Crikey, a month since I wrote anything!!

I seem to be forever saying “I’m so busy!” lately.  But tomorrow is Good Friday, which means church for my church-going friends and for the rest of us, a four day weekend.  Oof. A chance to catch my breath...

I worked through my lunch break today; but it was the first time in over two months that I have done that.  In the previous job I had to do it two or three times a week.  The new job remains refreshingly structured and organise-able compared to the old one, too.  And my new manager Paul still hasn’t shown his Dark Side – if he has one, which I am beginning to doubt.  So busy or no I am feeling decidedly cheerful about work. 

Of course there is the odd chaotic group planner, and the odd startlingly rude one, and as always from time to time I have IT problems.  Next spring is going to be a harder sell than usual because we don’t have our regular Trop-Ex tropical flower exhibition in February, which is a great pity.  And the weather has turned chilly after a beautifully mild March.   So it isn’t all shiny, but shiny enough for now.

But Kew is looking lovely, with delicate new leaves opening everywhere, glorious displays of magnolias and crab apple blossom, the first cherry blossom, early lilac species and azaleas, and great banks of native fritillaries near the river; and my own little bit of garden in Chiswick is looking lovely too in its more modest way.   I have been busy outside of work with sketching (I’m having a real fit of duck-drawing) and sewing, and tidying the garden, and I’ve been to the David Hockney exhibition at the Royal Academy (wonderful: if you possibly can, go!) as well as two very enjoyable mixed bills by the English National Ballet and a couple of excellent concerts, including Britten’s “War Requiem” with Mark Padmore, the chap who was at school with my brother Steve, a heart-rending tenor soloist. 

ENB are in good form, though I managed to get rather a lot of Dmitri Gruzdyev, a dancer I find dismally uncharismatic, both nights – I would much prefer to have seen pretty much any of their other men as Nijinsky’s Faun, never mind as Balanchine’s Apollo – I don’t mean to sound bitchy, but Apollo he ain’t!!  The three Muses I saw were lovely, though, and Erina Takahashi was a terrific sacrifice in “The Rite of Spring”.  David Dawson’s “Faun/e”, a new piece on me, was gorgeous despite the men’s silly “will it fall off or not?” costumes, and “Suite en Blanc” looked even more luscious second time around.  

Steve, incidentally, has got his plaster cast off and is progressing well with physiotherapy.

A ray of watery sun has just filtered through the clouds; may it be a good omen for the weekend ahead! 

Against the blanched white clouds

Where last month there were only

Dark branches like scars, now

Everywhere I see shivers of green. 

Birds sing, or hop scuffling

Among the flashing celandines.

The swans stake out their usual demesne

By the lake, and a thousand coots

Chase one another like ninja chicks

Across the grey spring waters.

All go this week...

 It’s been very busy since I started the new role at the beginning of last month.  It’s a different kind of busy-ness to my previous job – here, one can plan and organise far more, because there is less necessity to be constantly picking up on the steady stream of new enquiries, which could feel at times like being under fire from incoming missiles.  I don’t have to do as much firefighting of sudden weirdnesses or disasters, or as much thinking on my feet, and I don’t have to deal with nearly so many really strange random things, either.  Now I’ve got over the ten days or so of grogginess which that minor operation had left me with, and the very heavy period that followed it last weekend, I have begun to feel more like a normal human being again, and I think (I hope) I’m getting my head round my new job a bit better. 

Stephen is coping well with his broken wrist, I’m glad to say; much better than I did two years ago with mine.  He’s probably a lot fitter than me, and it is his non-dominant hand, which must help.  I listen and make admiring noises on the ‘phone.

I had a touch of backache on Monday, following my first really serious gardening session of the spring at the weekend.  It was raining, and I took advantage of that to do some planting and transplanting.  I put in some echinceas and asters, and a dicentra I got in Poundshop and sowed the first of my seeds, and then did some weeding and pruning jobs.  I then did a lot of cleaning.  All three of my housemates have moved out in the last two weeks, which is a pretty weird coincidence; it’s odd to have the house to myself, but I don’t suppose it will be for long.  If anyone knows anyone looking for digs in west London, send them this way. 

Culturally this has been a slightly insane month.  Last Thursday I had a Philharmonia concert, Monday night I went to the Royal Ballet double bill of “The Dream” and “Song of the Earth”; Wednesday I went to “The Death of Klinghoffer” at the ENO, and last night I was at the ballet again, having managed to get a return for “Romeo and Juliet”.  Tonight I actually get to have an evening in – then tomorrow I’m out again, seeing Giraudoux’ “Ondine” with friends.  Next week I have another Philharmonia concert, the week after I have tickets for an English National Ballet mixed bill and the “War Requiem”, and the week after that the RB revival of “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” and a second ENB mixed bill.  Then things get a bit quieter!   I hardly know where to start with reviewing...

