Way out West (incorporating Way up North)

On the road again...

2009-07-07T15:25:00.003Z

With perfect timing, (ie, I am about to start a new contract, the Arts Correspondent's house is currently unlet, and we're both severely skint), we have decided to move house. An opportunity to estate hop into Royal Deeside has presented itself, and a house on a hill with views the length of the Feugh Valley was impossible to turn down. The new place is lovely and part of a genuine community, one which was very keen for us to move.

Where we are now is also lovely, but the inhabitants find it difficult to raise their eyes above the potato horizon, and very rarely smile. I shall miss being so close to the sea, but I guess there are other compensations.

les delices d'aberdeen?

2009-06-08T21:07:00.002Z

We have a local supplier of quality pig products; admirable sausages and bacon, ham etc. This weekend, I feel that they may have blown it slightly. I went to a minor fair at Stonehaven, and they had a stall selling their stuff among which I spotted their new sausage: the pork and crunchy nut cornflake sausage. I am not entirely sure that this is a good idea.

On the other hand, whilst I have been working in Edinburgh, I have discovered the Tollcross Chilli Pie; a traditional scottish pie case filled with chilli con carne, chorizo and manner of good things, a rare instance of a pie invention that is actually a good thing.

The real truth about Kopi Lewak coffee...

2009-05-19T20:15:00.006Z

Regular visitors to this blog will recall that I have twice mentioned Kopi Lewak coffee, possibly the most expensive and pointless variety of coffee that one can purchase. Just as a recap; the beans are harvested from the Sumatran forest floor, but only after they have passed through the digestive system of the kopi lewak civet cat. They are exceedingly rare as the harvesting process is very labour intensive, and presumably rather unpleasant to boot.

While I have been toiling away in Auld Reekie, the Arts Correspondent undertook to investigate this culinary curiosity, and bought a sample packet from Imperial Teas and Coffees of Lincoln (google it yourselves, they do mail order). We ground the beans and made the coffee (pictures to follow), and accompanied by the AC's superior madeleines, we sat in the sun and sipped our coffee. Our unanimous verdict? Not bad, a trifle bland, definitely not in the league of a good colombian or brazilian. So, other than the fact that it's come out of a lemurs bum, was it worth it? No, not really, but at least we never need to worry about it again.

Our verdict reminded me of a dubya joke I heard in rehearsals; GW is in the Oval Office when a general comes in and says 'Bad news sir, three brazilian peacekeeping soldiers have been killed.' To his amazement, GW starts sobbing, tears running down his face, and he asks, 'Are you alright Sir?'
'I guess so,' the president answers, 'just a bit of a shock, remind me would you, how many is a brazilian?'

What are we going to do without him I wonder...

dogs...

2009-05-13T20:00:00.002Z

Just a quick note today, although for transatlantic foecal coffee obsessives I promise a new blog (with pictures!) in a day or so.

I'm rehearsing a show in Edinburgh, nothing particularly unusual about that I hear you cry, and I agree. We're rehearsing on the top floor of The King's Theatre, in what would have been the managers apartment (or Charles Wyndhams shag pad in the theatre that bears his name). I'm not very familiar with Edinburgh, my mother's antipathy having had some effect, so I'm just beginning to find my way around. I'm intrigued by the variety of street activity that I encounter around the theatre; not the staggering belligerant drunks familiar from Glasgow, but a whole spectrum of alternative loonies. For example; every day I meet a podgy pony tailed character, unremarkable other than the fact that he has a fully grown rottweiler (or something similar) slung limply over his shoulder. The unfortunate canine can't be dead, although I have never detected any motion, it doesn't even drool. So, for some inexplicable reason, this chap wanders around Tollcross with a six stone dog draped like an albatross across his neck, he always looks a bit grumpy, but under the circumstances so would I.

On a slightly more enchanting note, we have a show dog, ward of the principle actor, she is of sheep dog type, and generally very well behaved in the rehearsal room. However, for the last few days, as the video artist has been working in blackout, we've been stumbling about in the dark with the aid of torches, and Maggie loves torches, more specifically, she loves to chase the blobs of light. Today her excitement was almost overflowing, as my lighting hire arrived, and I was able to offer her a choice, not just of a very bright blob from a follow spot, but also an image of the moon as drawn by Galileo. She sat on her haunches, watching the faux moon, tail wagging attentively, I hope my audience will be as easily pleased.

oh to be in Yorkshire now that summer's here...

