Post 271(a). IF YOU WRITE.

YOU HAVE TO LIKE YOUR OWN COMPANY.

Or at least tolerate it.

It's a lonely game, writing. Not so much, I guess, for those 'celebrities' (most of whom couldn't write their own name without the aid of a - probably lonely - ghost writer) who produce egocentric 'autobiographies' to use as props on television chat shows, nor for the rightly famous and approachable professional writer.

J.K. Rowling, for example, probably has a Dursleybox full of mail every day and needs people around her to deal with it while she writes another couple of books. I imagine she will have company most of the time, even if they're only bringing in the coffee.

Her diary must be packed with appointments, too.

Every Harry Potter reader and film follower in the world would surely like to meet her; this one would, if only to say thank you for hours of happy reading and to ask if she would kindly sign the eight - four Potters, three Strikes and one 'village people' - hardbacks of her work in our library. I would not ask her to sign the four Potter paperbacks (those hardbacks went to someone very special), but I don't think she'd be offended if I did.

She will also, I'm sure, be constantly sought to guest at one or another of the book festivals now appearing annually around the country. (Time was, says the grumpy old man in me, when Hay-On-Wye was quite enough.) All said and done, though, she - and any compatriot who matches her in media popularity - is alone with a keyboard when the work starts.

No matter what your status, if you write you have to like, or at least tolerate, your own company for long periods of time.

Right now I'm off to make my Leader a cup of tea.

What?

Oh sod my own company.   

READING.

The Thief of Time: Terry Pratchett.
I finished this intriguing yarn buoyed and humbled by the sheer artistry of the writer. As you may have gathered, if you regularly look in, I have enjoyed each and every one of the late Sir Terence's Disc World books to come my way.
If you are interested, I recommend the in-depth analysis to be found in Pratchett Job, a blog produced by a truly knowledgeable follower of the master.
Sadly there will be no more Disc World books on loan to me, and it would take far too long to peruse the shelves in a bookshop hoping to find some I may not have read.
Anyway, there's at least one real life Black Books misery in the trade now who would rather shut up shop than let the customer browse.
Isn't that charming?
So I fear Disc World may be over for me.
I shall miss it.
Have just embarked on a Career of Evil by (I almost wrote with) Robert Galbraith. This is the third Cormoran Strike detective yarn under J.K. Rowling's pen name and it opens promisingly.

More to come.

 

 

 

Post 271 (b) IF YOU WRITE

MUSIC.

BBC Proms time again.

Which means lots more of Katie Derham. Hurray!

We watched the concert celebrating John Williams' 85th Birthday and were reminded once more that even the foremost composer of film music in the world is sometimes better heard when accompanied by screen images to divert attention from lengthy periods of pedestrian background music that are inevitable at film composer concerts.

No pictures at the Albert Hall, of course, just the orchestra. But Indiana Jones and Jaws and Raiders of the Lost Ark and Schindler's List and ET and Harry Potter were all in the programme and we loved it.

The man really is a genius, isn't he?

We also saw maestro Daniel Barenboim, who conducted the Staatskapelle Berlin, give what seemed to me to be a well-meaning, innocuous, little speech linking Elgar and Brexit. This affronted Spectator journalist Douglas Murray and a few other right (wing) thinking scribblers on-line.

Bravo Barenboim!

Let's never outlaw freedom of speech, eh?

That impeccable gentleman Bernard Haitink was back, too. He conducted a Chamber Orchestra of Europe programme: symphonies by Mozart and Schumann, along with a beautiful rendition of Mozart's Violin Concerto No.3 by Isabelle Faust.

Yes, the Proms looks good this year, even if I do have to be vigilant not to be taken in by increasing efforts to persuade me that 'modern,' or 'advanced,' music has to be given a hearing. I have tried, but even the most revered of those discordant composers puts my teeth on edge.

Walton's Facade, described as 'modern,' is an eminent exception: I certainly enjoyed those quirky excerpts from it played by the BBC Symphony Orchestra at Sir Malcolm Sargent's 500th Prom celebration.

The entire programme, from Sir Henry Wood's arrangement of The National Anthem, to the Schumann Piano Concerto, played by Italian pianist Beatrice Rana, through to Britten's The Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra, was music to my ears and the conductor, avuncular Sir Andrew Davis (pictured), was a joy to watch.

Right now I am sitting here with my Leader's The Hollies 20 Golden Greats CD playing on the music centre.

The opening lines of I can't tell the bottom from the top have me close to tears. Silly old fool.

But they were a great group at their best (the times when Allan Clarke was lead vocalist) and I can understand why Mo rated them so highly.

TELEVISION.