Music first.  The Philharmonia concert was Schoenberg and Beethoven; odd but effective bedfellows (please excuse the kinky image).  Mitsuko Uchida was the soloist in the Schoenberg piano concerto, wonderfully magisterial and jazzy, and then the second half was a thrilling seventh symphony.  My favourite maestro Salonen was conducting, with his customary combination of lucidity and passion, and the orchestra always play their socks off for him.  Then “Klinghoffer” the evening before last; a fine production of a beautiful and painful piece.  I’m a fan of Adams’ music, though the opacity of some of the libretto is irritating, and this was well worth seeing.  As for the accusations of unacceptable political bias, it struck me a remarkably even-handed over a dreadfully sensitive subject.  It is one of the duties of the artist to try and be honest, after all, and another to look at serious subjects.  By all means let the offended cry “I’m offended!” – otherwise we have no freedom of speech – but if they cry “You have no right to offend me, and so I will silence you!”  - then we have no freedom of speech, and not even the freedom to say so.  If works of art may not address any difficult or sensitive subject without being threatened with censorship for having caused offense, then god help us all.

Ballet.  “The Dream” was, well, dreamy.  It’s one of those little Ashton mini-masterpieces, a pure gem, perfectly  polished, balancing humour, charm, grace, love, magic, and fiendishly difficult technical challenges (the latter disguised with consummate delicacy as simple beauties).  He takes Shakespeare’s play and sums it up brilliantly.  Paul Kay’s cat-soft landing was an asset for his athletic Puck; Roberta Marquez’ Titania was like a sexy creature of air, Steven McRae was a sinuous, polished, decidedly nasty Oberon.  Oberon has a signature move (which probably has a proper technical name – a fast pirouette that slows to a controlled standstill and then goes straight into a sort of arabesque penchée) that looks agonisingly difficult; McRae glides through this repeatedly, looking completely at ease, and still acts while he does it.   “Song of the Earth” was, well, Mahlerian; emotionally socking, profound yet simple, evocative and tragic.

I had been meant to be going to “Romeo and Juliet” this weekend with friends but it fell through, so I was very happy to get a single returned ticket in a good spot in the Amphitheatre.  More Marquez and McRae.  Fabulous.

I know this isn’t a term one would often see used in a ballet review, but the best word I can think of is raw.  It was incredibly raw.  Not in technique – this was a top-notch cast and the company as a whole were going full-on and flat-out.   But raw in feeling; acutely naturalistic and fresh. 

Steven McRae has one of the most exposed faces I’ve ever seen; every emotion burns across him like electricity.   His chemistry with Marquez is intense, and really brings out the youth, the inexperience, the headlong recklessness of the two lovers, and their hopeless inability to hold back in the face of disaster.  It may sound a bit bizarre, but the acting, right the way through the cast, was of such an order that at times I didn’t really register the dancing; the dancing was so completely at the service of the drama.  

One little example; Roberta Marquez as Juliet, starting to relax with Paris as she dances with him at the ball, so that you see she has begun to feel more confident things will work out in this arranged marriage, with this perfectly presentable older man – but then she meets Romeo and unleashes the full flexibility of her back; it’s as though her body has suddenly come into its own, and in her increasingly pliant, yielding movement one sees volumes of sensual self-discovery.  It was acting through dancing.  One doesn’t need words, with a performance of this calibre.  Marquez is also the deadest drugged Juliet I have seen; McRae was really lugging her, in the tomb scene, the horrible indignity of it adding to his agony.  And McRae does a good line in agony; he can make a spin tortured, yet equally he has the dramatic sense to stand stock still, as though frozen by horror, during the dying Mercutio’s last dance.  He has also, it would seem, studied exactly what a very fast-acting herbal poison would do - “Oh true apothecary, thy drugs are quick!” – his is not a romantic death at all, but startlingly gritty.  The legs and hands going numb, the heart muscles and the muscles of the chest rapidly paralysed so that breathing becomes unsustainable and the circulation stops; collapse and death follow swiftly...  and I cry into my binoculars.

I wonder what the play of “Ondine” will be like?  I haven’t read it, but Giraudoux was a fine writer.  Someone ought to revive “La Folle de Chaillot”, I’m sure that would go down well in the present social climate.  Probably too inflammatory, with its message of the ordinary people resisting and eventually eliminating the capitalist leeches who want to destroy their lives...   Goodness knows I can think of a few capitalist leeches I’d like to see lured into the sewers of Paris and left there.