2009-04-02T19:12:00.003Z

I'm back in the south to do a show, one of the rare occasions when my employers play a show in their home town. I've been very slowly retracing my steps from a tour I did in 1992 (see previous blog about Bristol), my next date back then, was a certain theatre, best known for presenting the snooker once a year. Co-incidentally, the then production manager is now my colleague, I don't remember much about him except that he was rather bad tempered, plus ca change...

I went in to the theatre today to do a bit of a prerig, my colleague is en-route from Korea, and we're snatching a bit of time. Although the theatre has been closed for most of the last couple of years for 'refurbishment', re-opening annually for the snooker, of course, it looked much as I remembered, if even less practical. They have a fancy new electronic flying system, which seems mostly to work, and there was a huge lighting rig still up. I questioned this, and was told that they had been doing a special gig just to show off all the new equipment that they had acquired as a part of the refurbishment. I was puzzled; 'some of these lights must be at least forty years old?'
The reply was equally baffling, 'yes, they didn't buy us any new ones.'
Turns out that they had been given a huge hire budget for the gig, so anyone who attended would have been given the impression that they had a state of the art lighting rig, rather than state of the ark as it actually is.

If there's anything positive to be drawn from the current financial state, then at least they've stopped building casinos in this town, the centre has been pretty much gutted in the interest of increasing property values, but that seems to have ground to a halt for now, long may that be the case.

ooh look it's an art critic...

2009-03-06T22:42:00.004Z

In case you didn't know, that's a quote from the sainted Monty Python.

I have had a curious return to the wonderful world of the performing arts, strange enough to make me wonder if someone is trying to tell me something. The show I am doing at the moment features only two performers; one comes on dressed as a skeleton and tells the story of the show you would have seen if you'd been there the night before, the other comes on later, and spends much of the rest of the show dieing on the floor in theatrical agony.

Tonight, to mark my return to work we were joined by a third performer, with his female and far from silent sidekick. From the start, an audience member, seated in the front row, persisted in joining in; laughing artificially at funny bits, groaning along with the agony. He was apparently Eastern European, in a Borat kind of style, and when he was finally asked to shut up, complied, albeit grudgingly. After a while though, he started to join in again, and eventually got up on stage with the performers. He gave us a rather lame and rambling tirade, then he dropped his trousers and defecated on the stage. Scooping up his excrement, he then smeared it all over his face. He was invited to vacate the premises, and did so, pursued by a very quiet and polite british chorus of boos, and get outs. Apparently he is a known miscreant, having disturbed lectures and performances at various Arts venues throughout the UK.

I feel for the performers, they had to cope with a very large and aggressive man, who might have been a loony, instead of someone pursuing some sort of distorted artistic idea. The fact that he might have been some sort of performer (there was a moment in his exit rant when he mentioned Stanislavski, which to be honest is never going to get you very far with an English audience [unless you happen to live in Ealing of course, which rather bizarrely contains a theatre that is still holding a torch for the method]), doesn't remove the utter selfishness of his action, I guess if you have something to say as a performer/artist then you should have the courage to stand up and say it, and not waste our time trying to hijack someone elses audience, just because you couldn't get your own.

I remain confused, and I have to confess that I might have cocked up a few lighting cues, the script wandered a bit too. Definitely one for the show report, I reckon.

Oh, and in case anybody was wondering, my poor mutilated ankle is doing fine, although I am not a great fan of cobblestones.

the mysterious nazi watering can...

2009-03-01T14:38:00.003Z

I'm on a visit down south, I'm returning to work at last, and for various reasons came down a bit early to visit the A.P. and see some prospective employers in Oxford. The latter trip was a tad disastrous as I contrived to leave my new mobile 'phone on the bus, and despite calling it in to the bus company within ten minutes of getting off the bus, it appears to have gone for ever.

