Friday night was Shakespeare night. And in responsible parenting mode, the boy was left home alone with the usual box of matches, sharp knife, drugs, cigarettes and porn. This week he allowed to bring a friend, so there was an expectation of twice the mayhem.
They decided to cook themselves supper...and did a fine job of grilling bacon and 'soss' and heating Heinz finest. I know they did because the evidence left behind wouldn't have troubled the CSI team too much. Nothing that a couple of days scrubbing won't fix.
I love the teen mindset. I never switch the mobile off, 'just in case', but it does go onto silent and vibrate mode. So the texts sent during Act 2 went unanswered. After all I'm not sure that Denmark would appreciate me fiddling with my Nokia whilst one death follows another. It was a simple request...could he go and stay at his friend's house. And when I didn't reply, another text 'Dad?' And then another. He's been known to do this when he knows I'm riding the motorbike too. As we tripped out of the foyer, I replied in the affirmative.
By contrast to last week's little jaunt, I was with some of the parents from the boy's school...including his maths teacher. They're a very sociable lot. But it did curtail my 'fecking and blinding'. We started off at a 'pop up' bar designed by Tom Dixon that would probably look fab after dark, but in early evening light looked more like sonething thrown together by the pre-school group. We trundled off to Wydham's theatre to see Jude Law prove he can act (I quite liked him in Mr Ripley and Sky Captain and the world of tomorrow, but I don't think he often troubles the Oscar jury). And I'm delighted to report back that it was fine performance and a beautiful production. Ido have to confess though that sitting in a warm theatre at the end of a hard week after a couple of gin and tonics made for a keeping awake challenge. I can also report that Mr Law has very big hands.
Celebrity spotting was de rigeur in our group. I contributed by offering to get a copy of Hello and poiting to the man on the stage. It seemed the best I could manage.
No eating in the street for us, but a trip to Sheeky's for oysters and fish stew at the bar. And lots of carefully selected Sauvingon Blanc. Very nice, very civilised. And the taxi dropped us all home around about the time that I should have been long asleep.
So no love-lorn Celts jumping tube barriers, no fights at the show, and no touts hanging around trying to flog tickets to Himlat and no new T-shirt. But a nice way to spend a Friday night (given the choice of Hamlet or Jonathan Ross) and a boost to my cunning plan to build a better social life now I'm not quite so tied to being at home with the boy all the time.
Extremely good indeed, I might even say the best Shakespeare play for a long time, though I'm sure not a patch on the Kings of Leon I'm off to see in a couple of weeks. Did I mention the Kings of Leon? I'm very excited indeed.
Saturday, 6 June 2009
Sunday, 31 May 2009
A night on the town
Friday night was gig night. And in responsible parenting mode, the boy was left home alone with the usual box of matches, sharp knife, drugs, cigarettes and porn.
Auntie Gwen and I travelled to Camden by tube (evidently sitting in my car is too much for her) to see the Manic Street Preachers. Well that was who we thought we were going to hear, but the ticket tout outside was trying to sell tickets for the Maniacs, so perhaps we were mistaken. Anyways, who ever we did see were very good...playing firstly their new album, then popping off for a cup of tea before returning to strum a string of greatest hits. Extremely good indeed, I might even say the best gig for a long time, though I'm sure not a patch on the Kings of Leon I'm off to see in a couple of weeks. Did I mention the Kings of Leon? I'm very excited indeed.
Walking down Camden High Street we grabbed a fajita from a street vendor and scoffed it as we strolled along, some of it went in our mouths, some on to the pavement; fortunately none on my T-shirt. We stopped off to get a drink, and managed to get served, drink our drink (mine a slow-pour Guinness) and leave before the girl who was standing at the bar waiting for her receipt. For a diet coke. On a Friday night. In a busy bar in Camden.
Heading home, and AG met her true love. Well he was a fellow Celt, in a fetching green and white stripey Celtic football shirt that apeared to have lost its sleeves. He was entranced enough by her beauty to leap the ticket barrier and hold her hand all the way down to the platform declaring undying love and shouting loud enough that the whole station was fully aware of her beauty. In chivalrous fashion I knew my place and hid behind her skirts. Eventually we felt it an act of kindness to point out he was heading in the wrong direction. It took a moment or two for him to realise that this was ideed the case at which point he abandoned his lady love and staggered off in the direction from which he came.
Not sure how AG managed to drive all the way back to deepest darkest middle England afterwards, or retain her cheery smile through the evening, having been travelling from sun-drenched Turkey since three in the morning. But she did. So thank you. And thank you for the new T Shirt.
Sorry about the sound quality, and sorry but we could only afford the cheap tickets so had to watch in black and white
Auntie Gwen and I travelled to Camden by tube (evidently sitting in my car is too much for her) to see the Manic Street Preachers. Well that was who we thought we were going to hear, but the ticket tout outside was trying to sell tickets for the Maniacs, so perhaps we were mistaken. Anyways, who ever we did see were very good...playing firstly their new album, then popping off for a cup of tea before returning to strum a string of greatest hits. Extremely good indeed, I might even say the best gig for a long time, though I'm sure not a patch on the Kings of Leon I'm off to see in a couple of weeks. Did I mention the Kings of Leon? I'm very excited indeed.
Walking down Camden High Street we grabbed a fajita from a street vendor and scoffed it as we strolled along, some of it went in our mouths, some on to the pavement; fortunately none on my T-shirt. We stopped off to get a drink, and managed to get served, drink our drink (mine a slow-pour Guinness) and leave before the girl who was standing at the bar waiting for her receipt. For a diet coke. On a Friday night. In a busy bar in Camden.
Heading home, and AG met her true love. Well he was a fellow Celt, in a fetching green and white stripey Celtic football shirt that apeared to have lost its sleeves. He was entranced enough by her beauty to leap the ticket barrier and hold her hand all the way down to the platform declaring undying love and shouting loud enough that the whole station was fully aware of her beauty. In chivalrous fashion I knew my place and hid behind her skirts. Eventually we felt it an act of kindness to point out he was heading in the wrong direction. It took a moment or two for him to realise that this was ideed the case at which point he abandoned his lady love and staggered off in the direction from which he came.
Not sure how AG managed to drive all the way back to deepest darkest middle England afterwards, or retain her cheery smile through the evening, having been travelling from sun-drenched Turkey since three in the morning. But she did. So thank you. And thank you for the new T Shirt.
Sorry about the sound quality, and sorry but we could only afford the cheap tickets so had to watch in black and white
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