those two things made him an interesting character and I was prepared to sing his praises, despite him not being the actor I'd come to see when, upon looking closer, I realised it actually was Moore.
This character, so far from the actor's usual roles, completely blew me away. There was something energitic about seeing a man, typcast as a bit of a wet-blanket, playing a hardened soldier, falling in love and trying to keep his insane family from burning itself out.

I shan't spoil it all for those who haven't seen it, but I will say that, very close to the end, there is a gunshot heard from inside the house. I cannot possibly have been the only person in the audience who was half-expecting this seemingly-inevitable crack to rip through the troubled but determined atmosphere that had fallen over the play's climax, but the entire audience, myself included, almost hit the ceiling at the sound.

Silence is something which can be used, in films and theatre, in a million ways to create a million feelings and, I think, it is my favourite sound in live theatre, but I've never known a silence like that.
I've seen actors stand still, and silences fall onstage, and characters struggling to catch their breathe again but I have never known an audience, not just to be quiet, but to be silent. No one moved, or crossed or uncrossed their legs, or adjusted their atire, or lifted their hand to brush away a tear. It was a moment frozen in time and it was the most spectacular feeling I think I've ever known.

If I was asked one day, to chose a point in my life that I would like to go back to and re-live, it would be that moment of silence. The moment that was only a few seconds but, as cliched as it sounds, honestly did appear to stretch on into minutes or more.

When I was in London for a week, earlier this month, I saw five plays and a live music gig. They were all great, they were all worth seeing, but I haven't been able to write about them because they were very good productions which flowed and moved from point to point, which isn't at all a criticism, but All My Sons was different.
All My Sons seemed to be made up of moments, not from a production point of view, the production was fluid and every transition was seamless, but for the audience, as I can't think this is only my feeling of the play, the show was made up of memorable moments, burst of pure emotion and heart-fluttering seconds of a play which I cannot recommend enough.

The English Gentleman is Dead

"A gentleman is any man who wouldn't hit a woman with his hat on."
~ Fred Allen

I promise you now, this is not one of those tragic extremist-feminist posts that defy the very principles of feminism which I will no doubt rant about at a later time, no, this post is merely a discussion of something I have had a point of view on for a while but never thought to express such.

As the title may suggest, I want to discuss the idea of 'The English Gentleman'. What springs to mind? A man in a top hat, opening the door of a hansom cab so that a woman wearing too many layers of frilly lace can step onto a dirt track in the middle of London, smiling bashfully before taking the man's arm, as if it were a life-protecting necessity.

This is an idyllic and picturesque image, but it is one that belongs in an Austen novel, not in the real world. Some people will question 'where everything went wrong'. When did men stop being gentlemen and start being bastards?
This unanswerable question actually has a very succinct answer; it was about the same time that women started being complete bitches to the standing order of society.

Why don't men tip their hats to me in the street or rush ahead to gold the door for me?
Well, because they have a little more respect. They recognise that I am quite capable of working a door handle all by myself. The exception is, of course, if I'm carrying something heavy, then you'd better open the door or else you're going to end up looking like a bit of a shit.

Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that the ideal was and is flawed, because the intentions were never genuine. Of course, I'm talking generally, there were no doubt individuals who had real respect for women, but most men who were considered gentlemen of the nineteenth century didn't believe women should have the vote, didn't believe they had the same rights to work or earn a living or live on their own or lead any kind of life that women of today are accustomed to.

So, basically, to those girls who harbour sad regrets in their heart that they're unlikely ever to be whisked away by Mister Darcy I say this; grow a proverbial pair.
The fantasy of the gentlemen isn't dead, it never existed, but what we have now is a right side more respectable, if not as well-dressed. Be thankful that society has moved on to a moment in time when you're not patronised on every street corner by a man in a dusty bowler with a ludicrous moustache, enjoy the freedom to wear what you like, even when I, personally, think you look hideous and maybe, just once, you should run ahead and hold the door open for the elderly man in front of you, provided the intention is as sincere as the action itself.

The Feeling of London

"You find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford."

