The Crucible in Regents Park

Last evening was my first time at the Open Air Theatre in Regents Park and the play being performed was Arthur Miller’s “The Crucible”. The play, while not without its difficulties is nonetheless recommended viewing. It’s much more than just another evening at the theatre and the themes should be a matter for discussion, reflection and action. When Miller wrote the play it was entirely allegorical about the 17th century witch hunts in Salem, Massachusetts. He drew on these events to highlight McCarthy's right wing vendetta against those in the performing arts and other notorious positions in the US of the 1950s, who might harbor any communist tendencies. Today, it could be applied to all sorts of issues – whistle blowing as vengeful tool, inciting peer acquiesence in a harmful way, over reliance and acceptance of institutions of rule such as the court and the church – neither of which are always right. Today, the publication of the Saville Inquiry Report into Bloody Sunday is an instance of a flawed institution (The Army) literally getting away with murder even if it cost £120million and 38 years for the fault to be unearthed and acknowledged. Despite the acknolwedgement and the prime minsterial apology it seems they will get away with it. Another insitution which got away with gross misdemeanours for years is the Catholic Church in Ireland.

However, I digress, so, back to the play. It is a difficult play with a large array of characters whose lyrics are dated and stilted to the modern ear and era. However, after a while, like a scar on a face, this becomes less noticeable and before long it's possible to listen to and understand the text. There's another challenge with this particular performance and that is the venue itself. While enchanting on the one hand, by 10.00pm it’s bloody cold and the concentration needed for this play is put to the test with the evening chill. Challenges aside however, there are no regrets about attending the performance. Indeed as time elapses after leaving the theatre, the play’s themes and events return to the mind for interpretation and consideration. The set itself was wonderful and the array of girls sitting around the stage reacting in communion with events being enacted was an effective visual ploy. There was one outstanding performance. Patrick O'Kane played the central character, John Proctor. The transformation from his first appearance as a confident man striding on stage to his last appearance as an utterly broken one is firmly planted in the mind. The cast is enormous and all performed the play to great effect. All in all, this play is more than worth the effort.

That was the weekend that was ....,

My commute this morning was longer than usual. From BF's house in the West of Ireland to my office near the Piccadilly Line in four hours flat. That's great said BF on skype later asking me did I see her camera. But is it? I had my enthusiastic colleagues getting excited about what we are doing and while normally, I am in the thick of it, today, I was kinda quiet. I guess I needed a bit more space between tranquility and action. We all need time to digest and reflect.

BF and I attended an art launch exhibition - a brave venture in a recession as the local politician who opened it intoned. An ecletic range of art with a packed gallery to view it. An amazing number of people I met there are natives of districts located near the Piccadilly Line and they moved the other way. Am I missing something? The artists were Breda Burns, Margaret Duffy, Betty Gannon, Pamela Gray, Mary O'Grady, Grainne O'Reilly, Susie Quinn, Sinead Wall and Ian Wieczorek. I particularly liked Breda, Margaret and Susie but resisted buying as the thought of flooring and light fittings took over.

So we stopped off in McGing's Pub on the way back and caught a bit of a session. I enjoyed the pint of Guinness and me and BF reviewed the weekend. We had ticked a lot of boxes - delicious dressed crab, a long walk, a Guinness, art, coffee, talk and relax. So I am back on the Piccadilly Line and will be back to normal tomorrow.

Poem extract

in all her life, she never thought
that she'd ever be stranded
in a place known as stansted

Eurovision, Six Degrees of Seperation and Way on High

As soon as the osteopath sorted us out on Saturday morning it was time to turn our attention to the Eurovision fancy dress outfit. Alex barred us from the top floor and when this Moldovian Jew appeared in our cottage Blue and I were taken aback. I realise there's a recurrent theme here. Since I started this blog of our lives, Alex has a penchant for dressing up. Maybe a psychoanalyst could make something of that but as a documentalist I am easy about it. The best part of the Eurovision party, costumes aside, was watching the geopolitical voting patterns.

On Sunday we hit the road to South Wales to meet friends of Alex's family visting from Vancouver Island. Bob's claim to fame was that he had been in the US Peace Corps in India back in the day, had dogded the US draft and absconded to Saskatchewan and never went home. And there's more .... He had his photo taken with Bob Clinton in a remote outpost in Canada but more impressive was that Pete Seeger played and sang in in his front room in San Franscisco. Now, I went to see the late Kirsty McColl in concert many moons ago on the Euston Road. Her dad, Ewan was married to Peggy Seeger who is Pete's sister. So there you have it - six degrees of seperation.

Monday, we dropped into the festival at Hay on Wye en route back to the Piccadilly Line. A glorious day, the tented village hummed with readers, writers and us lot. It's a glorious location with bleating sheep in the background. Kicked ourselves that we did not plan things better to spend more time there. Sill, we managed a refreshing Pimms watching the literati go by ...