Ballet Ho

Attended my second ever ballet at the ENO  - Romeo & Juliet. Taking clients so not spending my own money on it. And let me get my Philistine credentials out at the beginning, I wouldn't have spent my own cash either. Now in theory a very nice evening - we have the Royal Box, and drinks and canapes in the Royal Retiring Room just behind the box. All jolly nice, BUT the box doesn't offer much of a view of the stage (although a perfect view of the orchestra). And when I say not much of a view I really do mean not much - for example I never caught even a glimpse of the backdrop, and the climax of the suicide at the end, well that all went on at the back so didn't see that at all. But even what was within view when dancers hit the front of the stage, well just doesn't excite me.

Firstly, dance is an odd medium for telling a story. I think you had to know the story already in order to understand what was going on. And though one can appreciate the skill and athleticism of the dancers, it was just a little too like synchronised swimming without the water for me - grand over-exaggerated gesturing, fixed ridiculous grins on faces and of course very unnatural movement.

I think I preferred my previous visit to see Giselle because the 2nd Act of that is more abstract and so the dance is less an attempt to convey anything other than grace. And similarly the short bit of modern dance beforehand, introduced because the blokes don't really have much to do in Giselle so the extra bit for them gave them something to do. (Albeit they did offer women an unrealistic view of the male body. We just can't live up to the bare torso of a ballet dancer). The story line in the first act, two young men vying for the attention of the star ballerina, was just risible. As far as I could make out, in gesture one suitor was trying to get across to the heroine "Go for me. Look I have massive thighs and a big sword, while this bloke is clearly gay." Well seemed as likely an interpretation as anything else.

Rather preferred trip to the theatre to see the stage version of Sebastian Faulks novel Birdsong. Always impressed at how these things can be adapted to stage - trenches and tunnel beneath was all done quite believably. And Ben Barnes in the star role was very good.

Had a very nice walk with a mate of mine through Regents Canal, sandwiched between visits to two pubs. What better could one go for on a nice winter day? Pub lunch with a couple of pints of Bombardier, walk through Regents Canal, along Regents Canal to Warwick Avenue and then find a lovely pub at the end of it. Selling winter warming brews, warm Scandinavian cider and mulled wine. So I went for the cider followed by the wine, only for the barman to ask what I thought of the cider. Now I don't normally get asked for opinion on a drink if I choose another for a second round, but guess Scandinavian cider is a bit of an experiment. (In case you wonder, nice but you wouldn't want a second unless a very sweet tooth). But one of those great pubs that basically seems to have a front room, with a big marble fire-place, as the saloon. Settled in very nicely. And great being able to chat with J. - politics, football, rugby, fine art, cinema, my sort of mix but not one I find easy to find in most acquaintances.

Preceded that walk by my annual diabetic eye-screening. In short, this is where they photograph your eye-ball to see the fine veins at the back are ok. All I can say, is that I now know what rabbits feel like when they have shampoo tested on them. The first step is to drop something excruciating in your eye. Then 20 minutes later they go in for the flash-photography, while telling you not to blink. Of course I am going to blink - you are flashing a bright light at my eyes! And then you have blurred vision and light sensitivity for a few hours. Wearing sunglasses helps, but in the middle of January you look a right pillock wandering around in shades. Maybe Bruce Willis could pull it off, but not me.

Thursday night attended what was effectively a pensions wake, to commemorate the end of one of my pension schemes being swallowed up by a bigger one. Nice enough evening in a pub, but catch was it was Thursday night and the pub was in Basingstoke, so a bit of a trek. But had nice chat with various people connected with the scheme, one of whom as we were chatting told me he went to school with, and played in the same rugby team as, Tony Robinson, ie Baldrick in Blackadder and now ubiquitous presenter of anything to do with archaeology.

Still, felt very pleased with my self at getting to the station with seconds to spare for the 9.54pm back to London. But having launched my self onto the train, found it was the stopping train to London. Oh no. Well just settled back for a slow night tour of the commuter villages of Surrey. Wrong side of midnight before home. Just what you need on a school night

Happy New Year

So another new year dawns. An attempt to watch the fireworks over the Thames from Hampstead Heath somewhat thwarted by (probably listed) buildings, but had another chance to watch on BBCiPlayer. Truly tremendous display, although with budget cuts going the way they are next year we will probably just get the Mayor of London lighting a sparkler. A tough new year looks to be ahead of us.

I managed to catch Bill Bailey just before the end of his West End run. Got standing tickets, which I didn't realise theatres did. But for the princely sum of £12.50 a handful of us were allowed to lurk at the back of the stalls. Bit tiring but well worth it. He is a really very talented comedian, and musician. His encore of various songs preformed in the style of Kraftwerk (most notably the Wurzels I ve got a new combine harvester) was just so clever. For the uninitiated, Kraftwerk are a po-faced Krautrock band and the Wurzels a jolly west country novelty act. No, well you had to see it. I think my favourite tale he recounted was one on heckling. There was a really bad production of Anne Franks Diary in the West End starring Pia Isadora. It was so bad that when the Nazis stormed onto the stage a member of the audience yelled "She's in the attic!"

And took the opportunity of a glorious Sunday morning to go for a walk in The City. I know, odd given its where I work, but its very different on a quiet Sunday morning. Now I don't wish to sound churlish, but when I say quiet I should say quiet apart from the bells of St Paul's. Could barely hear the dulcet tones of Radiohead on my ipod over that racket. No consideration.