Just back from London, and a rather wonderful semi-staged Sweeney on the South Bank: Bryn Terfel as Sweeney, Philip Quast as the evol judge, Maria Friedman - who I have only ever seen on stage when she's completely grotesqued up - as Mrs Lovett, the Worst Pies in London as themselves, and the lovely Daniel Boys as Anthony. The lovely Daniel Boys is not at all the reason I went to see it, I'm trying to make up for exile in Bicestershire by catching all the Sondheim I can, but he is the reason I went and hung around the stage door like a saddo. (I am therefore in a position to tell the world that he's even tinier than Lee Mead, quite possibly not even 5' 5". But perfectly formed. And, it might be argued, convenient to hug. Which I did. He was all sweaty. I ... kind of enjoyed that ...) Maria Friedman's amplification was fked, but you can't have everything.
Then I went for a wander up to the Tate, 'cos it was a beautiful day and a shame to waste it. I am actually hopeless at looking at art, I never have any idea what I'm supposed to be looking at, but I like to pretend. And I enjoy the general ambience. I thought of buying a teeshirt for Joan on the joys of being a woman artist ("The four part-time jobs you have to take to support yourself keep you from worrying about the competition"), but (a) it was pink and (b) it was £20 and, while I love my friends that much and more, my bank manager doesn't.
The only problem with the Tate is that it's quite a long walk up from the South Bank, or it is for an old bird, and once you get there it's another long walk to any Tube station. So let me just say a few words of praise for the shoes I bought on Monday, which are fugly but so incredibly comfortable, you wouldn't believe, it's like wearing no shoes at all only without getting grit and dog poo all over your feet.
Managed, mercifully, to avoid the stupid bike thing, or so I thought, up until I got back to Marylebone and found it seething. It looked set to be a perfectly hideous and jam-packed ride home, but, astonishingly, Chiltern Railways managed to cough up some spare rolling stock and tagged on three extra carriages. So all was well.
I read a large chunk of Water for Elephants on the way there and back. It's very good, but if any of it's to be believed, a regular, non-supernatural, early 20th century circus tour was even scarier and freakier than the one in Carnivale, and a lot rougher on the animal acts (I'm kind of skimming over those bits).
All in all, a very nice day. Except that when I got home and looked in the mirror, I discovered that my left eye is bright red. I don't think it was like that this morning, so now I am asking myself, was it like that when I met the lovely Daniel ...? Or did it happen afterwards. Never mind, too late now. (Also, now I've noticed it, it's itching like a bastard, and I bet we haven't got any eye stuff in the house.)
Yesterday I decided that if Sports Night were a pudding, it would be lemon meringue pie.
I did some writing for Laylee last night and before I came out this morning, for a Sekrit Project of hers. I am dying to find out what she does with it. Patience, patience.
