Highlights and a Chelsea Blow Dry

IMG_1997Pinter. Harold Pinter. The name says tension to me and a play fraught with awkwardness, strain, characters stretched to breaking point.  I wasn’t sure I could handle a second one in as many months, but theatre invitations are rather lovely and it would be a hard woman that could say ‘no’.

I gasped as I entered The Old Vic to take my seat – grand and imposing and absolutely packed to the rafters. V’s programme lay on my lap with no time to read as the final bell sounded and this evening’s performance of The Caretaker was off.

As the curtain raised, like a projected image, the set moved towards us and we were there; back in some dingy Pinteresque bedroom with peeling wallpaper, junk everywhere, joy buried under neglect, the purpose of survival laying comfort to rest.

So far, so expected.

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For Sir Terry Wogan

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Snorkers chomping; tennis balls popping; cones stopping; poisoned dwarf on windswept patio; Abba’s arrival, nurtured my thriving.

A chemist in Great Portland Street, a ‘Hello Terry’ from me,

a glance upwards from where you sought something on a shelf below,

‘Hello’ back with a warm smile.

To now.

Pips on time.

Missing is your grace, and a wit that celebrated our foibles in so many elegant and kindly ways.

All that glitters

IMG_0581Denise and I hugged goodbye.  “Keep in touch” she said.  “I want an update on Tolga.”

Indeed there could not have been a more appropriate private view in the world to attend other than Lincoln Townley’s ‘W1’ last night.  I wasn’t even sure why I was there – other than a very lovely invite from my celeb cuz who I’m occasionally honoured to accompany on such jaunts. But, at the end of the evening I knew exactly why.

I googled the artist en route to the Royal Academy, only to discover he is way up there with the portrait painters of today.  Hollywood hasn’t escaped him – and recognition is worldly and unanimous. I was particularly struck by his painting of Al Pacino.

Having found the gallery within this noble institution – ‘To the right of the courtyard at the far end’ Bex’s message said – I wandered in to friends and family of the artist and various other showbiz acquaintances.

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Austentatious

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Scudding soft blue skies and lots of them met me as I ambled into the elegant city centre of Edinburgh on day three of the Fringe.

Searching for the exact venue in this most packed and convoluted of festivals, I eventually found the Udderbelly – my number one entertainment destination for the day.

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On entering the upside down cow, we were given a slip of paper.  It looked like a Penguin novel cover, but the title was blank, and herein lay the magic of this particular theatrical experience.  The audience were invited to write down a title suggestion for the ‘long lost’ Jane Austen novel and submit it to one of the cast who wandered about with a black bowler hat collecting them.

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Ain’t no party like a Party party

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“I’m not sure why we’re looking at a film of sharks and bottom feeders, are you?” I said to my new friend Nelson as we sunk further into a comfy padded leather sofa at the National Liberal Club.  “I mean what’s this got to do with the General Election?”

Nelson nodded sagely.  “Well, don’t you see, that’s exactly the point?  Someone was told he had to work this evening and obviously went on YouTube, cobbled together three hours of this stuff for us to watch.  It’s some sort of divine retribution.  Let’s face it you don’t normally see just sharks and bottom feeders on a nature programme with no commentary whatsoever.”

I had to admit he was right, and it got me thinking. What was it all about?

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