People and Chinoiserie

We get up at seven to a fine day, allegedly the first day of spring, but the endless winter continues and there is no warmer weather forecast during the rest of the month. We have kippers for breakfast, they have become Norman's favourites during lent and as I am sure I have mentioned before, his coat is becoming shiny due to all the fish he is eating. After breakfast I sort my whites out for washing and put them in the machine, before showering, dressing and driving to Cherry to collect the terriers. I call Felicity from the common, on my mobile, she sounds a bit weak and down but wants to be left "Quietly", today, so I arrange to call in tomorrow, after the dog walk. Today is a fast day, which I only remember after eating an apple and a mandarin orange during our walk. The east wind is still exercising its malevolent influence, but today it is not too strong. It seems to have been stuck in that direction for most of the winter, which probably accounts for the cold. Lets hope this isn't a regular change to the weather pattern. After returning Dolly and Teddy to Cherry, Norman and I drive home, where I make a pot of tea and then bake a fresh batch of oaties and season and oil some tortillas that I transform into nachos, as a chilli will be on the cards over the next few days. The trick with fasting, seems to be to keep occupied, so after baking, I clean the kitchen and run the vacuum cleaner through the house. In the wardrobe in the Garden Room are some six sheets of "Chinoiserie", wrapping paper from the V&A, I found similar paper in Laura Ashley last year and toyed with the idea of papering the sliding doors of the wardrobe with it in order to make the Garden Room, well more Gardeny! I even bought some lining paper and wall paper paste, but never got round to it. So this afternoon, I dig out a Prit Stick from Louis' Art box and stick the wrapping paper up as a set of six panels, to see how it looks and to see if I can live with it. It is hardly professional, but can easily be removed and made new with some soapy water and a sponge. When it is finished, I am ambivalent, the paper is beautiful, but if it were fully papered would I like it as a permanent fixture? I can't decide, so leave it up to see if it grows on me. Afterwards, I meditate for an hour and then ring Clement, to make sure he has arrived home OK. He is in the hairdressers having a haircut, before Huby Nana's funeral tomorrow and has Louis with him, so I don't need to collect my grandson from Hector's house tonight. I make a fruit salad, for dinner, with some brown rice a couple of dates, a banana and an orange and season it with lemon juice and sweetener. Thus fortified, I drive down the winding road through Wawne to Kingswood for the telecast of Alan Bennet's "People", from the National Theatre. The foyer is packed with middle class people, of a certain age, and mostly from Beverley. I spot Barbara English in the popcorn queue and ask her where Hanne is, who has my ticket. She points to the front of the queue and there is the "Great Dane", being served, she returns with our tickets and we make our way to screen four and eventually find three seats, one row from the back. Screen four is the largest auditorium in the complex and by "curtain up", is completely full. I say "curtain up", because we endure a loop of NT adverts for half an hour, before they get the satellite equipment to work and then watch the cast interviews in silent mode, until someone gets the audio to work. We are just in time to see Emma Freud, gushing enthusiastically about the play and managing to mention the sponsors name, Aviva, three times in two minutes, explaining that without their financial support the production wouldn't be possible. Some wag in the audience quips, that if the insurance companies paid their taxes, sponsorship of the arts wouldn't be necessary. The play starts at half past seven and the best that can be said for it is that it filled a couple of hours. If the playwright wasn't a "National Treasure", this would never have seen the light of day. It is ironic in a way, because the play is a cross between an old fashioned farce and withering social commentary. The problem with it, is that each facet undermines the other, the farce is too obvious and the social critique too laboured and laid on with a trowel. It is a full frontal assault on the heritage industry in general and the National Trust in particular. Bennet's thesis is that old things ought to be left to decline and not restored and frozen in aspic to provide edutainment. Which is precisely my critique of his playwriting in his seventy eighth year. Unless that is his point, in which case I bow down before his genius. I suspect no one liked it much, but didn't like to say so, as it would have been like criticising a toddler for giving a poor performance at a school nativity. After the show, I drive back home in the dark, the back road is deserted and I drive slowly, occasionally revealing a rabbit or a fox in my headlights, arriving home for ten. After letting Norman out into the garden for a last pee, I set my alarm fro five thirty and turn in. I am due at Sarah's house for seven, so that they can get away early, to drive to Huby for the funeral.