Thus do they all

We went to see Mozart's opera Cosi Fan Tutte at the ENO in London. They send emails every so often with two for one ticket offers.

The production was a day glo Baz Luhrmann affair. The drama was set on a Coney Island fairground with the usual carnival tropes of fire eaters and bearded ladies. The three hours went by quickly , it looked good and the opera was entertaining.

The plot of Cosi Fan Tutte is straightforward . Two men are seen discussing the faithfulness of their fiancées. An ageing roué bets them he can prove all woman are fickle in one day. In a Shakespearen device he has the men pretend to leave for war. The men disguise themselves and attempt to woo their respective partners. At the end they succeed with a double wedding. When the fabrication is revealed there is recrimination but all is forgiven. Order is restored.

The soufflé light production is at variance with the darkness of jealousy and betrayal. To the writer the plot device seems pointless. If you are unsure of your partner both you and they have made a mistake. You need not resort to complicated ruses and deception. The relationship is void.

 

 

Jazz

A partner in the firm I am temping insisted I take his portable record player and a couple of jazz records for the night. The Overlook Hotel is gently swaying to Wes Montgomery with a topping of Theolonious Monk.

I like what I have heard of Wes and his Groove Yard. I may get the CD but it will not have the crackles, the hum of interference and the charm of vinyl.

There was a comedy programme on the BBC a few years back with a chin stroking jazz critic comatose on herb and groovy vibe. I will employ his catchphrase . Nice.

 

Whisky

A customer kindly bought me Scotch Whisky in thanks for some such .

When I first experimented with alcohol in my late teens most beers and spirits were detestable. My contemporaries and I settled on vodka as our tipple of choice. It had little taste which was easily masked with coke or blackcurrant . It was strong with a good punch per pence - you could obliterate your senses for five pounds. Other favoured abominations were Mailbu or Cointreau. You could contemplate your choices as a technicolor yawn engulfed the toilet bowl.

I forswore alcohol for most of my twenties and only dabbled again as a social drinker in my thirties. To my surprise I found my palate had changed. I enjoyed my first pint of Guinness with my uncle at the Irish version of the Grand National outside Dublin . I developed a taste for strange English ales like the Fursty Ferret. The greatest surprise was a liking for whisky.

When I first tried Irish whisky filched from my parents drinks cabinet nothing could disguise the odious taste and scent. I might as well have been drinking paraffin drowned in coke. Now I find myself savouring the different textures and aromas of a Scotch or Irish whisky like some wine bore. The only addition is a tablespoon of cold water . No ice. Tragic really.

As I contemplate tout le monde from my vantage at the Overlook Hotel I take solace in a dram or two.

 

 

Fall on Slough

A friend reminded me of Betjeman's poetic denunciation of the industralistion of sunny Slough.

I know little of Betjeman's work and life.According to Wikipedia he was born in London in 1906 into some privilege. He attended Oxford as a young man and left without a degree. He ended up working on the Architectural Review magazine.Like Princes Charles he was a conservative figure defending Victorian Architecture and taking a dim view of the carbuncles sprouting in pre war Slough. By chance I came upon his commerative statute while waiting at St Pancreas station. He was a staunch advocate of retaining the station when plans were mooted to demolish it.

Betjeman died in 1984 regretting his poetic vilification of poor Slough. His daughter apologised for the poem and said her father regretted have written it. The poem was used in the TV programme the Office. Final words shall go to Mr. Gervais character David Brent."You don't solve town planning problems by dropping bombs all over the place".

That said " Come, friendly bombs, ...."

 

The Overlook Hotel

I am working in sunny Slough for a couple of weeks. The practice office is located a few hundred yards from the setting for TV's The Office. It is a rather forlorn locale - Mr Gervais did not exaggerate in his drama.

The commute was unexpected and enervating. Tom Tom sat nav's exuberant prediction of a travel time of one hour became two and half hours thanks to the cyclical car park known as the M25. I was leaving for work at 6.15am and arriving tired and irritated for work.

I decided that a budget hotel was the answer. I booked into one of the pit stop hostelries on a motorway near Heathrow. Blandishments include 24 hour coffee shops and super Thursday curries . It bore a faint resemblance to the establishment frequented by Alan Partidge when dismissed by the BBC.

I have found the experience fascinating. The hotel itself is perfectly acceptable . The rooms are clean, functional and heated. The hotel could be anywhere . As you roam the endless corridors you could be a travellor in Dusseldorf or Des Moines .

The stay has been strangely liberating. The impersonal surrounds coupled with terrible phone reception allows for introspection and the opportunity to read. The caveat is the knowledge that my stay will end next week. The thought of an extended stay for months prompts thoughts of the Jack Nicholson character in the Shining. The character is a frustrated writer who takes a job looking after a deserted hotel for the winter. As the snow falls he gets lost in the haunted empty corridors of the Overlook Hotel. He hammers away on his typewriter at his roman a clef. When he wife finally gets the chance to read the Bildungsroman she finds he has simply typed " all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy" again and again.

Jack does not end well.