It’s been a quietish few weeks. And although it seems spring might finally be on its way, it’s worth noting that my hair actually froze on the way to work this morning. I wasn’t aware that was a thing hair could do, unless encouraged by monstrous quantities of adolescent hair gel. Anyway, no surprise that the most appealing activities have been indoors and primarily sofa-based: “let’s watch the new series of Doctor Who from the start!” “let’s struggle to answer more than a handful of University Challenge questions while cheering on Michael and the Caius team!” “let’s find out David Cameron’s latest excuse for ducking a TV debate!” (Nope, haven’t given up my British TV habits quite yet.)
I did go see two more plays! (Note to self: no one reading cares about these plays or will have any opportunity to see them. Reply from self: carry on.) Plastic Revolution is a fun musical about Tupperware parties breaking out in the deadening nightmare of 50s suburbia, a show made with love and care but without taking itself seriously enough to be annoying. Sweetly, everyone I talked to afterwards who’d been around for the craze had their own story about being dragged along to a Tupperware party. It all seems so quaintly utilitarian. I want to live in an age when inventions “solved a problem” like storing leftover food rather than “solved the problem” of not being able to save Snapchats, or whatever it is you kids do these days.
The other play was Mr. Burns, which looked forwards instead of backwards to a post-apocalyptic future where a small band of survivors pass time by recounting Cape Feare, that wonderful Simpsons episode where Sideshow Bob steps on a load of rakes and sings the HMS Pinafore. Over time, this storytelling takes on a life of its own and mutates into quasi-religious folklore. This is the kind of play which divides opinion. I actually thought the surreal final act was the best part, while Randi thought exactly the opposite. We both believed that the two men sitting behind us deserved immediate and sustained violent retribution for being so loud. (If you can’t come to the theatre and be quiet for a few hours, don’t come. Stay at home and narrate your inner monologue to your TV instead.)
One exception to the indoors rule: dedicating a chilly Sunday to putting together a video for my Grandpa’s 90th birthday. (Happy birthday!) I believe the idea was for a ‘short video message’, but 88 takes later we’d assembled quite a masterpiece. I’m considerably more in awe of people who manage to recite a couple of sentences to camera without breaking down burbling.
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