The night of nights

On Monday afternoon I was going through the programmes for the local theatres. We booked up a couple of events. That put a little smile on my face. Goody, goody, I thought. Out and about a bit, I thought. Away from the house for a while, I thought. Those were my thoughts as I crossed the patio and the living room heading for the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

If someone were to ask me if I were a theatre goer my answer would be diffident at best. Now and again, sort of, well no, not really. But, as I waited for the kettle to boil I started to think about it. I went to see a loads of plays when I was at University. At the time I knew a lot of drama students, some of whom were young women, maybe that was one of the attractions. Another was that the Gulbenkian Theatre was on campus and free. It was also really close to the Student's Union. The bar in there was very useful when I thought that I was going to die of boredom whilst watching a Congreve play. It gave me the incentive to get up and walk out; one of the few times in my life when I have walked out of something ostentatiously rather than sneaking away in the interval (and I've done that a few times!). I remember too seeing a play there that was based on Brecht - the actors had David Bowie type face paint and sat on tyres. The kettle still hadn't boiled but things were flooding in now. I remembered lots of Hull Truck productions. No, even further back, when I went to Butlins Holiday Camp as a lad with my family. I must have been about 11 or 12 and I was allowed to wander the complex alone. One of my chosen options was to go to the theatre, of sorts, put on by the Redcoats - I recall a whodunnit and a farce - careful with that axe vicar - sort of thing. Then after to the cafeteria to get a milky coffee, which I drank through a straw, from a Duralex cup. Such hedonism, such innocence.

By now the tea is brewed and I'm thinking about this as blog material. I recall that one of the few things I've ever seen in the West End is a Brian Rix farce. Imagine that, paying good money for innuendo and people called Gerald walking out of one door as Hermione comes in the other. Once I started to think about it lots and lots of theatre came rolling in. Stuff at the Arts Theatre and ADC in Cambridge, at the Key in Peterborough, those outdoor Shakespeare festivals at Tolthorpe and in Huntindgdon, the one man show in Catworth featuring a Weslyan Geologist, the Arts Centre in Spalding. It's like word association now; from one thing to the next. It's a bit like that John Hurt TV version of The Naked Civil Servant where Quentin says he's OK with the programme so long as they put in one particular image of him dancing. Images of my own come to mind, of past plays, past performances and past theatres. A mental hop and I think about being alone, when I was dead young, watching the telly, and being awestruck by something on BBC2, in black and white. It was a play where none of the actors wore shoes and it was about melting people down to make buttons. Google tells me it was probably Peer Gynt which is a bit disappointing. Not obscure enough for the growing hubris of this piece. Maybe my self analysis is wrong. Maybe I've always liked theatre. How strange. Oh, and there was  a recording of Waiting for Godot from Elland lending library. I enjoyed it so much the first time that I borrowed it a second time. My dad thought I was decidedly odd listening to Beckett. I went to see the real thing later. Remarkable memories.

We're at a bit of a disadvantage, theatre wise, in Spain. Ibsen and Beckett would probably be hard work in English nowadays and I don't think I'd manage them in Spanish. That's not stopped us though, we've been to lots of plays in Spanish. Sometimes I've nodded off and sometimes I've kept up without problems and even chortled at the jokes. The heavy stuff, Juan Rulfo's Pedro Páramo or Lorca's La Casa de Bernarda Alba, both of which are on locally at the moment, might be a stretch both language wise and maybe attention span wise. Another half forgotten memory just popped up there. A memory to suggest that the language has always been challenging. I think it was in Palma, in Mallorca, in the 1980s when I'd got into the habit of coming to Spain for my holidays. I went to the theatre to see something called La Pepa Trae Cola. I must have wanted to experience a bit of Spanish theatre even then and almost certainly the poster gave me hope that it would be amusing and maybe comprehensible. As I remember it was a sort of farce (again); I've just looked it up and it starred a couple called Tomás Zorí and Fernando Santos. My guess is from a mixture of memory and skimming the Wikipedia article that this was like going to see a sort of Spanish Mike and Bernie Winters, as they flailed around at the end of their careers, heading towards oblivion. It was completely incomprehensible to me.

Maggie's much more realistic than me. She knows where our linguistic limits lie. Every time I thrust a (virtual) theatre programme at her she looks through the things I haven't earmarked and steers me away from the worthy play (or the farce) and suggests the ballet, or the opera or the concert. Things that have elements other than pure language. That's good too. This time though she liked the look of a play and we even booked a bit of feminist musical theatre. It's making me grin again just thinking about it. And we're in a box for one of the events. Lots of the theatres around here are really lovely. Old fashioned with lots of velvet, with gold leaf and with allegorical paintings on the ceiling or above the stage. I always like the boxes. Mind you I like the dress circle too - definitely the best view. Oh, and the Gods can be great. The Spanish name for the Gods is el Paradiso, Paradise. All the fun for a fraction of the price and often with an experience thrown in -this time it's freezing cold, this time it's boiling hot or maybe the rake of the seating makes you fear for your life. I don't particularly care for the stalls - too squashed. Mind you the Covid restrictions mean you can now sprawl when you go to the theatre.

