The Handbag Walks, part 3

Once again, we’re off walking. This time we decide to walk from J’s to the Designer Outlet, which, we realise later, is about 5 miles.

As we set off along the river, we muse that ‘our’ walking group would only suit certain people, as we’re not serious walkers at all. As we walk, the talk turns to shopping, and V and I decide that we need light walking jackets, (my experience a couple of weeks ago wearing a denim jacket and kagoul wasn’t pleasant), and I declare that I need a ‘walking’ handbag, as the others both have practical ones that you can wear over your shoulder, whilst mine is truly ‘a handbag’.

We arrive at the Designer Outlet, well, it’s time for coffee, of course, and then we 'do' the shops. V finds a nice light blue jacket, and persuades me that I should get the same, so we really do look like a ‘walking group’. I succumb. We then try and persuade J, and whilst she doesn’t give in, it’s clear she’s thinking about it. We move on, and I find the ‘walking’ handbag. Yes, there were some nice leather ones, but they were all over £40, and I’m not going to use it that much. I find one that’s black, and has a bit of sparkle on it – perfect! I also find a book on Shakespeare that I love so much I'm hugging it, but, because of the price, I leave it in the shop. (This doesn't mean I won't go back for it at some point!)

As we continue (stopping for lunch en route, of course) we soon realise that we’re not going to be walking back – not with everything we’ve bought, so we catch the service bus. I comment that our walks aren’t turning out to be exactly cheap!

Racks and torments

I've been back at my drama class again this term, and last night was our 'dress' for our end of term/end of course show. That actually sounds rather grand, when what it is is an evening of monologues and duologues (well, one duologue), with wine and nibbles (well, we have to do something to tempt the audience in!)

We've built our stage (thankfully easier than it sounds), and started running through our speeches - I've chosen one from Farqhuar's 'The Beaux Stratagem' - all the others are pretty contemporary. I run through it a couple of times, and K, our tutor offers some useful advice on pacing it, and taking my time over a couple of sections. Others go through their speeches, and then we come to J - he was there earlier, and had struggled with his lines. We're now doing a run, and we look around - somehow, he's gone. A couple of the guys who have done their bit are rehearsing outside, so we ask if they've seen him - no! It seems he's bottled it, as there's no sign of him. Eventually, about an hour later, we track him down in the pub!

Schmoozing and boozing

‘It’s a long time since I’ve seen you like this’
‘I’m high on wine, and actors’

I know I’m being quite giddy, and giggly. I’m in a theatre bar practicing the art of the schmooze. It’s a skill that’s been somewhat underused of late, so it’s sending me rather hyper.

The reason…our first trip of the year to see Blood Brothers, our first trip, in fact, since last September, so there have been some cast changes. Linda Nolan is back as Mrs J – this is the first time I’ve seen her in the role since the last time the show was in Billingham – she remains the leading exponent of ‘lapel acting*’. She really feels it at the end, yet moves me less than a simple gesture does from another performer. We have a new narrator in Craig Price. Craig is a veteran of the JCS tour, and played Jesus for the second half of the tour; ‘yes, he died on stage every night’, and a new Linda, but we still have Stephen Palfreeman as Mickey, and he’s fabulous. I cry at the end, but I don’t stand.

At the end of the show, we go round to the stage door; it’s been a while. Craig is one of the first out commenting ‘I thought I saw you’. We have a quick chat and then he suggests we go for a drink, as they keep the theatre bar open. (There really is no where else to go in Billingham – early we’d had walked round a precinct with about 10 cash points, and no shops – and a sign saying ‘welcome to Billingham town centre). Well, we’ve been invited – it would be rude to refuse, wouldn’t it?

We head back inside, get a drink, and chat to Craig, catching up on what he, and others, have been doing; Stephen comes over, and we talk about theatre, touring, venues, theatrical digs, the price of tickets in London. I’m in my element, and knocking back the vino at a rate not seen recently. About midnight we, and the remaining cast members are asked to leave by the bar staff. We get hugs from Stephen, testing if they’re still as bone crushing as we remember. Pretty good I’d say.

We head back to Boro, to complete the night’s drinking in the late bars. I later realise that tonight we’ve been asked to leave 3 different bars, as they wanted to close. A pretty good night I’d say.

*this means tugging her coat lapels in the intensely emotional scenes.

Not impressed!