On which unkind note I will leave you, and say, have a good weekend!

Things could be a lot worse...

I've been feeling more awake and more compos mentis today.  And it's a good thing, because I just had a 'phone call from my elder brother, who is feeling completely dazed and discombobulated after falling on a wet floor at the sports centre, on the way out of a badminton match, and breaking his left wrist.

Big Bro has been pretty healthy and very active all his life (not like me, then!).  He's only been an in-patient in hospital once, and that was just for day surgery.  He's never had a plaster cast before.  He sounds distinctly as if he's still in shock.

I've been where he is now, and anything I can do to help him, I will.  But he has to do most of it by himself.  Family and friends can be a big help, but no-one can take away the pain, or give you back the endless nights of poor (or no) sleep.  Poor bloke; and because he's several hundred miles away I can't just drop everything and go straight round after work tonight, because I wouldn't be able to get back the same evening, and I have to be at work again tomorrow. 

It certainly reminded me of how much worse life can be than just taking a week to get over an anaesthetic, though.  Poor old Steve, he doesn't deserve this.

Dopey, Mopey and Muddley

I had my minor operation last Thursday – a hysteroscopy (=camera up fanny) and biopsy.  Fun – not.  Apparently everything looked good, normal and healthy inside – so the biopsy result will take about two months to process because there was no need to prioritise it.  I’m not complaining – I’m very glad that it wasn’t a case of “Oh my God, are you seeing what I’m seeing?  That looks like a textbook malign heebeegeeby - quick, get this woman’s samples to the lab, stat!”  But a two month wait for confirmation of the visual all-clear is a bit trying.  And in the meantime I have to get over having had a general anaesthetic.

I’m one of those people who react badly to anaesthesia.  I don’t mean seriously medically badly – I don’t get hypoxic or have blackouts or develop DVT, thank goodness.  I just need to sleep for several days, and when I am awake I am dazed and monosyllabic, and am baffled by simple tasks (like multiplication).  For the first couple of days, even trying to have a coherent conversation defeats me.  When I came back to work yesterday I still felt as though my brain were full of feathers; thinking through problems and sorting out work priorities was ghastly. If I had not known how very under par I was, it would have been terrifying.  I’m in a new job, and yesterday it looked as though I would never have a hope of getting my head around it.  Today I am a bit better.  I only feel like a convalescent, not a dementia victim, and consequently the job looks manageable again.

A few years ago I elected to have my wisdom teeth out under sedation rather than have an anaesthetic.  It’s a pretty scary procedure – I had no idea how much crashing around, wrenching and thumping at the patient’s face would be involved (no wonder one is bruised to bejayzus afterwards) – but compared to the semi-comatose state I’m in now, anything is preferable. 

Does anyone else have this problem?  Websites like NHS Direct and BUPA barely give it a mention.  Yet I can’t believe I’m that unusual.  To sum up, at present I am:

Sleepy - all the time

Depressed and mope-ish

Muddle-headed and easily confused

Weepy

And my sense of balance is shot to pieces.

Does that catalogue of symptoms ring any bells with anyone? 

I cannot wait to feel normal again.  We just don’t think about what a blessing normality is, until suddenly it is taken away!

Hectic week...

It's been a hectic few days as we prepare for the big shake-up and switch-around as people move to new desks/offices/buildings...  Work reshuffles are a lot of hassle. 

To add to it all, I've been trying to get a hospital appointment rescheduled, and have been unable to get through to the hospital by telephone or email.  Very frustrating.  In the end, rather than lose the appointment & get bumped and blacklisted as a DNA ("did not attend"), I have had to change all my other plans, cancel a long weekend off, and make arrangements to go in for my day surgery tomorrow.  Luckily my lovely bonkers ex-flat-mate Kez is free tomorrow and can collect me afterwards and take me home - according to the info they send with the appointment letter, the hospital won't carry out the procedure if I don't have someone to meet me afterwards.  The possibility that not everyone can produce someone who can just drop everything and schlep out to Fulham doesn't appear to come into their planning.  But it will be lovely to see K again as we haven't met up for several months; and we can go home to chew the fat and put the world to rights over tea and chocolate biscuits if I am compos mentis enough...

Bitter cold still, and on Saturday night and Sunday last weekend we had snow in London.  It's almost all melted now, but was very messily dramatic for a few days. The snowdrops at work and in my own garden have hung on boldly throughout, though.

Not looking forward to tomorrow.  I don't enjoy going under a general anaesthetic.  Obviously the alternative would be far worse - but I always feel really dopey afterwards. 