Repetition and a bit of bunkum.

Along with the usual crop of repeated repeats: Morse, Lewis, Endeavour, Foyle, Midsomer Murders,Vera and Wycliffe, we are currently enjoying (currently on Sunday afternoons) a re-run of the entire Harry Potter film series (four down, four to go).

Room 101: Extra Storage is much in evidence, too, and Would I Lie To You?

Ripper Street has gone forever, hardly a spoiler to reflect: 'not very happily.' 

But Game of Thrones is back. It has a new follow-up programme, too: Thronecast, led by Sue Perkins.

Seen it? I have. It's bunkum.

Whether or not you have already seen them, do watch the Potter films, though.

They're great.

That's it for the time being.

 

 

 

 

 

  

Post 270. IT'S ANOTHER WORLD.

BUT SOME THINGS DO STAY GOOD.

Entertainment.
Last Friday evening we joined an empathetic audience (mostly family members of the cast) to watch an enthusiastic gathering of drama group pupils at Medina College perform a young people's version of Les Miserables which was called Do You Hear The People Sing.
Grandson Ellis, twelve years old and showing early promise of a good bass-baritone voice, had asked whether he could have one of the few leftover tickets for the show. Cast members were allocated two tickets each (no charge - contributions welcomed at the end of the show) and his two had been reserved for his mother and for his grandmother. He was asked if he was sure the person the third ticket was for would use it and had apparently replied: 
"Oh yes, he has all the music."
So I received an unexpected invitation which led to a most enjoyable evening back at school.
Mo and I arrived ahead of Roz, who is a LSA and knows the building well, so just finding the drama studio took the pair of us back to my very first blog post, which went as follows:
It's a bit like when the kids were at school and...you were invited to go one evening to meet the teacher. I always finished up feeling that our kids had to start next term with a few Brownie points if we had somehow found the classroom, found the teacher and, wonder of wonders, managed to arrive on time.
Afterwards it was more a case of hoping the teacher would be sympathetic towards our kids, considering the obvious disadvantage they had being raised by such parents.
In the event, we became 'such grandparents,' ambling around the nearby theatre complex before discovering that the drama studio was actually in the main school building.
Fortunately we had set out early, so did reach our destination in Brownie points time.
It was a small studio for a large cast playing to a capacity audience on a warm night.
But the young people gave their all - don't they always? - and, bless 'em, they brought it off.
By the time the show ended the stifling heat no longer mattered. The cast exited to cheers and clammy hands clapping squishy appreciation.
These young people had been given five days to learn, rehearse, and stage a tastefully modified version of a show packed with music known and loved all over the world. The teachers who set it up and gave their time and skill to make it work: Hannah Brear (who wrote it), Steph Shorrock, Rich Wiseman, and the 'orchestra' that was Beth Peckham on the hidden piano, had undertaken an almost impossible task. All the tutoring and rehearsal in the world cannot disguise the reality of breaking voices, and the majority of the young men in the cast were of that age.
It didn't matter.
The young women stoically accepted any sudden change of key introduced by their male partner in a duet. It was clearly par for the course.
So in the end a few cues may have been missed, a few lines may have been lost or inadvertently repeated, a few top notes may have cracked and Javert may not have jumped off a bridge. So what.
This was a school show, not a Cameron Mackintosh production. Given the confines in which it was staged (and 5 days!) it was a triumph. A very, very brave triumph.
As we were leaving, I spoke to teaching staff about the confines in which it was staged and remarked that it should have been shown in 'the school theatre.' 
"Yes," I was told, "but we couldn't afford that." Couldn't afford?
How come?
Are we not talking school theatre here?
Well, no, the theatre is part of Medina Leisure Centre, not the school; if the school wants to put on a show it has to hire the theatre, just like anybody else.  I was shocked.
Even in the constantly changing - wickedly underpaid - world of education (blame governments, councils, Ofsted et al), this seemed to me to be a giant step backwards.
Mo and I had been living over here for quite a while when the former Medina High School was built. It was a grand concept set in a pleasant area on the outskirts of Newport and with it came a theatre and swimming pools.
Our son and two daughters were pupils there, as was our granddaughter and, now, our grandson.
All three of our children appeared in shows at the theatre - good shows put together by Medina school drama teachers - and there was never, ever, talk of any payment by the school to put them on.
So how and when did all this payment for use (presumably to the council) start? When exactly did the 'school theatre' become what I can only surmise is now just another council (or, worse still, private) money tree?
I would write and ask, but I don't think knowing the answer would give me that much satisfaction.
Those kids did try hard though. We loved it.
Some things do stay good.

Thanks again to all involved.