I am staying in the ancestral pile, and indeed, sleeping in what used to be my bedroom, and when I woke up this morning I had one of those weird recollections of the past. To set the scene; when I was little, I went to a local prep school (not by any stretch of the imagination as posh as you might think!). I wasn't there for very long and loathed it, they did, however, possess surprisingly well equipped playing fields, a matter of considerable indifference to me. However, there were many opportunities for a devious child to skive and to explore, and there were plenty of things that were much more interesting to do than play football, or cricket.

All around the perimeter of the fields, which felt enormous to an eight year old, but were probably quite small (they've long since succumbed to the pressure of the property speculator, and no doubt they are wall to wall luxury appartments by now), was a selection of thick hedging, into and within which a small boy could insert himself with little effort. It was possible to traverse three sides of the playing area without becoming visible, something that was very attractive to me. Not only that, but treasures could be found or observed, whether it be bumble bee nests, colonies of moths, or lost cricket balls, there was plenty to keep one occupied and well away from the action.

On one such traverse, in early summer I think, I came across an old, abandoned zinc watering can. Unremarkable, save in one respect, impressed into its base, and clearly part of the manufacturing process, was a swastika. Whilst this was the 1960's and the war had long been over, the random selection of ex-military deadbeats that masqueraded as our teachers worked long and hard to ensure that it was kept alive in our memories (apart from the french teacher; Major W***, who mostly rhapsodised about calvados). Thus, my arrival back at the compost heap behind the pavilion (base camp for skivers), bearing an authentic war relic, created a deal of speculation. I couldn't, even when my imagination was at its most fertile, think of any compelling reason why the luftwaffe would choose to bomb West-London with garden implements, pitchforks and scythes might have had their uses for the inevitable popular uprising maybe, but watering cans? Anyway, if you threw a watering can out of a plane it would be all dented, my suggestion of little parachutes was dismissed as being entirely fanciful. The alternate theory, that the groundskeeper was part of a secret nazi sleeper cell, also had little credence, for a start, to my juvenile eye, he was way too old to be able to do anything, and anyway, he was clearly not the sharpest tool in the box. There the mystery stands, and why it sprang unbidden into my mind this morning is another one.

As for the swastika, I suspect that there is an entirely mundane explanation: the watering can was almost certainly manufactured in India, and the swastika was an emblem of entirely different significance before the nazis polluted it.

Geese

2009-02-13T16:04:00.005Z

You're probably all very bored with the very idea of more snow, still, yesterday we had a good fall, probably about six inches in a few hours. The Arts Correspondent, who knows about these things, said it was powdery snow, and thus a good thing. Certainly when we went to visit our neighbours who live a couple of bothys along from the one Lewis Grassic Gibbon lived in (before he moved to Welwyn Garden City, and died), the snow was deep and crisp and uneven all along their track. Safer in the circumstances to leave the car at the top and crunch pleasingly along the path.

I took this picture of snowdrops in their garden, it's amazing that something so fragile can cope with the toughest of conditions.

As I came home in brilliant sunshine this morning, I noticed that one of the fields was absolutely rammed with Canada Geese (the thin brown line across the centre of the photo), it's common at night to hear distant chatter, either as they fly over on a mission to somewhere, or as they roost. More rare, in my experience to see so many on the ground. Mind you, in this weather it is a whole lot easier to spot some of our wildlife, either because it stands out against the snow, or because hunger has driven them inland. We get great flocks of Oystercatchers in the fields some days, for example, and there are always loads and loads of crows.

playtime on the beach

2009-02-11T23:22:00.003Z

We had visitors over the weekend, and I was able to go for a walk on the beach with them, while the rest of the country was buried under a blanket of snow and ice the local microclimate did its mysterious thing.

The spontaneous art tendency has produced these tepees.

cheese eating bucket monster...

2009-02-11T22:47:00.002Z

I had a minor culinary disaster yesterday, a phone call and a lapse of concentration and I created a flambed leek soup, rather than the leek and potato I was aiming for. Happily I had some watercress lurking in the pantry and was able to throw together an alternative. Later inspection revealed that the soup wasn't quite as ruined as I had previously thought, and I set it aside for the morning. As the kitchen is sub-arctic I didn't worry about decanting it into a pot and fridging it, just pushed it to the back of the stove and forgot about it.