~ Samuel Johnson

I recently spent a week in London. I chose London because it has always been one of my favourite places in the world, or, rather, my favourite place out of the very few I've actually ever been to.
I was a little worried that spending a whole week in London would somehow kill a little of the, what shall we call it? Magic? Intrigue? Every possibility sounds either absurd or clichéd but London, to me, is a place that invokes the most intense feeling.

London is an amalgamation of impossibilities; nature springing up through the stones carved by humanity occupying over 620 square miles.

It is the most population dense city in all of Britain. Now, I'm not exactly what you'd call a 'people person', I'm not a sociopathic hermit or anything, but there are days when I'm not too far off, so to feel completely comfortable wandering through the throngs of bustling Londoners is unexpected.
Perhaps more unexpected, from the point of view of a girl, under twenty, living alone in the overwhelming city, is that I found myself generally relaxed and unabashed when walking alone. Even at night, when I would have expected to feel at least a little on-edge, I felt at ease, obviously I was cautious, I'm not a complete idiot but, as the girl who, when left alone in the house once when little, his under the table brandishing a candlestick because she'd heard a noise upstairs, I was just surprised that rational caution didn't lend way to excessive paranoia.

Whilst I was in London I saw a group of men, who called themselves 'The Beach Boys', who were creating sand sculptures on a beach next to the river Thames.

There's something phenomenal about this picture. Seeing, in the foreground, what is the stereotype of the idyllic Summer holiday and yet, glancing past all of that, the steely blue of the heart of London.

I saw five shows in the week I was there, had lunch with three businessmen, went to a reading by one of my favourite authors, accidentally ended up in a gay bar with two straight blokes from Chelsea, had a man predict my Birthday almost accurately, took over forty trips on the tube, wrote about ten thousand words of a story I'm working on and saw my favourite Youtubians form a band called 'Sons of Admirals' and then play songs about cats, colours and eyelashes.

All in all, I had a fabulous week, better than I hoped for, and London remains now and, I think, forever, the most irritatingly illogical but utterly beautiful city, reflective of humanity in a less distorted way that I would like and indescribably chaotic. It is a place that allows you to walk without being seen whilst taking in every colour, every sound and every unexpected sight found in the most interesting of places.

My week in London, the first holiday I've ever been on completely alone, offered me a freedom I have never experienced and my only regret is that I now have to find a way to readjust to a less spontaneous and, sadly therefore, less entertaining style of living.

Anticipating Sylvia

This is the product of over-dosing on Sylvia Plath's poetry, I think...

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ANTICIPATING SYLVIA

An enveloping hand,
Expansive, vast and ever-present,
Evaporates upon contact
With the crystal whiteness
Of her slender neck.

The frost creeps back
Into the dull brown sockets
And the universe is sucked
Into a vortex, explosively deep,
Cast blue-black shadow.

The inner and outer workings
Of schemas and lists upon lists
Upon paper torn from under
Bright red fingernails;
Painted or stained with sin.

Tugging a heartstring
Sounds like a Stradivarius crying
In anguish, mourning days
When a worthwhile artist
Lived to cry alongside.

If art is beauty then
It be only for the beholder
Who can only hold and not touch
Or fly or fall or feel
As deeply as is wished.

A Not-So-Dumb Blonde Joke

A blonde and a lawyer are seated next to each other on a flight
from Los Angeles to New York.

The lawyer asks if she would like to play a fun game. The blonde,
tired, just wants to take a nap, so she politely declines and leans
toward the window to catch a few winks. The lawyer persists and
explains that the game is easy and a lot of fun.

He says, "I ask you a question, and if you don't know the answer,
you pay me five dollars, and vice versa."

Again, she declines and tries to get some sleep.

The lawyer, now agitated, says, "Okay, if you don't know the answer,
you pay me $5, and if I don't know the answer, I will pay you $500."

This catches the blonde's attention and, figuring there will be no
end to this torment, agrees to the game.

The lawyer asks the first question: "What is the distance from the
earth to the moon?"

The blonde doesn't say a word, reaches into her purse, pulls out a
$5 bill, and hands it to the lawyer.

