Starting at Highbury & Islington, which smelt slightly of football, we headed south down Upper Street, the ambience rapidly becoming suitable for the great, the good and the Blairs. Lots of dinky little independant shops and restaurants. Hardly a charity shop in sight. But the first stop was the Almeida theatre, being a tad concerned that our restricted view seats (one partially and one fully) might be fairly rubbish and wanting to try for a return. That was no go, but impressed by their handsome new foyer/bar/restaurant area we decided to take a snack, in the form of two quite acceptable sandwiches. Then, having a little time in hand, pushed on south to St. Mary's, where we found that the nave had been largely rebuilt after the second war in a very fifties sort of style. Lots of light brown brick, lots of tall windows; the stuff of many a telephone exchange and many a town hall of the same period. Must have been a swine to heat with all those steel framed windows. But the church interior was handsome enough, although a little large and empty looking. A trustee claimed that they filled the place for important services, like carols by candle. And I learned this morning that the church was the scene of the baptism of one of the son's of King Birempong Cudjo, by that time well on his way to becoming a missionary back in his native land, part of what is now Ghana, all this being some time in the 18th century.
By which time it was time to head back to the Almeida where we find a rather larger theatre than I remembered - it being more than 10 years since I was last there - maybe 350 seats to the West End 700. And restricted view meant nothing graver than one of those cast iron pillars you get in gin palaces of a certain age, maybe ten feet in front. As the chap next to me pointed out, I would probably not notice it once the show got underway and that he was much worse off with the chap in front of him sitting on an elevating cushion, ostensibly to spare his bony posterior from the lower grade seats of the place - rather like, as it happens, those at Kingston, that is to say doubles without armrests. For which mild inconvenience I got my seat for £8, perhaps half the proper price. Good job that there were not any returns.
Ghosts was an adaptation rather than a translation, which meant that the language was a lot more racy than that which would have pervaded the homes of Norwegian middle classes of the day (and which I found rather irritating) and that the show as a whole was a little shorter (which meant they could manage without an interval, which was a good thing). As befitting a show in Islington, plenty of regional accents and just a modest amount of on-stage puffing. Casting generally good, apart from Pastor Manders who was too young and played too wet to convince. Good set, with clever use of a net curtain to partially screen the room behind that of the action. Very emotional climax, not quite the same as the Rose version, with the mother here very nearly steeling herself to give her son the necessary lethal dose of morphine. A version which must be good for a few more votes & contributions to http://www.dignityindying.org.uk/, which must be good. and a plus for the Almeida. That apart, while I enjoyed the show, better paced than that at the Rose, I preferred the more sedate tone of this last. But perhaps I could not have one without the other. Will we go at and see it a second time when it transfers to the West End?
This was the penultimate show of the run and the house was full, as it had been for most of the run, hence the business with restricted view. Mostly couples such as ourselves, perhaps a little grander than the Rose; a theatrical Wigmore Hall. An enthusiastic house at the end, to the point of breaking into loud clapping more or less the instant the play ended, while I prefer a short wait, to come down a bit from the climax, before changing gear into applause. BH suspected one particular lady was responsible for kicking it off so soon and further suspected a member of the management team.
Out to stroll back up Upper Street, taking in the Gill Wing Cookshop on the way, to see if they had any baking trays large enough to make the sort of contraptions noticed on 22nd November unnecessary. They did have, substantial enough but covered in teflon and not quite big enough. But the lady told me that there was a bigger version which I could probably buy on the Internet - which I perhaps could if Mr. Google knew anything about the brand concerned, 'Dexan'.
Home to dream about an alternative involving buying some sheet steel - without teflon - from Sparrowhawk's of Tadworth. A dream which was very vivid and carrying plenty of charge. Waking, it all seemed a bit OTT, plus, a couple of bits of sheet steel might cost as much as the teflon jobs and would probably need careful finishing to get rid of rough edges and sharp corners. But maybe I will go as far as measuring the oven. It would be a good solution, if a tad over-engineered. Although this last would be very much in line with my better efforts at carpentry.
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