Ah, bitter cold it was...

After an unconscionably mild Christmas, and a January that was almost warm, with spring bulbs rushing to get on with life, we have suddenly this week been hit by a good, hard winter freeze.  I'm not sure the temperature has gone above freezing all day (apologies to friends in Scandinavia - I do know that to you this is mild!).  Outside in the Gardens the snowdrops are holding their own in glittering ranks, but many other over-eager flowers have been stricken. 

Today is clear and still and one's breath rises like ice-mist.  In the early morning I walked through from the gate through to the office in the brilliant oblique light, and the stillness all around was uncanny.  Just one robin was singing, a thin trail of sound from the holly tree by the back door.  The only other sound was the crunch of my feet on the rock-hard ground.  

But in the Alpine House there are bowls of scented narcissi - N. papyraceus with its silvery-white blooms, and the delicate, golden N. jonquilla.  And in the Princess of Wales Conservatory the big Tropical Extravaganza displays are completed, all set for the official opening tomorrow - great banks and columns of anthuriums and orchids, swinging curtains of tillandsias, bromeliads like torches...  Colour and warmth, such a blessing at this time of year.

Now the forecast is for possible snow on Sunday.  Brr...  I'm taking my head-cold home now to give it more vitamin C and echinacea.  Have a good weekend and keep warm, everyone!

A sad departure...

As a self-confessed balletomane, I suppose I have to say something about last week’s startling news,  Sergei Polunin’s exit from the Royal Ballet – and, judging by the latest story in the Daily Telegraph, even possibly from dancing altogether (the Telegraph isn’t my regular news source, incidentally! - far too centre-right for me, but their arts coverage is usually good). 

I have to admit I am not as overwhelmed by the loss of Mr Polunin as some.  Yes, he is a very showy technician.  Cor blimey, what a jump.  Cor BLIMEY, what entrechats...  And yes, he has a splendidly haughty, princely stage presence, and he is fantastically good-looking (provided you like cheekbones).  But I’m afraid I had rather got him labelled in my mind as not-fully-formed, because for my money he didn’t always seem terribly engaged dramatically.  There are some more disengaged chaps around, but there are also chaps at the RB I’d much rather see. 

When I saw a little while ago that it was going to be Mr Polunin dancing in “Marguerite and Armand” with Tamara Rojo I was a bit worried.  Ms Rojo is not only a phenomenal technician, she also acts with every breath in her body, and it is a real pain when one sees her paired with a bloke who looks blankly at her and doesn’t engage at all.  I can think of one young man, who shall remain nameless, going through the motions with perfect, bland accomplishment while at his side Ms Rojo emitted passion down to her fingernails.  

Luckily in “Marguerite and Armand” Mr Polunin came out of his shell and gave a tremendous performance, totally spot-on dramatically as well as technically.  For the first time I could really see why some of the papers had been acclaiming him as the next Really Huge Big Star.   He had a real chemistry with Ms Rojo and the performance was very, very good.  But Ms Rojo was the real star, even then. 

I know I’m not an expert and I’ve obviously been missing some extra fillip of terrificness in those jumps, entrechats etc.  But my main feeling is more one of sadness for Mr Polunin.  It’s such a waste, that a talented young man who could have been a Big Star (even if he wasn’t really one yet) has apparently flipped slightly and chucked in one of the very top jobs in his profession.  It seems a real shame, and no-one should have to be so stressed by their work that they reach that stage.  Who knows what went on behind the scenes? – certainly not me.  But I hope he gets his life sorted out.  If he truly doesn’t want to go on in the dance world, I hope he finds something else to do, something to which he is genuinely committed.  As it is, it just looks as though Mr Polunin was the “short-twitch muscle” equivalent of Ed no.1; not so much blessed as blessed-and-cursed by his enormous potential.

And in the meantime while we wait to see what the poor lad decides to do next, at least in the world of ballet everyone is used to sudden cast changes and to stepping in at short notice to fill a gap.  Anyone who had booked to see Mr Polunin as Oberon in Ashton’s “The Dream”, opening tonight, will get Steven McRae instead, and one can hardly feel short-changed by that (I had booked to see Mr McRae anyway, but then for my money he already is a Star – I’d pay good money to watch him stand at the side of the stage and look thoughtful).

Not much to report on my own account at the moment.  My head cold is coming out (cue loud sneeze) and my first day in the new job has gone quietly.  Now I’m off home to eat curry and try to finish Fairy Story number 2.  All the main characters are now under enchantments of one kind or another, and I have a big confrontation scene to write as they face off with the twin sorcerers who are responsible.  Eee, should be fun!