"Okay", says the lawyer, "your turn."

She asks, "What goes up a hill with three legs and comes down
with four legs?"

The lawyer, puzzled, takes out his laptop computer and searches
all his references... no answer. He taps into the air phone with his
modem and searches the internet and the Library of Congress...
no answer. Frustrated, he sends emails to all his friends and
coworkers but to no avail.

After an hour, he wakes the blonde and hands her $500.

The blonde thanks him and turns back to get some more sleep.

The lawyer, who is more than a little miffed, stirs the blonde and
asks, "Well, what's the answer??"

Without a word, the blonde reaches into her purse, hands the
lawyer $5, and goes back to sleep.

The Writers' Coffee House

Curled into a corner of an obscure and particular part of an unnamed place there sits a coffee house where only those with published works and death certificates may enter to enjoy the establishment and perceive the world as it bustles around on every side.

Agatha is always the first to arrive, she brings a portable typewriter, a notebook and pen and two bright blue, sparkling eyes. She wants a small, strong coffee with whole milk but no sugar. She takes up the tiny round table in the back corner and will stay there, writing and getting hourly-refills until closing time. Once, the waitress asked for an autograph, which she was given unceremoniously and without embarrassment.

Byron comes in, around about ten o’clock, handsome but for the black circles round his eyes and the constant look of pain on his face caused from either too much of one substance or not enough of another. He orders hot orange juice with lemon and swigs it down along with two aspirin. Sometimes he brings company; sometimes it is a woman and sometimes something else. Generally, if he chooses to stay for another drink, he’ll have iced-coffee, unable to stomach anything hot that he fears may bring back the headache with a vengeance.

Austen and Mary Shelley arrive arm-in-arm, chattering invariably about either ‘society’s view of women’ or the fact they saw a gorgeous man smile on the street outside, depending on the time of the month. They both want a cappuccino and will take up a side-table, facing one another and ignoring all other patrons of the cafe. Here they will start by exchanging witticisms before becoming horribly depressed at the state of their love-lives. After a brief spell of wondering what’s wrong with them they move onto wondering what’s wrong with everyone else and end up giggling like school-girls at their own genius. No one sits near these two, anyone unlucky enough to have encroached on their space before they arrive quickly moves away.

The only person who acknowledges the two women is Arthur, Sir Arthur, that is. He tips his hat to them, having grown up on his mother’s stories of chivalrous knights. He orders an espresso with one sugar and sits at the table by the window. He likes having a view of both the street and the inside of the coffee house, able to both see and observe, two things he is quick to amend the definitions of should anyone suggest them to be one and the same. He unfolds his newspaper and scans through, paying particular attention to the unsolved, seemingly mundane murders that take up little-more than a column somewhere on page thirty-five. He avoids the obituaries, still a little put-out after his least favourite fictional creation was given a long and heart-felt double page spread when he killed him off on Switzerland’s majestic Reichenbach.

Mister Wilde comes in around lunch-time, bringing the sunshine with his smile. He arrives without an overcoat, merely a top hat and a cane that swings in-time to a brisk step, and nods at Sir Arthur who nods back but rarely exchanges words. He wants a latte, two sugars and whipped cream on top and as it’s being prepared he’ll make a joke about the latest fashion before taking up the large, comfortable arm chair in the very centre of the room, the most visible spot that does not face the ghastly curtains that shadow the windows.

Edgar Poe is an odd one, people don’t avoid him and he doesn’t avoid them, at least not purposefully. He just seems to repel others with a force as invisible as gravity and twice as strong. He orders a coffee or a tea or whatever comes to mind, it never matters as he doesn’t actually drink it. It just sits on the corner of his table, slowly cooling and then congealing as his pen scratches away at a notebook of rough paper. At the end of the day, he’ll rip most of the pages out and leave them in the cup of cold liquid, convinced that they’re too awful to even attempt to edit. Occasionally, he thinks something is just grim enough that his publisher might want it, these are the moments when he’ll drain the cup, still unaware of what he has ordered, and dash out, usually wearing someone else’s hat, giddy with excitement but not wanting to be seen as such in public.

