A Change of Plan

For all of you wanting to hear about Matthew Bourne’s latest production, I regret to say there was a change of plan.

On Friday evening Mum rang me and said, “I thought I’d better warn you, apparently you need to be very strong to see it.”

My spirits sank. I’d had the week from hell and while I had emerged finally feeling like myself again, for the past few days my entire self had been overtaken by some crazy, hormonally challenged monster. Strong was NOT how I’d been feeling.

“I read your blog and realised you were probably not feeling too good,” continued my mother. “So what do you think? Do you still want to see it?”

I sat there, torn. If you understood how much I adore Matthew Bourne’s work, this was one of the toughest decisions ever. It’s three years since the last one. He’s too busy choreographing Oliver for Cameron Mackintosh, and supervising his endless other ballets in China, the States and Japan.

On one hand there was this ballet which I’d been looking forward to for months. A one off opportunity. On the other hand, Dorian Gray is not exactly an uplifting topic. But he always brings his own humour to it.

“There must be witty bits,” I said hopefully.

“Apparently not. It’s all very dark and quite a lot of people walked out. A friend said that the end is really harrowing.” Mum paused. “I can see if anyone else would have your ticket.”

“I’ll ring you back in a few minutes.” I put down the phone and told Himself.

“You can’t be a wimp,” he said. “It’s only a ballet.” He then looked at me, evidently remembering the emotional ravages of the past week that had disturbed his sleep as well as mine. “Well, perhaps not,” he said.

I finished my cuppa and weighed it up. An incredible experience versus sanity. Sitting through two hours of what was going to be a Very Black look into someone’s tortured soul. I’d had a week of that and was desperate for a break. If I did see it, I would love the dancing – but at what cost? Would I feel hellish and weepy all weekend? Probably. And if I did, so would my poor husband and mother.

The voice of reason surfaced, so finally I said no. Mum rang back later and said she’d asked the box office to sell the tickets. She’d talked to several other people who’d seen it and decided she didn’t want to be depressed either. She’d rather spend the afternoon with us.

And so we didn’t go. Wimp I may be but at least we enjoyed the weekend – rain permitting. I think it’s important to know how far you can push yourself. Especially when hormonally challenged.

I’ve been scouring the internet for reviews of the ballet and found plenty of interviews with MB prior to the first performances, but no actual reviews. If you find any, please let me know.

Wind Instruments

The ballet was excellent – BRB performing three shorts: a short Russian ballet, then several couples dancing to a selection of Frank Sinatra’s songs, then Daphnis and Chloe, an entire ballet that was vibrant and exciting. All the costumes were wonderful, the audience was very enthusiastic, and I brought a programme back for my 80 year old dogwalking friend Betty, who is a great ballet fan.

However, after a very long journey up there due to roadworks everywhere, I was in the mood for unwinding when we got to Plymouth. Hah! I’d forgotten how horrendous cities are – all those people jostling and shouting, cars tooting and screeching, shoppers dropping fish and chips, pasties, fag ends on the pavement. A team of Hari Krishna (sp) monks chanting and clapping. And me and Moll scurrying along, trying to dodge them all while Himself did his round of the music shops.

Himself is in his element because he’s bought himself another cornet, would you believe. This one is silver plated (he’s allergic to silver) and has a large dent in it.

‘But I got it for sixty quid, Pop. That’s a bargain,’ he said proudly.

‘SIXTY QUID!’ I cried.

‘But it’s a Besson, Pop,’ he insisted.

It was on the tip of my tongue to say’ ‘It’s a Con,’ but as I’d been reminded that I know nothing about musical instruments, I kept my mouth shut. Just.

So he is now the proud owner of two cornets and about ten mouthpieces. He has great plans for this new cornet, which will include de-silvering it and bashing the dent out with his brother’s help (they have all the equipment up at the workshop so this will be another challenge). In the meantime, he spent our time at my mum’s taking it out of its box and stroking it lovingly.

