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KILLING OFF THE DNA SITES
Posted Dec 4, 2004
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Latest reply: Dec 4, 2004
SANTA
Posted Nov 29, 2004
Well, here I am in the library, having spent all morning wandering around town--ostensibly Christmas shopping, except that I went and left my money at home. Mainly, I've been pigeon-watching. I had an altercation with a man in W. H. Smith's, who took umbrage at the fact that I was sitting down to read. I wasn't about to buy a book without knowing if it was any good, so he lost my custom. Not that I could have bought very much with no money....
I wandered into Debenham's for a perfume catalogue and, as I stood gawping around the shop, the very tall Santa mannikin beside me *moved* and gave me a courteous hello. Once I'd got my breath back, I had a jolly nice chat with him about how Rudolph is doing these days, and the pro's and con's of Santahood. If I was single, I think I'd have asked him back to my place for a mince pie, if you know what I mean.
He's cheered me up no end. Good old Santa.
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Latest reply: Nov 29, 2004
.
Posted Nov 22, 2004
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/wales/south_west/4032719.stm
Those poor kids. I know all their names. I wish I could say more.
Discuss this Journal entry [36]
Latest reply: Nov 22, 2004
A WILLING SUSPENSION OF DISBELIEF
Posted Nov 17, 2004
"MrFlay's written a play," I said to Gothly. "Ya wanna go and see it?"
"What's it about?" asked Gothly suspiciously.
"It's a modern-day adaptation of Dickens's novel 'Hard Times'."
"Oh," yawned Gothly. "Literature. Dull as ditchwater, then."
"You shouldn't jump to conclusions," I said.
"Well, okay. What's the book like? Is it dull?"
"
...*MrFlay* wrote the play. You *like* MrFlay."
And so it was that I dragged an extremely reluctant Gothly along to see a literary play.
Once there, the first thing I wanted to do was to get a programme. I approached an intimidating group of theatre people, all of whom were eyeing us hungrily, and was immediately pounced on by an elderly woman in a cardigan.
"Do you want to buy ten raffle-tickets!" she demanded. "What's your name! What's your phone number!"
She brandished her pen over the stubs as I hurriedly scanned the table behind her for programmes. I couldn't see any. There were too many people in the way.
Gothly took up a defensive position behind me and avoided everyone's eye.
"Er, I don't think I *will* have a raffle ticket, thank you," I muttered, backing up the stairs towards the lounge and tripping over Gothly's feet. The woman looked me up and down in open astonishment and disgust. It was a relief to reach the lounge, a haven of soft lighting and softer chairs. We hid up there until the play was about to start, then hurried past the gauntlet of theatre people to our seats.
I had examined the seating arrangement on the internet beforehand, and reserved the best seats, much to the disgruntlement of the people around us.
During the play, I watched Gothly out of the corner of my eye, and was pleased to see broad smiles during the funny bits, and expressions of absorbtion and interest throughout the rest. MrFlay had excelled himself in bringing to life a novel which really is as dull as ditchwater.
The actors quickly warmed to their parts. "Are you enjoying it?" I whispered.
"Yeah," replied Gothly: "plenty of eye candy!
"
As the play went on, it got increasingly difficult not to treat the action in front of us as though it were real. Every so often, one of the actors would make a rousing speech to the sound of recorded applause, and there'd be a general shifting about among the audience as we all fought the urge to join the clapping and shout, "yeah!" and "Boo!" and "hear, hear!"
One of the actors played a foppish cad called Harthouse, who took a fancy to 'Mrs Bounderby'. When he finally embraced Mrs Bounderby, the woman next to me gasped out loud, and a man near the front actually told the actor off: "she's *married*!" he cried. Luckily, Harthouse showed no sign of having heard.
During the dramatic pause that followed Mrs Bounderby's telling her father about Harthouse, Gothly excitedly inhaled a Malteser and had a furious coughing fit. This set off the whole audience, who appeared not to have realised that they were allowed to cough, and now that they did realise, they were going to make the most of it. I thumped Gothly hard on the back, partly to dislodge the Malteser, and partly out of sheer irritation.
Having been too shy to approach the actors during the interval, I made Gothly hang around with me in the foyer after the play, so I could congratulate them on their performance and maybe name-drop a bit--"I know the man who wrote this play; we're *very* close friends, actually; oh yes, I've known him for years"--and similar lies. That's when I saw the programmes. A whole stack of them, there on the table. Bloody raffle-ticket woman. The theatre emptied. Most of the staff went home, and still we waited. Someone assured me that the cast would be out soon. An icy wind blasted in through the door and our teeth began to chatter. The clock ticked inexorably, reminding us that we really ought to be setting off for the train station. Gothly paced.
Then I peered into the auditorium, and saw them: all the actors, there on the stage, shifting scenery.
So I trotted down the aisle towards them--just as they drifted away through a door.
"Excuse me!" I called. The last actress turned her head. "Um," I said, "I just want to congratulate the cast on their excellent performance."
"Oh!" "Thanks very much! I'll let them know." She carried on walking.
I added, "yes, it was a real pleasure.... I'm glad we came...."
"Oh good," she said. "I'm sure they'll be very pleased."
We looked at each other awkwardly for several moments, and then I told her I had a train to catch, and left.
Despite the alleged predisposition against literature, Gothly chattered about the play all the way home: how great the direction had been, how smooth the acting; how light MrFlay's touch had been, how riveting the plot; how appropriate and funny the political references; how interesting the mixed-media approach. There had been a magic trick in the play, in which two clowns swapped identities while trying to kill each other; Gothly took pleasure in explaining to me (with abundant smugness) how it had been done. I retaliated by practising my gurning-faces in the carriage window.
I celebrated the completion of our annual going-out-for-the-evening by playing a cassette of my favourite music, by The Incredible String Band.
O float with me to distant lands, wondrous and fair,
Float with me to distant lands, wondrous and fair,
Ya-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta ta ta ta-ta-ta tao-ao,
Ya-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta ta ta ta-ta-ta ta-a-a-aaoo!
"I understand," snorted Gothly: "sometimes, when I've been looking at a great work of art, *I* feel the need to listen to some crap, too."
Discuss this Journal entry [29]
Latest reply: Nov 17, 2004
FACIAL CONTORTIONS
Posted Nov 10, 2004
I have decided to take up the noble and time-honoured sport of gurning.
http://www.truebrits.tv/gurning.html
Discuss this Journal entry [40]
Latest reply: Nov 10, 2004
Snailrind
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