When I got up this morning to make the coffee, I was aware of my soup lurking in a soup like way, and continued to ignore it. The cat, I should perhaps explain, is, like the rest of us, beginning to come to terms with his christmas over indulgence. The vet, when I took him in for his booster, was a little terse; 'No, it's not big hair, he's a bit porky.' So the boy is restricted to 60g of griblets per day, scientifically weighed on an electronic scale. As it is still frozen solid outside, his opportunities for takeaways are somewhat limited, so he is reduced to piteous wailing and supplicatory paw waggling whenever he has an audience. As I was waiting for the kettle to boil, I fed the cat his breakfast, which vanished like snow in the sunshine, and wandered back to bed with the coffee. The cat followed along shortly after, to claim a few moments duvet time.

Some time later, The Arts Correspondent went for the top up, and came back looking confused: 'Have you been eating the soup?'

I answered in the negative, but there was indeed a large lacuna in the soup pan, roughly the size of a small tomcats head. The cat drowsed on in innocent sleep (see pic of cat in innocent pose). He does indeed seem to have developed a taste for cold leek soup, the only positive is that he doesn't seem to get wind from it.

blow winds and crack your cheeks...

2009-01-17T20:06:00.003Z

It's blowing up a storm in the shire tonight, my evening has been enriched by a dull clanging from the doors of the cattle shed, the shrill pinging of the cat flap, and occasional waking moments of anguish from the cat himself.

The Arts correspondent has gone to the big smoke for the weekend, naturally all facilities chose to shut down in protest, within ten minutes of our farewell chat (she was on the sleeper) the power failed and didn't come back on 'til past ten in the morning. So, it has been a cautious, quiet day, the wind has been getting stronger, and I wouldn't be wanting to cook anything that depends prolonged heat and power. It's the first time in my experience that I've been harrangued by the cat in the kitchen (wait for the end of the sentence!) and seen his breath forming little clouds of protest. I suppose there's no reason why cats shouldn't huff like humans do, it's just that I've never noticed it before.

Boo!!!

2009-01-16T11:49:00.002Z

I celebrated my new found freedom to drive yesterday by hitting a patch of spilled oil in the rain, on the harbour road into Aberdeen. The not-ungraceful sensation as my car executed a series of elegant pirouettes along the road before slamming against the curb, was one that I wouldn't care to repeat. Unfortunately I bent a steering rod somewhere in this process, and my front wheels ended up with a perfect ballet dancers turn-out. This hampered my progress somewhat, and I had to be towed into Aberdeen, where a painfully expensive repair is currently taking place. Oh well, I was unhurt and the car was fundamentally undamaged.

I phoned the incident (as one now has to call them) into the polis, as there was a very sad, similar accident locally last year, when a mother on the school run hit a similar patch of oil and the entire contents of the vehicle was killed. The local local council now takes these reports much more seriously.

reasons to be cheerful, part 10...

2009-01-09T15:23:00.002Z

Hurrah, I've been passed fit to drive again. I may still be walking like a spavined penguin, but at least I can get behind the wheel and terrorise the locals again. I knew there was a reason why the physio had me doing plies on my last session.
So, what now? I'm not likely to be fit for work for another seven or eight weeks, so a rigorous programme of walking about is planned; hopefully the weather, which although very cold is also very beautiful, will continue to improve.

more good news...

2009-01-06T15:12:00.002Z

I have officially cast off my storm trooper boot at last, not only that, but I can stand up again. This is very handy when it comes to matters like showering and getting dressed. I'm hoping to be passed fit to drive very soon as well, my experiments on the estate (private roads) have convinced me that I can do it with minimal discomfort. I doubt I'll be able to drive for very long, but at least I'll be able to do something.

rather late I know

2009-01-06T15:04:00.003Z

As he has been getting firmly into the festive spirit, here's one last picture of Puszkin wishing you all a happy new year.

He's still wearing his hat, even now.

festive spirit?

2008-12-11T23:35:00.002Z

Puszkin is really getting into the idea of Christmas...

let them eat cake

2008-12-09T11:59:00.006Z

The Arts correspondent and I were travelling down from the Highlands earlier on this year, and stopped at a farm shop and tea rooms somewhere near Dingwall, mainly for what our transatlantic cousins would euphemistically describe as a comfort break, and I would describe as a need for a pee. Our biological requirements taken care of, we checked out the shop.