Virgil and Homer enter together with Homer always one step ahead. He gets the table whilst Virgil gets the drinks, always a pot of tea and two feta cheese salads. Virgil seems to hang off every word his companion speaks, making sensitive and thoughtful additions to the conversation that attract dear old Oscar’s attention.

Wilde once mentioned that he’d studied the two men at Oxford, at this, Virgil glanced at his friend before looking both proud and a little worn out. Homer just rolled his eyes over his drink.

Capote has steamed milk, soya. Apparently he dislikes all forms of caffeinated drinks, and insists upon leaving an overly-generous tip for the bar-staff which would be appreciated were it not done in a manner meant to attract as much attention as possible. Sometimes, when in a black and contemplative mood, he’ll sit by himself and smoke femininely-thin cigarettes, other times he’ll sit with Wilde and the two will complement each other and themselves and chuckle at another’s expense.

Bronte arrives looking tired. She wants a tall coffee with a small amount of milk. She takes up a table that allows her to divide her attention between the landscape that can be viewed outside the window and glancing over at Lord George Gordon, trying to pluck up the Cathy-like courage she’d need to strike up a conversation with him. Always hidden in her bag is a copy of his ‘Don Juan’ which she hopes one day to have signed, she just hasn’t managed it yet.

Blake is sat alone at a table, but no one really remembers when he arrived. He’s muttering to himself about something or other, but again, no one takes any notice. He ordered a simple coffee with milk about an hour and half ago, but the waitress has forgotten and, luckily, so has he.

Sylvia comes in stalking Miss Dickinson who looks most perturbed at the annoyance of having someone acting the part of her shadow. Emily wants a green tea followed by a black coffee and nearly changes her order when Miss Plath requests the exact same, muttering something about the reflection of the soul and the espresso machine pouring her destiny. Emily is careful to find a table with only on seat and Sylvia is careful to find an empty chair to pull up as close to her idol as possible, without actually being near enough to use the table, making her seem far more tragic than her poetry ever managed.

Beckett orders a short macchiato in a ‘to-go’ cup and looks a little as if he is waiting for someone, but either he’s just a generally anxious-looking individual or his expected companion never arrives, bringing Beckett back to complete the same routine day after day, either out of habit or just as a lack of anything better to do.

James Barrie wants a decaf mocha, commonly known by other adults as a hot chocolate. He also wants cake because his wife never lets him have any at home. He’ll happily spend his entire day sat with a serene expression, sometimes striking up a casual conversation with Doyle about the theatre or the arts or, generally, anything except literature.

Charles Dickens enters and everyone makes a point to avoid eye-contact and speak a little louder than they were before, trying to put him off starting up on any subject. Anyone who gets stuck behind him in the cue immediately regrets not arriving three minutes earlier as he is able to take up at least twenty minutes ordering nothing more fancy than a jug of tap water and a plate of unbuttered toast.

Leroux comes in looking for a particular kind of coffee blend, only to discover that it isn’t available. He begins grumbling about the British and very quickly moves onto his real intention of displaying his outrage for the modern-day ‘composer’ who’s had the gall to write a musical sequel to his masterpiece.

Browning comes in and is on first-name terms with everyone except Byron whom he thinks is a cad, as such, Bronte dismisses him as being a puling chicken of a man and he imagines she’d be rather like his lady in the laboratory if she got the chance. Robert orders an Americano and flashes a smile after making some pun about the Americans whilst it’s being brewed.

The other Robert, Robert Stevenson, comes in looking one of two ways; he has days where he is perfectly amiable and others when he is best left alone. Doyle, a doctor by trade, thinks he probably registers somewhere on the bipolar scale but, as a specialist of eyes, he doesn’t feel it’s his place to point it out. After ordering a herbal tea or a triple-shot espresso, depending on what state of mind he’s in, he’ll generally sit with Dickens, simply because no one else is that keen on him and old Charles never grumbles at company as it gives him a chance to talk considerably more than if he were sat alone.

