Apologia

Following the expensive theatrical experience at reference 1, we returned to the Trafalgar Studios in Whitehall for the cheapest such experience in living memory, with our good tickets for this matinée performance having been discounted to £20 a pop. At which price, it has to be said, the house filled.

We both failed to remember why or when we had been to this theatre before, but search tracked it down to reference 2, a mere six months ago or so. It had seemed quite memorable, if not particularly successful, at the time, but clearly we were both quite wrong about that.

Inspection of the northern faces of the five poster panels at the Waterloo end of the Waterloo platform, revealed that four out of the five had the bulldog clips noticed at reference 4. There must be some weakness in the arrangements for hanging them off the top pole.

Picnic at our usual spot in the Festival Hall, with seating rather diminished by some press pictorial art exhibition. An exhibition which attracted a number of people who might have been any or all of teachers, social workers and Guardian readers. And a gentlemen who saw fit to keep his bicycle with him. Two sorts of dancing in the basement on this occasion. One slow for couples, one fast for youths. The music had become a bit irritating by the time that we left. It could even have been the same one. Was it sourced from Props Central, some shed in the margins of Covent Garden?

Lots of bright red coats of various lengths about, including three at the theatre. Must be this year's colour. Spot of sauvignon blanc in the bar and on into the auditorium to be greeted by a picture frame framing the set, a vertical version of the horizontal one noticed at reference 5.

The play being about a former lefty lady veteran of the big Grosvenor Square demonstration against the Vietnam war - a demonstration I am proud to have attended myself, even if there was some bad behaviour (throwing marbles under police horses) from some - who had grown up to be an art historian with some rather unattractive children. The fiancée of one of which was a serious Christian from the US who rather stole the show with her unrelenting display of unaffected all-America-and-apple-pie niceness. What was she - Laura Carmichael - like in real life?

We were sat next to a couple, a good bit younger than us, on a staycation from Bishop's Stortford, a town we know slightly. They were taking in a number of plays during their week, mostly proper plays, but with a musical the next day, for some reason which I now forget. The lady thought that Stockard Channing was great, which indeed she was, and was also quite a thesp. herself, running to a one-woman show in aid of her local Alzheimer's Society. We were able to tell her all about the Saffron Hall, of which she had not heard and which we have yet to visit. One day the right programme will turn up, right enough to pull us thirty miles north of the river.

I might say that Channing did indeed manage to pull off the difficult and important luvvie trick of playing a very unpleasant person without being unpleasant. A trick which only the chosen few can pull off. That apart, I thought the show, as so often, sagged a bit in the first half, not only because of the long pauses between the gags. Perhaps directors think that audiences are a bit slow when it comes to words and think it best to slow things right down. The farce of the arch noticed at reference 6 suffered from the same disease.

A rather depressing show, but interesting and engaging nonetheless. Marred, as was Ink, by excessive use of the F-word. I think there was some use of that other F-word, fags.

Out at around 1700 to some uncertainty about what to do next, and eventually settled for Café Rouge at Epsom, an establishment we have not visited for a while. On the way several young commuters thinking it important that BH and I could sit together, which was considerate of them.

Café Rouge did us well, in my case with garlic bread (in the shape of a small pizza), chicken (which I imagine had been halved and rolled flat before delivery to the kitchen), chips and a sort of chocolate mousse for desert, with Calvados. The chicken was plentiful and rather good, the chips a little salty. This last perhaps a good thing as I have been wondering whether we have cut too much salt out of our diet, with blood pressure being low rather than high. At least last time it was taken. Chocolate mousse very good, firm texture and plenty of chocolate.

Pleasant young waitress from Poland. Who explained that there was no break over the Christmas holiday for those in the catering trade. She also knew all about Victoria Coach Station and explained that the bus to Warsaw now cost about the same as the plane. With the one advantage that baggage was unlimited. We supposed that the train would be expensive if more comfortable.

Nearly run down outside the Marquis, with a car turning unexpectedly into the passage down the side to the car park, just as we were crossing it. No clear right of way in these particular circumstances, so any running down should probably have been scored to act of god.

Reference 1: http://psmv3.blogspot.co.uk/2017/11/ink.html.

Reference 2: http://psmv3.blogspot.co.uk/2017/05/the-philanthropist.html.

Reference 3: https://saffronhall.com/.

Reference 4: http://psmv3.blogspot.co.uk/2017/11/bacon-hunt.html.

Reference 5: http://psmv3.blogspot.co.uk/2017/11/more-arch.html.

Reference 6: http://psmv3.blogspot.co.uk/2017/11/last-broadside.html.

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