Also on the subject of wind, I met a lady in the toilets at the theatre who told me she had Crohns Disease. She was bent double and belching very loudly – as in VERY loudly.

‘I feel awful,’ she said, a plump lady in a loose white sweater. ‘My daughter wanted to take me out to lunch so we went to Dingles but if I don’t eat in time, my stomach plays up and the food took ages and it was too late for me, so I’m in agony.’ She paused for another very painful sounding expellation of air. ‘I shouldn’t be here, really, I should be in bed but I didn’t want to disappoint my daughter.’

Poor lady – what do you say? I gave her a hug and left to go back to my seat, very glad that I’m not stricken with that horrible disease.

And lastly on the subject of wind, Himself has a few problems in that direction due to his cancer treatment. He usually tries to get rid of it while walking the dog in the morning (which means timing it for when we’re not walking past other dog walkers). This morning, however, it sounded like a trapped mouse that had been sat on for a week.

For some reason, this reduced us both to hysterics. What is it with the English and farts?

The writing cafe

This will be brief as we’re off to Plymouth where I am going to the ballet with my mum, and Himself and Moll will tour the music shops searching for the Ideal Mouthpiece for his cornet. We’re then spending the night with my mum in Devon and coming back via Fowey so we’re having a weekend away.

But first of all – about the writing café.

We went, RT and I, after our meeting, and found a small café with the door open (it wasn’t overly warm outside) and a long bench type table in the window covered in newspapers and books. At the far end was someone carefully placing what looked like black plasticine cats on luridly coloured cakes – for Halloween, I presumed.

She greeted us and continued attending to the cakes while we looked around. A blackboard advertising the cakes of the day (numerous) and an Italian coffee machine, about six tables and chairs and a slow cooker bubbling away in the background. Books and papers scattered over various table tops. Comfortable, tables and chairs clean. (Though I did see a nasty damp patch coming in through her ceiling which she should have looked at. I thought of volunteering Himself’s services but didn’t think it quite the time.)

The cakes were piled on top of a worktop and just about all were chocolate, and those that weren’t were covered in thick layers of icing. A red light danger zone for someone with my metabolism.

RT ordered tea and a piece of chocolate truffle or something cake.
‘What kind of tea?’ said Patricia, and rattled off about 280 different choices.
‘Er – ordinary please,’ said RT.

We sat down and she presented us with copies of her children’s books and I said I’d ordered one from the library.

‘If you knew how I dread those words,’ she cried. ‘You do realise that if you get books from the library, I don’t get a penny? It’s only about six pounds on Amazon.’

‘Yes, but six pounds is quite a lot of money,’ I said, thinking what about PLR?

That went down like a lead balloon and RT and I exchanged glances. It was one of those times when you’re very glad to have a friend with you.

However, my coffee was fine even if RT’s cake wasn’t. Every time we talked about something, our host either joined in the conversation, or said something like, ‘what sort or organs do you think I should put on my cake? Something with blood dripping out of them?’

We weren’t sure whether she was addressing this comment to us, to the passers by or her son who appeared and drifted off, like a lost soul.

We ended up having a very useful talk about writing, though, and she did volunteer her services if we wanted to drop in one Saturday. She said she’s happy to look through first few chapters and synopsis of a novel so that could be very handy. She also gave RT some good advice about Not Giving Up the first draft.

So all in all, it was an interesting experience. She might well end up in a novel one day.

Beach hut memories

Last week a London based businessman paid £91,000 for a beach hut on Teignmouth beach. For those of you who have travelled down to Cornwall by train, Teignmouth is the bit with a large, red cliff that sticks out, known as The Ness. It has a few pine trees on top, like tufts of hair. I know it well, for I was brought up there.

I used to have ballet classes in one of those beach huts, and they’re tiny. There was room for a barre, a mirror, our ballet teacher and three small girls to jig around in and that was about it, so what someone is planning to do with it baffles me. As I remember there isn’t a window either, or if there is it’s of postbox dimensions.