Shakespeare enters and flashes a rather charming smile to everyone in the building. No one talks to him much but everyone smiles back, aware that they envy but not dislike the Bard. He wants a glass of brandy and when he is told it’s too early in the afternoon for such things he simply feigns shock at the thought of being the afternoon in order to announce that he has been awake for almost sixty hours and has just finished writing something fantastic. Everyone, against their own will, is eager to hear about it, but they all pretend not to be.

Finally Reverend Dodgson, also known as Lewis Carroll, enters and orders a pink strawberry milkshake. Everyone takes this as their cue to leave as quickly as possible. Barrie contemplates telling him how much he loved the character of the Queen, but doesn’t want to get a reputation for speaking to the wrong sort of fellow, so simply follows the others out, leaving Blake, who’s quietly asleep in his saucer, sleeping in the corner.

The Mousetrap

Agatha Christie's The Mousetrap is the longest running stage play ever performed. It's been running for over 50 years and last night I went to, what a board in the foyer announced was, the 20,016th performance of the 'whodunnit' murder mystery that has kept audiences guessing for over half a century.

The play, set post-WWII, opens with Mollie and Giles Ralston who are, what would have been described at the time as, a 'perfectly charming couple' waiting for the arrival of their first guests having decided to turn a mansion they've inherited into a guest house.
One by one, the guests then arrive through a stormy, snowy night.

Christopher Wren is the first to appear. He is known as the "peculiar" young man, which was Christie's very British way of saying he's gay as a string of pink fairy lights. He turns up with very little luggage, a fondness for antique furniture and a love of both cooking and policemen. The actor seemed to play him with some mild form of autism which went a long way towards making some of his more obsessive behaviours seem excusable.
Next is Mrs Boyle, a sour elderly woman who finds fault in everything but herself at all times and talks loudly about "the help".
Major Metcalf arrives, holding Mrs Boyle's bags after the two were forced to share a taxi through the snow from the station. He's a traditional kind, elderly gentleman with an interest in exploring the old mansion he's staying in. He generally keeps himself to himself, but then again, all the characters can be accused of that.
Then we see the arrival of Miss Casewell, a woman wearing trousers who writes letters to a "Jen". She's a radical with a troubled past who has no interest in women's politics so must clearly be a raging lesbian.
Last to arrive is the unexpected Mr Paravicini who has brought absolutely no luggage at all except a small leather bag that can't possibly contain any clothes, having overturned his Rolls Royce in a snow drift. He seems both pleasant and sinister simultaneously, owing to his peculiar sense of humour. The characters refer to him as being "very foreign", as if there are degrees to which a person can be from a different country. This was Christie's traditional way, in many of her novels, to describe someone who has a less-than-Christianly-British way of conducting himself around women.

Not too long into the play, Detective Sergeant Trotter arrives on skis. He announces that the police have been dealing with a murder, at the site of which they found clues suggesting that someone, or rather two people, staying at the mansion's address would be killed before the end of the night.
He questions and interrogates, feeling that every single character is holding information back from him. His job is to figure out which of them is in danger, and which of them is a killer playing a very clever game.

Christie originally thought she'd written a flop, British understatement at is best, I should say.
Although nowadays the characters seem like archetypes and the acting has to be hammed up a little, the whole thing works wonderfully well. Although, at one particular point in the play, the actor playing Mollie decided to make a noise that was meant to be a typical-helpless-gasping-womanly sort of noise, but just ended up sounding like she was having a mild orgasm whilst sat on the sofa having a chat.
This said, the subjects of murder, abuse and mystery are handled very well, and in my opinion, if the actors took the play too seriously then it would lose a lot of its affect upon the audience.

The chatter and excitement can really be felt during the interval, I was quite careful to exit the theatre for the ten minute break as quickly as possible, slightly scared to hear anyone talking who may have seen the play before. Also, I wished to form my own opinions and didn't think I could do that if others had already put ideas in my head.
Even with my speedy escape, I couldn't help but overhear certain conversations and smiled at the fact most of them began with the words "Well, obviously (insert generally interesting but, ultimately, completely erroneous conclusions here.) "
The marvellous thing, I think, about this play is that it is a typical murder mystery with about eleven other mysteries thrown in, so the thing to debate is not simply who the killer could be but also who these guests are, what are their reasons, if they have any at all, for coming to this place, whythey all seem uneasy at the Sergant's arrival and why none of them want to talk to each other about anything except the weather and the wine [although, this last could be explained purely by the tip-top British vibe the whole play gives off].