My next OU assignment is due in a couple of weeks. A couple of weeks ago, I spent an afternoon in the Pitcher and Piano with Corinne discussing ideas around the topic we’d been given, the ‘use of memory’ in a couple of Romantic poems. On Friday I received a letter from the OU saying there’s a typo in the essay title. I read on. It shouldn’t say ‘use of memory’ it should be ‘treatment of the city’.

I’d say that’s more than a typo. It’s a flipping fundamental change!

Travels

Last week

Sunday: Middlesbrough to York to Milton Keynes

Monday: Milton Keynes to Hertford to Stevenage

Tuesday: Stevenage to St Albans to York

Wednesday: York to Stockport to Liverpool to York

Thursday: York (phew!)

Friday: York to Liverpool to York

Saturday: York to Middlesbrough

Over a thousand miles driven. An awful lot of hours on motorways. No wonder I’m knackered!

'Underneath an alehouse' paltry sign'

As usual, I got lost getting from Hertford to St Albans, and I'm once again heading for the town centre (is it a city? it has a cathedral, so perhaps it is?).

As I pull up at the traffic lights, I notice a sign that I never saw the prevous 3 times I'd been at these lights. Bizarrely, it's on the side of a bank. 'Site of the Castle Inn, where Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset was slain at the Battle of St Albans 1455'. Suddenly, in this line of traffic, this triggers a memory, and I'm thinking of Henry V1 part 2, where Somerset dies under the sign of 'the Castle in St Albans', having been warned to 'shun castles'.

I guess I'm just a bit obessive about Shakespeare!

Hidden accomplishments

‘Do you trust me?’
‘I get worried when you say that!’

One of five things you may not know about me is that I can wallpaper, so when Cat said she was re-decorating her bedroom, I persuaded her that we could tackle the papering. She bought all the equipment as instructed, including that magical little tool, a seam roller.

And on Sunday, we started. It was only one wall after all. I have to admit, I’d forgotten how high the ceilings are in old houses, and also that they're never straight, which made things ‘interesting’. I did end up with paste all over my trousers though, and also in my hair.

But, we did it, and I don’t think I even shouted, though I think I initially scared Corinne a little. It was a real sense of achievement - and it looks pretty damned good too!

* Note the action photo - we may be smiling, but Cat is slapping the paste on!

Flying the Flag

It’s a forgone conclusion that we’ve not going to win of course, and the voting gets more and more ridiculous every year, but I did feel sorry for Scooch. But then, the Eastern Europeans, and many other countries, don’t see Eurovision as a joke like we do, and I think Flying the Flag was a bit too knowing for them. We were very glad had Malteasers though, when Malta gave us douze points!

There is a sort of perverse pleasure in the fact that, if we can’t win, no one in the last 3 years has got more points or come higher than James did – and he had the disadvantage of that blue suit. We joked that you should really have a map of Europe spread out during the voting to see who shares boarders to predict the points.

It’s still a great night. We’d arrived at Shona’s in good time, so by the time it began we had a pretty impressive buffet laid out, which featured delicacies from Greece, Turkey, Denmark, Spain, France, Germany, Sweden, Russia, Switzerland and probably others.

We had the official score cards, with our 'special' category of ‘Eurovisioness’, that certain something that means a song can only be from Eurovision. Some songs were liked; Hungary, (best song, but it scored low on ‘Eurovisioness’) Greece, Latvia, and Serbia, others (Ukraine) scored well, as they ticked all the boxes, some were forgettable; (Armenia) and some just awful; Bulgaria, Ireland (we assumed they didn’t want to win, it was so bad) and Slovenia. There was a lot of leather and corsets this year.

Well, it’s off to Belgrade next year. I was fairly happy with the winner – certainly out of the top 6 it was the only one I was happy to see win. I do think they’re going to have to change the voting one day though.

The Handbag Walks, Part 2

It’s our walking day again. We’re debating where to go, and decide on a country walk near Elvington. This is before I’ve ventured outside, when I do, it’s starting to rain. By the time V and J arrive its what I’d call a heavy shower. Time for a re-assessment.

‘We could do the Designer Outlet?’
‘What about Helmsley?’

Before we leave my house the destination has changed 3 times, and we’re heading for Helmsley, where there are nice shops, and places to eat, if the weather doesn’t improve. I put on my boots.

We arrive, and walk down into town. We’d better have some refreshment before we set off. We have coffee, and I share a toasted tea cake with V. We then head for tourist information, via one or two other shops. We buy more books about walks. That always feels good. I pick up some brochures, and V buys a book with the walk in that we’re doing, Helmsley to Rievaulx Abbey. I’ve done it before, once when I was at school, and once about 20 years ago. It can’t be too difficult, as I know from my photos I was wearing a skirt and sandals.