Hmm, perhaps a tad too much gingham and 'ma grannies hieland hame' type products to qualify as a proper farm shop, but where they did startle us was in the range and quality of their baking. There's definitely another blog on the scottish addiction to tray bakes and cake, but that's not for today. We decided to sample something, as we had another three hours to drive before we got home and we were both rather tired. After ordering our coffees (the arrival of well-made coffee in the highlands is recent and hasn't been sufficiently celebrated in my opinion), we admired the bakery section.

The confection that caught both our eyes was a glossy black crag of a cake, covered in white chocolate sprinkles, the label declared it to be; Chocolate and Beetroot. As we like both of those ingredients, the decision was straightforward, and the cake turned out to be rather a revelation, beetroot acting in a similar way to carrot and imparting a delicious moistness to the confection. Our only criticism was that it was perhaps all a bit too much, it has a cream cheese filling and a dark chocolate ganache, and all in all, is a bit on the rich side. I mentally filed it under 'must research the recipe' and left it to fester.

When I saw that our local farm outlet (and this is not a shop, but rather a garden shed on wheels that lurks in the mud on the corner of a field and sells mainly root vegetables), had some very fresh beetroot, I decided to give it a go:

Excuse the cheesy shape, we bought a camp cake tin and this was an opportunity to try it out.

I reduced the quantities of filling and ganache, and I'd venture that it was none the worse for that. It also keeps very well. Should anyone want the recipe, let me know through comments and I can mail it, or post it up.

winter draws on...

2008-11-21T10:13:00.002Z

It's snowing outside, and the cat has decided that now he only moves from one warm place to another. On the other hand, he doesn't yell at us quite as much as he used to, perhaps he's beginning to understand that 'softly, softly catchee monkey'.

The cows are back under cover, round the back of our house, and there has been quite a lot of fairly high decibel protest. This seems to have quietened down, maybe even cows aren't so dumb that they realise that they're better off out of the snow. One welcome sight and sound that we are getting a lot of now is the return of the migratory geese; great skeins of heavy birds against a sullen grey sky, and the distant sound of their chatter is a cheering sight on a winter day. The Arts correspondent was putting her car to bed one clear and frosty night, and was enchanted to hear the sound of a flock passing overhead

Although we've been having very clear nights, there has, as yet been no sign of the northern lights, we live quite near the University of Lancasters magnetometer, but sadly there has been very little sunspot activity this year. We live in hope, and as they now offer a text alert service as well as the e-mail warnings, there is a better chance that we might get to see them.

http://www.dcs.lancs.ac.uk/iono/aurorawatch/rt_activity/

big feller bockus, you squeeze him, he cry...

2008-11-16T12:21:00.006Z

The Arts correspondent and I were invited to an evening of entertainment at our local school hall, as I am still more than a little confined to barracks, we thought this would be a diversion (and there was to be a raffle).

The principle entertainer was a gentleman of a certain age who sang songs in a powerful and occasionally tuneful baritone, and also told off-colour jokes. The songs were either sentimental, or comic (much shoogling aboot in auchtermuchty, you know the kind of thing), his jokes were so bad that they were funny, and his presentation was so bare faced that you couldn't help liking him, even when he emerged dressed as a policewoman. Rather strangely, his material was all about the central belt, he plainly came from, or lives in Pitlochry, and I did find it a little odd that he made no effort to give his jokes more local content. Still, I seemed to be the only one who found this a bit peculiar, so who am I to judge.

His stalwart accompanist battled manfully with a large accordion, occasionally emerging from the twilight at the rear of the stage to indulge us with solo items from the Jimmy Shand book of tunes. Completing the line up was a singer from Falkirk, who sang Burns songs very nicely (despite the rumpty-tumpty accompaniment), and performed less well with the more sentimental stuff. Finally, there was a fearsome and solid lady Pipe Major and her solemn and equally solid daughter who did scottish country dancing. Said Pipe Major also performed solo, although the accordionist managed to produce an extra-ordinary sound to accompany her, not unlike plucking a live chicken.

