The Play's The Thing!

Everyone likes a good play, don't they? Well, not exactly everyone perhaps - my Great Aunt Dolores for example (she who was run over by a lorry but survived, and who later took up playing the xylophone only to end up dying as she threw herself over Niagara Falls in a barrel), hated going to the theatre and thought it was a total waste of one's time. The only time she would step foot into a theatre was if she were performing in a play herself. The trouble with this was that on those occasions, everyone else considered it to be a waste of their time by attending - believe me, Dolores was no Sarah Bernhardt (I still remember with embarrassed shame the disastrous run she did at the Comédie-Française in Paris, playing the lead role in Racine's Phaedre). But apart from my dear Great Aunt and her occasional, unfortunate audiences, nearly everyone else like a good play.

You will recall that I helped to produce a spectacle de théâtre here in Nottingham, in June. We staged nine different, specially-commissioned plays over a three day festival. It was a big success at the time, and all the hard work we put into it was certainly worth it in the end. I was reminded of this yesterday evening when I had dinner with some friends, one of whom announced that she had been in the audience for one performance - undoubtedly the "jewel in the festival's crown" - the most excellent 'Thanks To His Sister' written by Cumbrian playwright Robin Acland. Everything about this performance was first-class: The script, the acting, but most importantly of all perhaps - the expert direction given to the actors by the brilliant and talented Mr Paul Sellwood. The marvellous thing about this play was that it was both intellectual and comic at the same time. The intellectual bit was quite subtly and mischievously done, in as much as it was able to massage the egos of those in the audience who enjoyed catching the familiar quotations from Worsdworth (for it was he who was the play's main subject); and the comic bit came about in the tongue-in-cheek nod at the obsessions of some less than humble intellectuals. An achievement for a writer indeed.

However, as in any stage production designed to make an impact on its audience, it was the timing that was all important in this. The cast worked tremendously hard at getting this right - the effervescent Liz Smith, the exuberant Leah Burrows and the inimitably eloquent and charismatic Rob Ferguson as the historical characters; and the sultry Sarah Lee and comic genius Tom Spencer as their modern counterparts all did an outstanding job. But in my view, timing is something that cannot be fully achieved with really tight, enthusiastic and controlled direction. And in this, the superbly talented Paul Sellwood (aka "Tall Paul") performed the most admirable and first-class magic.

It's a pity that most of you missed it really, for it will not be repeated ("Shame!" you should all cry at this point). This was theatre at its very best, and it was just such a shame that this was not the play we took to Edinburgh. If we had, then perhaps we wouldn't have lost the small fortune which, as a production company, we most surely did. Oh well, there's always next year.

Break a leg, darling!

Blood Pressure

As I write this missive to you, gentle reader, I am drinking a cup of nice hot tea. It is important for you to know this, because the cup of tea is the first oasis for me in what has been a failure of a day so far. Last night I was horribly drunk and made an idiot of myself in front of some friends. I'm sure they are very disappointed in me, but this reminds me of a quote from Marilyn Monroe: "I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best."

That could sum me up, I suppose. Not exactly "mad, bad and dangerous to know" , but still a disappointment to my friends and to myself. So, I now need to return to life's more simple pleasures - like a nice hot cup of tea. I'm not about to launch into "Raindrops on roses; whiskers on kittens" but I would, at this point, like to mention another simple pleasure I enjoyed yesterday: I bought a new clothes airer (or clothes-horse as they were called in my day). For years I have been struggling with the pathetic little thing that I inherited when I moved into this apartment - it never had enough space to contain a full load from the washing machine, and so I was always juggling damp items of clothing around in an effort to get them dry. This has been a source of much frustration for me, but for some reason it never quite dawned upon me that the solution would be to buy a bigger, new one - until my daughter, over from Paris for her grandfather's funeral, pointed this out to me. Watching me perform a sort of origami exercise with an assortment of smalls, T-shirts and pillow-cases, she was incredulous that I hadn't simply been down to the shops to get something more appropriate.

Yesterday I was listening to the final spin-cycle of the machine and was befallen with a sinking heart at the renewed prospect of unloading the miscellaneous arrangement of laundry - I knew that I had loaded the machine with far too much to fit onto the miniscule racking that was currently available to me. In a flash of madness I ran down the road to Argos and, for the princely sum of £19.99, was soon hurrying proudly home, carrying before me a package of exceptional delight! I quickly tore off the polythene wrapping and in a jiffy, had unfolded the rods and rails and erected them into a towering scaffold-like structure that stood resplendent in the centre of my kitchen. As the washing-machine clicked its way to a halt, I could hardly contain my excitement whilst waiting for the time-lock on the door to release the contents.

Duvet covers, pillow-cases, towels, denims, underwear and T-shirts all came tumbling out in a kaleidoscope of multifarious colours, and all were swiftly allocated a suitable space on the tower. I felt rather pleased with myself.