At the end of the performance, the leading man puts his hands up, stops the audience mid-applause and says a few words.
"You have now become our partners in crime and, as such, we ask you not to reveal 'whodunnit' when you leave the theatre tonight."
This is a wonderful tradition that, in order for the play to have had as successful a run as it has managed must be upheld so, on that note, I shan't tell you any more, I shall simply say that I can't recommend this play highly enough.

Alexander Prior

Alexander Prior is my age. He has recently been appointed as one of the conductors of the Seattle Symphony Orchestra, after completing four year at the St. Petersburg Conservatory with distinction.

I barely play and rarely sing, for all intense and purposes, music is not something I do, just something I know of.
Whenever I see this boy conduct, it's as if music is just what he is. It's like a visible life-force. Something that gives him, not only a reason to get up in the morning, but a motive to never go to bed at night. A constant whir at all hours of the day and night that is less of a choice than something that compels him onwards.






It's said that everyone has three lives; a private life, a public life and a secret life.
The idea of having something in life that utterly defines every aspect of you is both appealing and terrifying.

Having one thing that can sum you up and completely capture every inch of your personality, at first, sounds incredibly easy. One thing to focus on, only one thing you have to be successful in. Very appealing, no?
What if you fail? What if you're overtaken in the one and only thing that gives your life a direction? I can't image the fear that comes alongside having a talent like this. At first, it seems it narrows you as a person, stops you being well-rounded, but it's just not the case. Having this single focus, driven by passion and a fear of failing, can create a personality that is just as complex and versatile as anyone with a hundred hobbies.

I'm someone who writes, I can draw, I've been taught to dance, learnt to act, taken singing lessons, competed in martial arts, ploughed through sports and proven myself to be ambitious and self-driven.
I was the kid left in the drama room an hour after even the teachers deserted the school.
I was the one who set goals and achieved them without being pushed because I found things that interested me.

I look at someone like Alexander Prior, an intense and insanely focussed young man. He seems to define what it means to be head and shoulders above the rest. I mean, there's 'being noticed' and then there's truly 'standing out'.
I'm just wondering whether it's only possible to be outstanding if you're born with a gift or whether, perhaps, it's just possible to make yourself valuable.

A.

On Drinking and ...Driving?

This morning was interesting.
Woke-up early, slightly dehydrated but generally not looking too worse for wear considering it was one of those "morning after the night before" moments.
I'm getting my bearing and checking my vision still works when I hear my name being shouted from downstairs and a voice calls "why is there half a car sat in the driveway?"

This was why:


Last night's escapades, as well as earning some new bruises of unknown origins, gained me a bumper, an indicator and a tailgate.
Where they are from, I cannot quite recall.
What I do remember is carrying them across a couple of fields and over a stile because having them set up in my driveway was "the best idea ever thought up".
Looking back, in a more sober mind-frame than I can pretend to have been in last night, I realise it would have been true genius to find someone who has a similar car, lift there's out of the way and leave this in its place, but retrospection doesn't help my current predicament in the slightest, so shall be left alone.

My dad, when we lived in London, went out with a group of guys who, on the way back from the pub, decided it would be a 'good idea' to pick up the neighbours car and place it in his front garden...amazing ho many 'good ideas' you're capable of when under the influence.
It was not such a cruel prank, you'll say, until you hear that this garden had a 6 inch-high wall around the outside, meaning the car was completely stuck. I am pretty thankful I had this particular incident from my dad's past to use against him, or else he may have been a little more adamant about my stupidity than he found himself able to be.