In the second half, she performed her 'novelty' numbers; every time I hear the Remembrance day service, I am reminded that the pipes, fearsome and special though they undoubtedly are, have a strictly limited set of notes, and as they butcher the Skye Boat song yet again, I wonder why they bother. A similar caveat might equally well be applied to 'How much is that doggy in the window?', which, when rendered by the pipes is more readily distinguishable by the rhythm than the tune.

No matter, the audience had a lovely time, much money was raised for good causes, and we won a picture frame of unspeakable hideousness in the raffle. That, I suspect, is our duty done for the time being.

the daily battle...

2008-11-11T11:44:00.003Z

Now that winter nights are fair drawing in, the cat has begun to realise that down at one end of the house there is a cosy warm bed, usually with two warm bodies occupying it. This has resulted in some terrible late night tantrums when he is confined to the living room (for those among you who might think we are being cruel I should just point out that he has the choice of a cat basket in the kitchen with a retired cashmere jumper to sleep on, or a persian salt bag stuffed with goose feathers in the living room, both are next to storage heaters).

This being a farm, activity starts at daylight, and we generally stir quite early, mostly to put the radio on and subside back into drowsiness until we actually have to get up. The cat has taken this to be an invitation to interract, and starts to shout the place down at the first sign of life. He can usually be placated with breakfast, but if you aren't quick enough, he'll have a trough, then follow you back to bed. As I am still on crutches, he has time to eat a three course meal, and will still beat me, so the Arts correspondent has been taking on those duties. If, however we don't let him come to bed for a bit, he will try to break down the door.

Once he gets his way, he jumps up onto the bed and curls into an inoffensive ball, purring politely whenever any attention is paid to him. The battle of wills comes once the Arts corrspondent has gone to work and I get up to do my physio exercises, the cat studiously ignores the wierdness with giant rubber bands etc, and pretends that he is not there. When the time comes to evict him, however, it is less easy, he can be gently lifted off the bed and propelled in the direction of the door, but then I have to get up on my crutches during which he scuttles past me and jumps back onto the bed. I then have to kneel down on the bed to evict him again (poking with a crutch has no effect, gone are the days when they scared him), and while I am getting up, he runs past me again. Repeat several times, adding variations like; hiding behind the curtains, under the table, bed etc, and you have my morning. Needless to say, once I have finally succeeded in getting him out of the bedroom, he goes straight to the saltbag, and curls up as though nothing has happened.

For those who appreciate these things, this is one of my favourite National Film Board of Canada animations;

http://www3.nfb.ca/animation/objanim/en/films/film.php?sort=cc&id=17537

or if it isn't playing

http://www.metacafe.com/watch/27652/the_cat_came_back/

I lost my heart to a starship trouper...

2008-10-29T20:39:00.003Z

Those of you who have been paying attention may recall that owing to an inadvertant attempt to fly I am presently grounded in Kincardineshire. Last week I had my first appointment at the Fracture clinic; the nurse savaged off my cast with a pair of scissors that were blunt in all the wrong places, leaving a series of painful scrapes on my unprotected skin. I was quite intrigued to see my foot after it had been incarcerated for a couple of weeks, and was somewhat consoled to see that I still had the requisite number of toes. Less cheered, however, to discover that it looked like a yellow and purple haggis with five toes.

After my x-ray and brief chat with the consultant, I was then sent back to the physio department to discover what options are available. I was greatly relieved to discover that I didn't need a new plaster cast, rather I was to get an aircast. Don't be misled, what I actually have is a vast plastic boot, in a cheery shade of grey, covered in velcro straps. The air part of it refers to the various internal panels that can be pumped up by hand to wedge your lag and foot into a position of safety. The boot also weighs a great deal, as it has metal plates just to make sure. I look as though I am gradually mutating into a Star Wars stormtrouper, bit by bit, and it is so bulky and awkward that turning over in bed is a major event. No matter, according to the Dublin orthopedic consultants, I should be able to put my foot on the ground in a couple of weeks, I can't wait.

I wish I could fly, way up to the sky, but...

2008-10-09T10:25:00.008Z

Greetings and apologies, it's been a turbulent time for me, and blogging has been a casualty.