Just one last thing. Recalling all these plays I remembered dragging my old pal Alan to the theatre in Villena to see Darwin's Turtle. My guess is that he didn't capture much of the plot but I don't think I need to apologise. I bet you remember that evening, don't you Mr. C? Memorable stuff going to the theatre. 

A decent innings

When Spaniards talk about electricity, in the house, they talk about light or at least they use the word whose principal English/Spanish dictionary translation is light. Or take tyre; there is a Spanish word for tyre but the commonplace word translates as wheel. It's pretty normal that a word we'd use in English has a direct translation into Spanish but the Spanish and English usages are different. Sometimes we have one word - slice for instance - whilst Spaniards have several and sometimes it's the other way round.

I was talking about this with my online tutor this morning. We got onto how words change with situations. It's unlikely that you would use the word piss directly with your doctor and equally improbable that, down the boozer, you'd talk about urine, micturition or passing water with your mates, though you might use the last if you were talking about a drive through the Lake District. The tutor said that he always found funerary language difficult. The way that, in both languages, we find ways to avoid words like body, dead and death. I said that one of my English language favourites, for avoiding plain talking, is the phrase that he or she had a good innings. It means that someone lived a long time. I should have kept quiet and nodded sagely.

To explain this phrase I needed to talk about cricket. Bear in mind that the majority of Spaniards know nothing about cricket. Well, in the same way that I think that American Football is a bit like rugby, Spaniards think that cricket is a bit like baseball. It's not the first time that I've talked about cricket with Spaniards. When I say that it's the second most popular game (fans not participants) in the world they never believe me which leads to a bit of a conversation about the size of the Indian population and a cricketing geography tour. Next comes a bit of a disposition on the bat - not just a club, like a baseball bat, but a carefully engineered bit of  kit. I could make the mistake of trying to explain leather on willow as a way of describing something traditional. I might even mention other cricketing phrases - on the back foot or on a sticky wicket. All of this so I can explain about an innings. I don't think there are many games where the length of a persons participation in a game is quite so elastic - though I suppose tennis and chess games can go on for ages too - or where a game lasting three or five days is normal.  Obviously I have to mention the one day game and the fixed over game too just for completeness. Along the way I may need to describe stumps, bowlers, fielders, umpires and goodness knows what else. And this from a man who, as my old pal Jim Buchanan used to say, could write all he knows about cricket on a small post-it note.

This happens a lot. I manage to tie myself in linguistic knots by walking into the ambush of difficult explanations. Explanations that would be difficult in English without the background of a shared culture. Do people from the US know about a long innings? Are sandwiches only made with sliced bread or does sandwich encompass rolls too? Pies and pasties are tricky to describe and differentiate as are cakes, buns and pastries. Explaining why we drive on the "wrong" side of the road, why people weigh themselves in comparison to rocks, why socks and sandals make sense and why not all beer should be served ice cold are just more snares that I have passed through in the past. No doubt I will again.

Goodbye Lou, Hello Louise

Irene (pronounced something like eeh rainy not eye reen) runs a little charitable setup called Gatets sense llar del Pinós. Google translates the Valencian to English as Homosexual kittens of the Pinós but I think that may be a Google glitch! Translated to Spanish it says Gatitos sin hogar de Pinoso which is something like Homeless Pinoso Kitties.

Maggie looks at Irene's Facebook page quite often. She'll say "Oh, look at this poor old cat, with three legs and a duff eye that has been abandoned" and I'll respond with something along the lines of "Well, we've got plenty of space, what's another cat to us?" Maggie thinks of the feeding, the damage to the house, the things being pulled off the shelves and the vet's bills and common sense saves the day. But, a couple of weeks ago there was a picture of a few weeks old Siamese like kitten with watery eyes on the Facebook page. Usual comment from Maggie, usual reply from me. I'd reckoned without the euphoria of the English quarter final victory though. So we now have a newish kitten in the house. Bea and Teo aren't happy about the new arrangement but the violence has been low key to date.

The first name that popped into my mind for a male "Siamese" cat was Samuel. So we had a provisional name. The name may not be definitive though, There has been a small scale discussion on Facebook against his picture. I just sent a longish reply to someone who posted there and I thought to repeat the comment here....

We have this sort of tradition of proper names in keeping with calling them him or her rather than it - Matilda, Mary, Eduardo, Harold, Beatríz, Teodoro and Gertrudis to date though, on a day to day basis the names inevitably get shortened and we use both the anglicised and hispanic versions. The cats that don't get a proper name - Mr Big Balls, Stripy Pants and Hissy Missy are the ones that only sponge off us but never get to pull threads on the sofa or lie in front of the pellet burner. So Samuel, which can be pronounced like the better Tadcaster beer maker or in a Spanish sort of way, as something like Samwell, works fine. Then Maggie wondered aloud about Sebastián so I started looking through names that began with S  because we thought S to go with Siamese. A bit like Martin, Melissa or Mandy the Meyncoun and Paco, Pedro or Penelope the Persian. We both liked Sancho. Sancho of course was the proleterian hero, the voice of reason behind The Knight of the Sad Countenance, El Quijote or Don Quixote so, although there is no obvious English equivalent I definitely approve of Sancho as a name. But I like Samuel too.

So, if you have any thoughts; vote!, vote!, vote!.