We set off, and as it’s still raining I’m wearing my kagoul on top of my denim jacket. This proves to be a mistake, as I’m soon boiling. Various comments are made on my co-ordination, as the kagoul is turquoise, and matches my handbag, and I have a bright pink umbrella, which matches my nails.

The route is gently uphill, so I’m soon falling behind. We eventually enter a wood, and there’s a point where we descend some steep steps into a valley, only to climb up some more at the other side. On the way back, I comment that I don’t know why they just didn’t build a bridge across it!As we get closer to the Abbey, there’s a long descent to the road, and my heart is already sinking at the thought that if it’s downhill now, it’s going to uphill on the way back.

When we arrive at the Abbey, we head for the tea shop (newly opened this year, and thank goodness for that). We have lunch, and V consults the map for the first time. I’m tempted by the fact that in 20 minutes there’s a bus to Helmsley, but no, I’m told, I’m walking back. As I walk along the road, shopping bag in one hand, now stuffed with denim jacket, and handbag in the other, I comment that ‘Now I’m balanced’ This causes unintentional hilarity.

We start the climb through the trees, and it’s hard going, we’ve all slowed down. About halfway, my phone rings. It’s my boss. We talk about work, and I forget to be out of breath. By the time he rings off, the worst bit is over.

‘I think we should arrange for Val to have a work call every time she’s going up a hill’

We speed up towards the end of the walk, partially because it’s mainly downhill, but also because we want to get back to the shops before they shut. We do, and then debate whether to have tea before heading home, but it’s started raining again, so we head home. Oh, my aching feet - no blisters though!

*Title courtesy of J, as we all set out with our handbags

Scenes from a drama class

As we're doing line runs for our monologues (to be performed in either two weeks, or four weeks - I'm praying it's the latter!), my phone beeps. I apologise to my partner and pick it out of my bag.
'R u watching the Eurovision semis?' I text back to say I'm at drama. For the rest of the lesson I'm receiving regular updates. I look at my partner - he clearly thinks I've gone a bit mad. It doesn't help matters when I decline a trip to the pub, to go home and watch it. By the end of the evening we're looking at a host of Eastern block qualifiers, and our chances of 'nul points' seem to be getting higher.

Other people just don't seem to appreciate the wonderful craziness that is Eurovision

The Handbag Walks, Part 1

Bank Holiday Monday, so, ignoring the threat of rain, J and I decided to go for a walk. As usual, this began with lunch. It actually started with a trip to B&Q and then to the garden centre, which has a coffee shop. I did think of suggesting coffee, but as J pointed out once we were on the road, ‘I guess we’ll be there just in time for lunch’. And we were, walking into the Blackwell Ox pretty much on the dot of 12.

After lunch (very nice) we were off, opting for the shortest of the walks in my book, because, you know, it might rain. I decided to Christen the walking boots. For the first few hundred yards, they felt strange on my feet, ‘look, my feet, they feel odd, my feet are protesting at what they’re wearing’.

We headed off the road, down a track and across a field, talking about Florence, Paris and food. Quite a bit later, J looked at the book. ‘It says here, ‘at a cross track…after 300 yards’. We’d walked a lot more than 300 yards. Hmmm, maybe we’d better turn back. As we walked back towards the village we couldn’t see any sign of a track, or a gap in the opposite hedge that we were supposed to go through. Finally, after two fields, we found it – it was well hidden though!

We crossed the field, and subsequently a rape field, before coming out to the road and a nature reserve. Very quickly, it seemed we were back in the village. It was only two miles (or, in my head, two and a half, because of our detour), so we must be fitter than we thought.

Afterwards – well, we went for tea, of course.

I wonder if Galileo ever did this?

It’s time to pack and to leave our wonderful Residenza. I don’t want to go. There’s still so much to see, but yes, next time…

In the early afternoon we catch the train to Pisa, and our overnight hotel. After checking in, we take a taxi to the Torre Pendente. The whole area is heaving with tourists and tour groups. It seems they’re deposited in this one part of the city to take photos. As we look all around, people are standing with their arms in the air, posing for comedy shots. It’s very bizarre to see. But soon, we’re doing the same. It proves remarkably difficult to get the angle right.

We enquire about going up the tower, but it’s mid afternoon, and the first available ticket is at 7.30pm, plus it’s quite expensive, so we opt for a look round the city instead. It’s a very different experience to Firenze. Much more like Coney Street on a Saturday afternoon. After the Campo dei Miracoli and all the tourists, it seems strange to be surrounded by Italians, and, suddenly, there are no Americans.