However, the situation is superb. This row of beach huts overlook the village of Shaldon opposite and Teignmouth docks round to the right. Just outside the beach huts a tiny passenger ferry trundles back and forth, linking Shaldon with its busier sibling. A long, beautiful iron bridge spans the river Teign, linking Shaldon with the rest of the world, and in the distance the estuary winds its way up to Newton Abbot.

I arrived at this idyllic spot as an 18 month old baby. We rented a cottage in Shaldon which was apparently damp but picturesque, and my parents made lifelong friends with the couple next door. Mum had had a bad time with me as I’d been very ill at birth (in London) and we were both closeted in Intensive Care for months, so coming down to Shaldon must have been like a sigh of relief.

Not used to babies – I’m the oldest – Mum was naturally nervous, but help was at hand. An elderly fellow used to run the passenger ferry which trundles back and forth, taking kids to school, people shopping, tourists and walkers to and from the beaches.

One day when Mum was at her wits end with a screaming me, the ferry man said gently to her, ‘Ere, love. You give Curly to me. I’ll look after her – you have some time to yourself.’ (In a broad Devon accent.)

A red eyed Mum handed over her baby and, with several backward glances, went off with her friend for a few hours. Apparently I slept, woke and gurgled, and slept again. Life on the ocean wave, that was for me.

So ever after that, whenever Mum needed a break, she’d hand over her daughter to the ferryman who delighted in his tiny, curly haired passenger.

What a shame that nowadays he’d be branded a paedophile, and I’d be taken away by Social Services, my mother reprimanded for being incapable, neglectful, at fault.

I wish I could remember back that far. I bet I delighted in the attention, in the gentle lapping of the waves, the cry of the gulls overhead. The shouts of the other boatmen, the swish of the tide running fast, the steady chug of the engine, the deep satisfying rumble of the boatman's voice. What better start to life?

I hope that whoever bought this beach hut – which is a piece of history, after all – will treat it as a place for quiet contemplation. I hope they will walk outside, sniff the autumn air and clamber aboard the little ferry. They will watch the water eddying around them, see the beach huts recede and the Shaldon boats beckon. On a quiet day, you can hear the happy gurgle of a child.

The Retiring Ballerina

Last night I wept my way through Darcey Bussell’s farewell performance for the second time. In case you didn’t know, Britain’s most famous principal dancer retired last Friday and it was televised live by Channel Four. This marks an era not just in Darcey’s life – she has been a principal dancer of the Royal Ballet for the last 18 years – but in British ballet. Darcey was the last British principal dancer of the Royal Ballet.

Watching her last performance, you could see that the whole time she was dancing she was utterly focused, dancing a ballet she knew well. Once the curtain came down, she collapsed. Watching her I felt a granite rock lodged in my throat as I peered blearily at the television screen. Darcey stood on stage, clutching her side with the sudden and intense pain of realising that she had danced for the last time on that stage. One minute she was the consummate professional, the next an agonised child, panicking, lost. She looked almost naked in her vulnerability, wearing a skimpy Greek tunic, her hair in the typical dancer’s bun.

Retiring while she was at the top of her profession was, as Monica Mason said, a courageous thing to do. I’m sure Darcey won’t regret it, but it must be a massive shock to her daily routine not to have to do class every morning, rehearsals every day, performances most evenings. But she has a family now, and a new business to run, a totally different life to lead. But I’m sure it will catch her, at times when she least expects it, and she’ll itch to be back in that studio, straining her body to achieve perfection. As an artist she must need to create, and having spent over 20 years dancing, no one can brush it off that easily.

The morning after we watched the live performance we were staying with my mother. I thought of Darcey, waking up on her first day as a Non Dancer. I could imagine her sense of relief, of confusion, of unreality. Her worry that she’d done the right thing.

‘I wonder how she’s feeling?’ I said, wiping my own tears away at the thought of it.
‘I expect she’s got a hangover,’ came the crisp reply.