And then I realized how sad my life has somehow become. That I could take such pleasure in what is essentially a very mundane development in my existence, does not say too much about the quality of excitement that I normally enjoy. However, I have reflected since on this, and feel that the essential word in my previous sentence is 'quality'. Is any excitement that usually presents itself to me necessarily quality excitement? I don't think much of it can be - often it's nothing more than a session of riotous and debauched partying occasionally accompanied by, if I'm lucky, a bout of abandoned sex. This sort of thing is hardly inspirational, and lends nothing of any value to my health or my peace of mind.

No, I realized that I needed to focus more on pursuits that offer some kind of reward to my life. After safely arranging my airing laundry, I pumped up the tyres on my disused bike and went out for a ride. This was greatly encouraging to my spirit. Since then I have been to the gym, and for a swim, and it is these sorts of pastimes that bring true quality to one's life. And what's more, they also help to reduce one's blood pressure, which is always a sensible and rewarding thing to do. I took my own reading this morning and it was alarmingly high - so high in fact that the stress of this realisation caused me to spark up another fag. Not good.

Life's simple pleasures then - that's the way forward for me. A nice cup of tea whilst sitting beside a new clothes airer should be enough for any man's delight, in my opinion.

The Wanderer Returns

Well, patient listener - if you're still there, and have not given up all hope of hearing from me again, I am back. It seems rather feeble to say that I have been too busy to write to you for all these weeks, but really - that's exactly how it was.

Since the beginning of July there were four main preoccupations to distract me from recording anything about my life on here: There was work, the Studio, my dad's condition, and finally Edinburgh. By far, it was work that consumed the bulk of my time throughout the month of July. Twelve hour days and a 140-mile round trip do tend to drain most of the day's energy and time.......... However, balancing work with the other three preoccupations became an almost impossible task - and one that only someone of a constitution as strong as my own could manage.

Nottingham Writers' Studio is a passion of mine and as the Chairman, is a responsibility that I take very seriously. During the period of turmoil, we undertook to recruit a new Development Director which involved all the usual labours of shortlisting the candidates for interview, arranging and conducting the interviews, making the final choice of appointee, and then defining the induction and handover programme. On top of that, I had other more routine issues to deal with, as well as preparing the year-end accounts for submission to Companies House (another of my duties). And I don't get paid for any of this, by the way!

Trying to fit all of this in whilst spending as much time as possible with my poor failing father was quite tricky. The treatment he was receiving in hospital was frankly deplorable (and I've been a big fan of the NHS in my time, believe me), so in the end my sister arranged to have him moved to her home supported by Macmillan, Marie Curie, District and Community nursing staff. This was far more comfortable and dignified for him - but he still continued to suffer far longer than the medics had predicted, eventually dying on Saturday 31st July. Goodnight Daddy - I shall miss you, but I'm so grateful for the years we had with you; years that were always a bonus.

And then there was Edinburgh. We had committed ourselves to taking a play to the Fringe, so there was no backing out of that. Luckily, the boys I had worked with on the Triliteral Festival were free to do most of the leg work, and I could thankfully take a back seat on executing the final arrangements. There was still some involvement for me however, and so whenever I had any available time I would dip in and make a contribution. When everything was in place, the Company hit the road (or more accurately, the rails), Edinburgh bound. It was quite an achievement to transport three actors, two production assistants, the Director, the Producer, a mountain of luggage and the complete set (including props) for the play - all on public transport. Quite an achievement indeed, and the boys need to be congratulated on that.

I flew up to Edinburgh after my father's funeral to join them. The Edinburgh Festival and its Fringe counterpart is an amazing experience. Apparently, as many people as already live there cram into the city for the event, and there are hundreds of shows to see each day. It was quite hard to choose what to watch during the hours when our own show wasn't being performed, or when we weren't out on the streets handing out flyers and attempting to drum up an audience for our cast. But I saw some terrific performances (none of the big names, of course - you can see those on TV at anytime), and had a very enjoyable time. The whole episode was chaotic, exhausting, expensive, but huge fun. The production company's finances are ruined forever - we lost a fortune. But, as they say ars gratia artis!

However, now I have entered a new phase. My contract in the salt mines of Northampton has finished so I no longer have to work every day; the Studio has calmed down immeasurably - with the accounts all done and the new Development Director making great strides into his new role; my father is no longer with us (although now comes the onerous task of sorting out his estate and disposing of his house and contents); and Edinburgh is already a fading memory.

Back to the real world! Unfortunately, I feel so battered by the last few weeks that I appear to have lost any spark of creativity - hence the tedious detail of this blog posting. Thank you again, gentle reader, for your patience - I promise to keep you up to date with all matters on a more regular basis from now on. And hopefully, in a matter much more entertaining than this.

Toodle pip old loves!