This is the first time I've ever managed to arrive home with anything more significant than a traffic cone or stolen Martini glass and it began me thinking about being eighteen, and being able to drink until I can't see straight and then take home some random inanimate [or, if I wanted, come to think of it, animate] object just because it looks a bit shiny.
I don't think I know anybody I find interesting who doesn't have a story like this. A story about waking up somewhere unknown, or with someone/something unknown.

There is always a lot of discussion about whether the drinking age should be, as in America, increased to 21 or, as in some places in Europe, decreased. People, usually of an older generation although not always, consider 'binge drinking' and 'antisocial behaviour' to be roots of evil that plague the country and should be dug out as quickly and violently as possible.
However, I know that "times change", but being stuck in a grey area between the age where you needed your parents to look after you all the time, and the age when you feel you can do everything yourself; the murky upper-teens that allow you a freedom with a hint of responsibility, these are universal through time and culture.
The idea that, sometime not-too-long before you turn 20, you come of age in one way or another, is nothing new. So, maybe, this is just the way it works?

Yes, I am harbouring car parts, that are probably stolen, in my front drive.
Yes, I was inebriated to an indecent point last night.
No, this isn't the first time.
And, no, it probably won't be the last.

I will probably go out again next Saturday night. I will probably laugh about the fact we stole half a car from a field where it had been dumped, I will not sit and feel ashamed and stick to orange juice out of guilt, because, even though it was stupid and probably a little bit illegal, it was fun and it didn't hurt anyone [except when I dropped the indicator light on my foot] and, to be honest with you, I believe things like this are just a part of growing up.
I don't want to be one of those people who look back only on the things I could have done or should have done. I'd rather tell tales that end with "and even though it was stupid, it was immense fun" than ones that end with "well, I wasn't there, but I heard that's what happened at least".

So, go on, judge the youth of today for their immoral behaviour; for their drinking, their sex, their parties, their music, their clothes, their common butchery of the english language, their smoking, stealing and swearing and, occasionally, their uncontrollable urges to take discarded elements of car home with them.
Just know, that I'm pretty sure, that either you're denying what you really got up to when you were 18, or else, you're just jealous you didn't think of it back then!

A. x

Oh! It's a Lovely Introspection

Last night I went to see 'Oh! What a Lovely War'.
It was a fabulous show that managed to blend incredibly poignant moments with song and comedy to create something that made me laugh but also ensured I left the theatre thinking hard about war, humanity and, slightly to my shame, the how-tos and how-not-tos of creating a good piece of theatre but, hey! I'm a drama student, it's almost forgiveable.

I was reminded of 'War Horse' which was another brilliant, but much larger scale, production that I saw in London, set in World War I. That, again, encompassed both song and stylised comedic elements to create something that was so passionately moving that, not only did I end up crying at the death of the German General, I also found myself in a state of such high-anxiety that at one point, when a very real-sounding pistol went off on stage, I jumped so suddenly that I managed to elbow the person sat next to me!

I think what both of these productions did tremendously well was to display war, in its raw and most brutal sense.
They did not show anybody rejoicing or gaining any of this "glory for queen and country" malarkey. Instead, they showed human beings crawling through trenches; vast expanses of space between these trenches, piled high with bodies from both sides; woman, in both Britain and germany, sat at home or in factories, worrying and working and praying that their husband, son or brother would be sent home safely; soldiers from either side coming together and recognising that, all this time, they have not been, as they imagined, fighting the enemy, instead, they have been shooting at men who have families and homes and loved ones that they shall never return to.

As someone who is intensely interested in the technicalities of a stage production, I find I have a habit of being overly critical at times. Or else, I will analyse a production to death, breaking it down into its component parts. This is not just a simplistic and reductionist way of looking at these two great pieces of theatre, it is very wrong as it means that all semantic meaning - the very message that the playwright was so desperate to convey - has pushed to one side, as if it were just another cog that makes up a much larger machine.

Rupert Brooke's 'The Soldier' was often used as a piece of propaganda, romanticising and glorifying war. Interestingly, Brooke's never actually got the chance to fight. He died of blood poisoning in [I think] 1915.
I admit that I am not a huge admirer of his poems, however, 'The Soldier' does contain one of my favourite lines from a poem ever:


If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed.


A.