Speaking of casualties, as I write, I should just be waking up in my Brooklyn apartment around now, sadly I am not, as the result of my climbing a poorly attached ladder in Dublin last week. I can confirm with a fair degree of certainty that the theory of gravity works for me unless and until somebody comes up with something better. I am now in possession of a rather splendid plaster cast, and am confined to the use of one leg for another seven weeks.

I was in Dublin as the first outing for my new employers, and doing a rather good show that is produced by Scotlands foremost theatre company. I was beginning to enjoy working on a show that actually demanded that I use some of my technical skills, and for which I had had to learn quite a bit too. The show is presented in large semi-industrial venues where possible, as the staging is in traverse format and rather idiosyncratic, and in Dublin we were using a hall in a local showground, a complex that includes sports arenas, rock concerts, cattle shows, and fine art all at the same time. It swiftly became apparent that they operated the venue in entirely their own way, we spent a week putting the show in, relit, teched and dressed it, and then had to take the whole thing out again as there was a wedding and honeymoon show booked into the space.

When it came to putting it back in, this was when the rot set in, we hadn't bothered to put the seating banks in first time round, and they were scheduled to go in from midnight. We sauntered in at Eight, expecting to find an arena with eight hundred seats all set up for us, instead we found a sad collection of sagging structural elements, their ends propped up on stacked banquetting seats and, other than the entire space being cluttered up with randomly dumped piles of metal, little sign of activity. It transpired that they hadn't had all the bits that they needed, and the man with the key had gone home (I'm not making this up), not only that, but although the seating system belongs to the venue, the secret knowledge of how to erect it had not been shared with anybody who was present. The motley collection of philipino wine waiters and russian gardeners who had been entrusted with the task were plainly out of their depth, and also adept at swinging the lead.

Our difficulties were compounded by the tech crew we had working with us, on the first time around, we had several HOD grade technicians who were fab, second time we got the grunts, who, as became evident, were happy to cut corners. By the end of the evening I was pretty happy, we had reset all my stuff, I'd been able to check the focus points for the moving lights, and as far as I was concerned I was in a good position for the final dress next day. All I needed was for the seating to be completed, as this was critical to some focusses. So, I was heading up the ladder to the lighting control position to start the switch off, and had just got to the top of the (too short) access ladder, when it slipped sideways and I went flying. I landed squarely on my heel, the bone proved unequal to the pressure, and I have a text book 'humpty dumpty' fracture. I'll cast a gentle veil over my first experience as a hospital patient, 26 hours on a trolley in a corridor with no painkillers for 14 of them was not pleasant, life on the orthopedic ward was intriguing too, maybe I'll come back to that later.

As a postscript, there was a near riot at the venue on the next night, shortly before the preview performance our stage management were fascinated to observe the seating bank (with 400 people on it) starting to subside in the middle. After a great deal of debate, and delay, it was decided to cancel the performance. There have been a number of incidents since, I think everyone concerned is very glad to be out of there. Hopefully they are having a much better time in New York.

call me irresistable...

2008-07-08T22:40:00.003Z

What is it about french cats? The Arts correspondent and I were making an experimental exploration of the joys of camping way down South in the Languedoc, we had borrowed a gargantuan tent from a colleague, and brought our picnic stove and a variety of interesting things to eat. These included a couple of local sausages, cheeses etc, and we'd stopped off at my favourite boulangerie in Toulouse and bought a couple of custard/raisin things to go with our morning coffee.

That we were burgled by what looked like Puszkins skinny french cousin wasn't a great surprise, that he stole and ate most of a custard thing rather than a sausage was more of one, Not only that but the little sod came back in the night and stole the other one, we were most displeased. They taste so much better than they look by the way.

sheep may safely graze?

2008-05-31T09:55:00.003Z

We made a swift visit to Cologne, not for any very compelling reason other than it was there. Naturally we explored the cathedral, which is just as big as I remember it being, we were both rather struck by the slightly more contemporary saints that have been added in certain places, and most especially by this very knowing and camp trio. I don't know what the sculptor was trying to say, really...

more spray art

2008-05-31T09:52:00.001Z

It's from Essen, or possible Cologne, shame that some little bugger tagged over it.