Translations

Last week, being the occasion of a BH Christmas Party, to a matinée performance of 'Translations' at the National Theatre. See reference 4 for the play itself.

Started the day by erecting our Christmas tree, sourced as usual from the Old Moat Garden Centre. An operation which involved getting out the specially cut length of six by two with which to hold the tree above the vice while preparing the stump for insertion into the red and black plastic contraption which holds the tree up when inside the house. But an operation which also involved discovering that two important screwdrivers have gone missing, although as I type this I have an idea about where they might have got to. Clue: the new back door lock.

Tweeted a small thrush in the back garden as I left for the station, where the 1205 for Waterloo was all present and correct, albeit on the wrong platform, that is to say platform 2 rather than platform 4.

The tablet

The medal

On arrival at Waterloo, for a change, strolled along the mezzanine level, where I found a wall tablet commemorating the Battle of Waterloo - which caught my eye as I had read in Barney-Spunner, probably in the book noticed at reference 2, that there were many memorials to the casualties of the battle to be found in English churchyards. While the nearest I have come is a large memorial to a cavalry general in the café in the crypt of St. Paul's cathedral. And interested this morning to see that that the Waterloo medal has the word 'Wellington' in larger letters than 'Waterloo' - which seems a little vain of the man, but I suppose he did have cause, having done more than any other single man to win the battle. With the possible exception of the foreign general, Blücher.

With the famous quote from the Duke at the bottom: 'My heart is broken by the terrible loss I have sustained in my old friends and companions and my poor soldiers. Believe me, nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won'.

Dresser in white, left

Onto the theatre for a picnic inside, to find the place full of parties, some of children. But I managed to find a quiet corner, only enlivened by some sort of model action, with a young lady being prepped for something or other by a small team of dressers and make-up people.

Handsome concrete - inside

Onto the bar, where I was not so lucky with seats and was reduced to sitting on the floor, but no-one seemed to mind. There were also a lot of people queueing for tickets. Were they going to get in for significantly less than the princely sum that I had paid (for my fine centre row G) seat?

Someone else's snap of the production

Into the full theatre, to be greeted by what turned out to be a rather effective set, with a hovel - the hedge school - marked out by remnants of walls, set in a rather convincing heath. The floor of the hovel looked as if it had actually been cast with something wet like concrete, but probably something vaguely plastic on top of foam blocks, or something of that sort.

I was sat next to a theatrical lady, possibly of the drama studies rather than the drama action variety. She was a lot more impressed than I was - with my finding it a well produced version of a play which was a little too long and a bit overloaded with tutorial material which might have done better, for me anyway, in an essay. And quite a lot of which did find its way into the helpful (if pretentious) programme. But an ingenious and interesting story involving the mapping of Ireland by the occupying army, that is to say by the British. The imposition of a map onto to the wild and woolly geography of Celtic Ireland, inter alia, an attempt to bring some order into land transactions - useful to both the tenant and the landlord classes. I also learned about the hedge schools of the Irish and the invention of universal primary education by the British. Which arrived in Ireland well before it arrived in Britain: anything to drag the Irish out of their Catholic squalor! Sadly, it did not work out quite like that. Nevertheless, the play was an interesting attempt to displace anger with understanding.

Handsome concrete - outside

Fire exit?

Fire alarm?

Heritage view of site, from the other side of the river

In the interval, I spent some time on the handsome terraces overlooking the river, which I had forgotten about, at least from the point of view of being on them, rather than looking up at them.

The IPA

Out to a full moon rising in the east and trains which were still behaving, so off to the Half Way House at Earlsfield for a spot of sauvignon blanc, washed down with a spot of IPA from Glenfiddich. Which turned out to be an entirely acceptable, liqueur type whisky which had been aged in IPA barrels - although I did not get to find out where they found wooden beer barrels these days. Don't often see them about. With the result that I got to wondering about the carbon footprint of all these moving images moving around the Internet. How much electrical power does it take to pump all this stuff up into the cloud? From where I moved onto Western Union. If their function is to move money to obscure locations, how does the intended recipient in said obscure location have to identify him or her self? Is it enough to know that there is money waiting for one?

Out to a successful aeroplane count from the station platform, with good viewing conditions (despite scattered cloud) giving me a succession of threes. Plus a marginal four. Plus quite a lot of clutter, that is to say aeroplanes not on the flight path down to Heathrow.

Given a seat on the train by a young lady from foreign, from which I was able to admire the zig-zag cranial scar of the chap in front of me, running from ear to the top of his more or less shaven head. Seemed a bit rude to ask him to turn around so that I could see how much further it went.

For the first time for a while, I had to wait for a taxi, maybe thirty seconds or so. Seemingly they were all there, but blocked up on the wrong side of the roundabout by wives coming to fetch their husbands.

Photographic booth from Blenheim Road

I was pleased to find that this photographic booth was properly labelled for our very own Blenheim Road, on the Longmead Industrial Estate. Some of them, the same model of booth from the same company, claim to come from Camberley or somewhere like that, further to the west.

Nigerian Chekhov, courtesy Evening Standard

PS: thought about the Nigerian version of Chekhov's 'Three Sisters' but decided against. The jump from Russia to war torn Nigeria seemed a bit too much. Will I change my mind before it ends in the middle of February? Does it bear on my ongoing media studies course on adaptations, noticed at reference 3?

Reference 1: https://www.theoldmoatgardencentre.org.uk/.

Reference 2: https://psmv3.blogspot.com/2018/03/waterloo.html.

Reference 3: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2019/12/media-studies.html.

Reference 4: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Translations.

Reference 5: https://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.com/search?q=friel. Previous one.

Reference 6: https://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.com/search?q=gaeltacht. Previous two.