Play: Buried Child

So, back to London and last night was Buried Child, with London Dramatic Arts. Well, at 7.30, it was the latest start for my Guildford days this week - and at Trafalgar Studios, I had a fair-to-middling chance of making it. And indeed, we left early, and I was actually in time. Although I just managed to grab the organiser as she was about to give up on me, leave my ticket at the box office, and head to the downstairs bar.

So we both headed down together, me with ticket, and I formed an orderly queue behind the line of people at the bar. Now, it's a lovely thing to have a chatty barman, but it does slow things down. The bell rang just as he was asking me whether I'd like it in plastic, so I could take it in. I also noted they had a good offer - buy two large glasses, get the bottle free! Which, mind you, was the least they could do, given the price of a large glass.. oh, and if he recommends the Chardonnay? Avoid - most peculiar.

We hung around in the bar, chatting, waiting for latecomers, until we could wait no more. Which was when it registered with me that we'd have to go all the way back upstairs again.. a rather disconcerting prospect, given that I'd been very prone to anxiety attacks all day (Guildford was positively injurious to my health), and was quite short of breath as a result. Not only did we have to climb to the lobby, but had to climb again to Studio One. And lo, but we were in the very back row.. more climbing. I really thought I'd have a coronary by the time I got to my seat - had to explain my panting to the lady sitting beside me.

Well, I didn't have a coronary. I lived to have my drink, and we remarked on the sound of rain - it was lashing outside, and we wondered whether that was real rain, or stage rain. Stage rain, I decided, noting the bucket strategically positioned to the side of the stage. Sure enough, it was raining in the play, and Ed Harris was slumped on the sofa, in a baseball cap, watching tv. His West End debut, I believe.

His wife in the play is portrayed by his real-life wife, as it happens - and Amy Madigan is as watchable as he is. Or listenable-to, considering she spends most of the first scene calling from upstairs. What follows is nearly three hours-worth, including two (short) intervals, and during most of which we were all wondering when something was going to happen. Now, it's quite enjoyable - the acting is good, the banter is good - it's just that literally all that happens in the first act is we're introduced to the couple's sons, who both seem rather odd.

In the first interval, I ventured downstairs again, where the organiser had taken advantage of the offer to order a bottle of white. Great - there was enough for a small glass for each of us. And I was slightly less breathless climbing up again for the second act. Where we were introduced to the couple's grandson and his girlfriend, and things started to get weird.

We agreed, at the second interval, that weird was better than nothing. We also agreed we couldn't be bothered heading downstairs again. And so into the third act, which is comical in parts in its weirdness, and where we finally get to find out who the "buried child" of the title is. I give it this - the final scene is terrifically surreal, even as we struggled with its meaning - it seems that it's all about the fragmentation of the American nuclear family in trying economic and political circumstances. Yep, makes sense in retrospect. And is quite watchable, as I say. Currently booking until 18 February.

A handy Tesco on the way home, where I was in search of toiletries. Hint: they're in the aisle with the biscuits..

Well now, I was in Guildford again today, of course. But I had another horrendous day yesterday, and there's only so much of that I can take. So first chance I had this morning, I handed in my notice. (Collective gasp!) And you know, the minute I did, my breathing started to return to normal. I have just had the best day.. and then it transpired they were putting me on "gardening leave", which essentially means that I get paid for a month, but am not allowed to do any work. Well, hurray!

I also had to leave early, because the manager I had to hand my stuff to had to leave early. Which did mean I'd be in time to get to Hampstead Theatre, where I was assiduously avoiding London Dramatic Arts, who were also there to see The Intelligent Homosexual's Guide to Capitalism and Socialism with a Key to the Scriptures. With Tamsin Greig. But I got a cheaper ticket. This was a rescheduling, because the performance they - and I - were booked for last month didn't happen because of cast illness.

Well, all I can say is, the show must be cursed, because when I got home and checked my email - the show was again cancelled, because of cast illness. Hey-ho, I checked Meetup, and Plan B was TNT Comedy (courtesy of Dave's Stand-Up Comedy) at The Vine in Kentish Town. Which I determined to go to. But then.. you know.. I was comfy, and people were messaging me about my Big News, and I ended up just sort of staying in, and feeling normal again. Which I intend to do a lot more of, and which feels rather good.

Tomorrow, I'm signed up with the London European Club for a talk at the Frontline Club about London's Dirty Money. And Lordy me, no Guildford, so I should make it!!
 
And on Thursday, I'm back with the Crick Crack Club, in the Arthouse Crouch End for one I missed before - Little Red Riding Hood & Other Lost Girls, as told by Nell Phoenix. And yes, I do have the confirmation email for this one, unlike the one I thought I'd booked for last Sunday week!