At least the only Golden Arches we saw was at the station

It’s Friday and it’s shopping day. I’m excited by this, as I’ve promised myself a piece of jewellery as a belated birthday present. As we cross the Ponte Vecchio, I look in one or two windows, but I already know the sort of thing I want. As I look, I also spot some pendants – they’re in the shape of masks - I’m hooked, as they tick both the boxes of ‘drama’ and ‘Venice’ (yes, I’m in Firenze, but it’s still Italy!). Before I know it I have a new mask pendant. Next it’s the ring shop. I know it when I try it on. It has a turquoise stone, it matches my nails, it’s the one. I have what Cat calls my ‘Cheshire cat’ grin.

The afternoon is slightly less fun, as I nearly loose my handbag in the Palazzo Vecchio – I’ve just climbed a flight of stairs, commenting how much hard work it must have been for the servants, when I realise I must have left in the last room - two flights down. I hurry back, with that awful cold feeling of fear gripping me. Panic. Thankfully, it’s still there.

In the evening we’ve booked to go on an evening walking tour. Only we what we didn’t realise was that the ‘native English speaking guide’ would turn out to be ‘native American speaking’. The tour is geared to the lowest common denominator, and tonight that’s the American tourist who has clearly never opened a guide book or read any European history. As we’re standing on the Ponte Trinita, ‘who were the Medici?’ The guide discusses the devastating flood that hit Florence in the 1960’s when the Arno burst it’s banks, damaging many works of art ‘gee, did that affect Rome?’ The tour is interesting, but I get the feeling we’re only skimming the surface because of the audience. As the organisers are a theatre company, I thought we might get some dramatic re-enactments of some of the tales, but we don’t. Maybe there’s a gap in the market?

We do see parts of the city that we otherwise wouldn’t have, though, including the house of Bianca Cappallo, whose story, I comment, sounds like a Jacobean tragedy. After I’m home, I discover that Middleton’s ‘Women Beware Women' is based on it.

'It's like Whitby Abbey steps - twice!'

‘Be honest, did you think I’d wimp out?’
‘Yes, I did’

Cat decided that she wanted to climb the 414 steps of the Campanile di Giotto. I did this 17 years ago, and wasn’t sure if I could do it again – after all, I get out of breath climbing upstairs, so I was a little worried. I did want to try though, to prove that I could still do it.

I don’t think I made my final decision until we were going in, and even then I was thinking, ‘I’ll stop, if it gets too much’.

Well, I did stop, for quite a while, at each level, but I made it. Sadly, the photographic evidence is on film, so you’ll just have to believe me. They’re put up a sort of wire mesh though, which wasn’t there before. Health and safety again, I guess. The views are certainly spectacular, and we could look down on our rooftop terrace where we’d had breakfast.

After we reached ground level again, I heard myself saying ‘you know, we should climb York Minster one day’. I may have been delusional owing to the altitude!

Stendahl's Syndrome

It’s our first full day in Firenze* and when I see the sign saying that the expected queuing time is two hours, I’m very glad we’ve pre-booked tickets for the Uffizi Gallery. Finding the correct door to collect the tickets proves to be a bit of a challenge though.

As we climb the stairs, I’m already slightly over-awed at the space (and yes, in my head, I’m wearing velvet, and silk, and pearls, circa 16th C. - maybe they should introduce dressing up?!) The first few rooms are full of crucifixions, and ‘madonna and child’s, and remind me of the Byzantine art we saw in the Haghia Sophia in Istanbul. As we wander from room to room, the whole development of western art unfolds before us.

The ‘stars’ of the collection are the famous Renaissance pieces, ‘The Birth of Venus’, ‘Primavera’, but there are equally stunning not so famous pieces, women with beautiful tranquil faces, and enigmatic men. We reach the Tribune with its Medici portraits, and I’m fascinated to see the faces of the people who were responsible for so much of this, not just as patrons of the artists, but as the shapers of the city. It’s an incredible demonstration of power and influence.

As we continue, and one hour stretches to two, I’m beginning to get Renaissance overload, and be at risk of Stendahl’s Syndrome**. So much art does go to your head. We take a ‘breather’, in the café which overlooks the Piazza, only, you can’t look over, as you’re not allowed to stand on the parapet! It’s pretty quiet, although there are too may pigeons for my liking.

*For we must indeed have the Italian spelling and pronunciation
**Apparently they still have about 10 cases a year, according to my guidebook