In London, where life's little necessities forced me along Oxford Street, surely the most soul-sapping location in the West End. Muzak spilling out of every shop front. Billboard men pointing the way. TATTOOS & PIERCING, 100 YDS. Of course in retail-speak we are now in what is known as The Run-Up to Christmas. Advent, as it used to be called in the days when it was a quiet, dark wait for the starburst of the Nativity.
I made the mistake of trying to buy talcum powder. Hunh? Oh, right, yeah... that white smelly stuff old ladies sprinkle under their sagging body parts. They thought there might be some somewhere but there's not much demand for it by the Pert Yoof on Oxford Street. Well, in dear old Venice talcum powder is one of life's staples. That's what happens when the average age of a city's residents is over 55. Talcum powder, elastic stockings, adult diapers. You can hardly move for them. Maybe it's time to go home.

My favourite sound-bite so far this trip: 'Paging Horse Handler. Horse Handler to the Stage immediately.'
Heard on the PA system at the Royal Opera House where they were rehearsing Act I of Carmen.
I guess some kind of donkey misdemeanour had been committed. Or perhaps he just forgot his lines.

Tomorrow to Krakow. They say we may expect snow.

Posted by Laurie Graham at 12:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

A rollercoaster week. I'd left our pantomime simmering over a low flame for a while and was delighted to discover what had been cooking. A goose, for one thing. My costume mistresses have achieved a tour de force. A triumph of womankind over chicken wire and white polyester. The only unsolved problem was the business of a bomb hatch for the eggs, somewhere they could nestle safely until the script called for them to be laid. Better brains than mine were still flummoxed. But one thing I do know about is the power of the pen. In less than a minute the script was rewritten. Alerted by demented squawking, a small crowd will gather. The eggs will appear by sleight of hand. I love simple solutions.

Not so simple is what to do when you've injured your ankle and you live in Venice and the vaporetto drivers are on strike. My mother fell. It was one of those silly things. Thirty six hours later I was torn off a strip by the Emergency Room doctor for not taking her to hospital immediately. Call out an ambulance for a sprained ankle? My mother would have ripped the telephone from the wall sooner than allow that. She got an ambulance ride home though, all the way up the Grand Canal, and was photographed by at least two Japanese tourists. Definitely one for the album that. Peeved Engrish woman on stletcher.

Mr F has been a bit out of sorts too. He sat up in bed in the middle of the night and asked 'Do they have coffee pots here?' Too much travel, too many different beds lately. We've been fairly burning rubber with those roll-along suitcases. But we do have just one last trip. Next week I shall blog from London where, whatever else may befall us, it's not likely to be high tide. Venice flooded today but I didn't curse. My first chance to wear my new leopard-print wellies. Admiring glances and envious sighs all round.

Posted by Laurie Graham at 02:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

A bad week in Panto Land. The technician at the auditorium wouldn't turn on the stage lights for us during our Getting To Know You visit because it was only twenty minutes till his lunch break. Stood there jingling his keys and fondling his trade union membership card. Then the on-line craft store was out of 8 inch polystyrene eggs. Would I take a 4 inch and a 6 inch instead? No, I bloody wouldn't. As a matter of fact, I didn't particularly want any polystyrene eggs. What I really wanted were the 40 millimetre joggly goose eyes but there was a minimum order of £25 plus carriage. I just thought, you know, I could possibly find a use for a couple of 8 inch eggs. Such as stopping the mouths of people who are all talk and no do.
Which brings me to the mysterious Mr Someone. Or could she be a Ms? Don't you just hate that title? Who invented it anyway?
So Someone said they were going to make a certain costume item. I didn't hear them. I said, 'And who is buying the fabric?' 'Don't know,' came the reply, 'but there was talk of Someone taking care of all that.'
Talk! Ha! Well, I've been heard to talk of climbing Mount Sinai, but I'm still sitting in my armchair.
I have a feeling Someone may be a member of theThey Family. Everybody agrees They should do something about it, whatever it is. It's just that nobody is clear who They are.
My man-management skills are at an all-time low. Guess I should just crawl back into my hole. Throw a typed manuscript out through the mouth of my cave once a year. Hope Someone picks it up.
Uggg...

Posted by Laurie Graham at 03:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Well, I got my wishes at Mr and Mrs Scully’s most excellent West Cork cottage. Sea views? Check. Hey, I can see the ocean without even getting out of bed. A big squashy armchair by a roaring peat fire? Check. The whiskey? On due consideration I decided to trade for a bottle or six of a rather smug little Cotes de Rhone. In the interests of early morning mental clarity, you understand? This is not an entirely non-working holiday.

One or two disappointments for my husband. In the middle of the bay there’s a small outcrop of rocks which causes the water to foam and swirl. Mr F finds it untidy and would very much like it removed. This from a man who has littered every horizontal surface in the house with small brown coins and cod liver oil capsules. Strange the twists and turns of an obsessive mind.

His biggest let-down though has been his fave gadget, a pocket-sized remote control wand called TV-B-Gone. It usually works a treat but this time has failed to silence most of the televisions we’ve encountered in pubs and restaurants. Yes, even here in the cradle of sociable craic, TV now reigns. And so the Moronic Plague spreads….

Posted by Laurie Graham at 05:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Strange to be back after an absence of three weeks. Everything's neat and tidy, Miss Galbraith being the perfect guest on a blog as much as in a house, and yet I'm aware someone has been here. It's the literary equivalent of finding the pepper grinder where you usually keep the salt shaker. Anyway, Mother's home. Just about long enough to turn around the laundry and head back to the airport, but this time the blog will travel with me, to Ireland.

Something of a first, this trip, because Mr Fitzpatrick has organised the whole thing, soup to nuts. This completely eliminates the screaming hoohas I usually suffer as we approach a destination selected by me. Mr F is a tricky customer. He demands warm rooms, soft beds and silence. He is allergic to cats. And he has no truck with smokers. On a trip to Umbria I once managed to deliver a rock hard mattress in a cat-infested house run by a chain-smoker, all in one neat package. Terrific views from the terrace though. But tomorrow I shall travel in a state of blissful passivity. I'm hoping for a sea view, a peat fire and a bottle of Jameson's but I won't throw a tantrum if I'm disappointed. As for the mattress, it doesn't terribly much matter to me. I could sleep on an ironing board.

A brief word of welcome to a little miracle who arrived in a big hurry this week instead of waiting till January. He weighs 974 grams which is less than a bag of sugar. He also still fell within the qualifying period for what Pro-Choicers shyly call 'a third trimester termination'. Pro-Choice for whom, that's what I always wonder?
Well Andrea has chosen Life. Yey! Don't forget now, Andrea. After you've breathed in, you have to breathe out.
He's getting the hang of it. Smart kid.

Posted by Laurie Graham at 10:36 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)