Fifty Words, written by Michael Weller and directed by Lawrence Boswell, is the final production in a trio of contemporary American plays at Bath's Ustinov Studio. It's actually, according to the playwright's notes, one of a triology of plays exploring the roles of marriage and infidelity, but stands alone powerfully as a dissection of the Icarus night of one high-flying couple. Rumi could have written the introduction:
A night full of talking that hurts, my worst held-back secrets: Everything has to do with loving and not-loving.

“Is this what couples talk about when their kid has a first sleepover?” Janine wonders to Adam as they reminisce about the blow-job in a taxi the night they met. Lust is only one word for love: Jan thinks we need more, fifty of them like Eskimos have for snow, but this couple can't seem to find the right lexican as they explore bickering and blame, taunts and rants, recrimination and assault. Jan’s frustration has traditional roots ~ she gave up her career for his ~ but there are enough unpredictable elements to avoid cliche in this provocative insight into that familiar struggle of coupledom: to find intimacy while not stifling individuality.  

What gives this psychological case-study dramatic edge is the constant shadow of the unseen little boy at the sleepover, the final knot between them, like his parents trying and failing to hide from reality. It's a stunning show which will undoubtedly gather stars magnetically: an excellent set by Simon Kenny, superb lighting (Richard Howell) and atmospheric sound (Fergus O'Hare) all work evocatively to support heartbreakingly convincing performances from Richard Clothier and Claire Price, both mesmeric throughout. It's on till 15th June ~ recommended.

Another quick plug for Snapshots at IGNITE Theatre Festival Exeter, a Ripped Script production at The Globe Inn on June 7th of six short plays one of which is mine:

"The Human Angle is a comedy about the difficulty in using theatre as a platform for protest. It's a play with a serious intention but, as Shaw said, life does not cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh. I hope you will laugh, but I hope you'll join the Stop The War Coalition too."

And I have neither excuse nor pretext for ending this post with a burst of UST, as Mills & Boon call their special ingredient of unresolved sexual tension, in this OTT wallow in Regency romance... Watch and weep. And probably eat several chocolates...

 Shanklin town on the Isle of Wight, Yannis tells us in his welcome session on Friday night, has more sunshine than anywhere else in the UK. Shanklin clearly knows its holiday-destination USP, eschewing trivia like cappuccino and wifi to plump all its assets into long sun-gilded sandy strands topped by esplanades. The entire resort evokes one of those beach summer holidays of childhood you remember, or misremember, or maybe read about in a book published soon after the war... deck-chairs and beach games, icecream cornets and sandwiches, and sea that laps discretely against the shore as if loath to make a fuss. This entirely peaceful setting would be perfect for a Miss Marple murder mystery in fact, and I wonder if ITV has commissioned one as I'm walking the coast path to Sandown, which takes an hour including breaks to write, without seeing a single ipod or cellphone.
I haven't travelled here for the time-trekking however:  I'm at The Grange leading a Find Your Voice course that doesn’t give any of us much chance to slip into a slow-energy vibe as I've packed as many exercises as possible into the time available. Ten terrific writers all responded with great good humour and impressive skill, bonding as a group so well that by Saturday night we were all partying together like old friends. A great weekend and I hope to hear much more from these varied creative writing voices in future.

My litmus-paper exercise (I offer this freely to any writing group ~ I stole it from Mark Haddon) is a slimline description of location in perverse & inappropriate styles: this group without exception rose to the challenge brilliantly. I wish mine was as good ~ I took the notion of a recipe:
Take one seaside postcard printed early 1970s (full colour). 
Enlarge to life-size. 
Animate promenaders, dogs, children ~ slowly. 
 Add sound of waves ~ low volume. 
Garnish with golden gorse and enjoy.

 
An inspirational weekend but a grim train journey home: hours of delay from a fatality on the line.  Sympathy for the driver  calmed the boistrous drunks in my carriage but they got off and were supplemented by equally drunk and less empathetic football supporters... I'm just glad Southampton drew (with Stoke, if you were wondering.)

Back home and Nathan Filer is launching his first novel The Shock of the New in Bath.  Media enthusiasm is high but Nathan seems stunned so many have turned up in Toppings to hear his reading and buy "one of 2013's most anticipated books, following an 11-publisher bidding war, a compelling study of grief, madness and loss."  Despite this dark theme summary there are flashes of Nathanesque wit in the story and in the lively Q&A ~ along with fascinating insights into his writing process, one of which is to read every word out loud to check the rhythm and beat... Trust a poet!

Nearly a week ago since I watched San Francisco receding into blue distance: touchdown in Frome has been hectic but pleasant, beginning with a meeting of Frome Scriptwriters whose latest scripts will be performed next month at the Cornerhouse. When She Imagines is a trio of monologues, directed by Nevertheless producer Rosie Finnegan, which was commissioned as 'fringe' to the Imagine events at Rook Lane. Are Frome Scriptwriters resting cosily on their laurels? No of course not: they're already deep into the next project, Tales of the Tunnels, for Frome Festival.
Apropos things dramatic, here seems a good place for the link to my newly launched theatre blog: for some reason that now eludes me, I thought a good title would be Apart from that, Mrs Lincoln...

And while I'm at the self-promotion, Frozen Summer is now out on Kindle ~ it costs a quid, but think of the postage saved! And the trees... I've been recommending this free-to-use form of self-publishing for ages so it seemed only reasonable to try it. Provided you have a correctly edited Word file (no page breaks except for essential separation like new chapters and acknowledgements etc) publication takes literally only a few minutes ~ I did it in the departure lounge at San Francisco. I know some writers fear the stigma of 'Vanity Publishing' but self-publishing these days is not only respectable, it's a valuable contribution to diversity. 'We are the Farmers' Markets in a supermarket world' I like to say, with suitable fervour, and there's now even a major award solely for 'indie' writers, as non-commercially published authors are now termed.  The Guardian Books Blog quotes wonderful Kate Tempest as good practice: she self-published her first collection and subsequently hit the headlines by winning the Ted Hughes Award for her poem-play Brand New Ancients. Kate is interviewed in ideas tap, and her philosophy is one I completely relate to: If I felt something, I’d write it down. I never knew what it was for but actually all that writing has enabled to me know my palate and my writing style. If you’re a writer, then write constantly. Not for anybody to judge it but so you’re more comfortable at the page than away from it.  

On Wednesday Writing Events Bath organised A Gathering Of Writers talking about their work in support of Dorothy House, a cause as popular as the six authors contributing so the BRLSI was crammed.   Debby Holt, Lindsay Hawdon, Andrew Miller, Lesley Pearse, Nathan Filer and Tania Hershman proved a very successful medley of different voices, each with an interesting take on their personal craft, and all picking fascinating extracts to share. I liked especially Debby's view that 'writing is a way of making sense of our lives', and Nathan's reading from his debut novel. I've been a fan of Nathan for nearly a decade, since he came to Frome to contribute to Urban Scrawl ~ a night of performance poetry I organised as the climax of my year as Writer in Residence at the Merlin Theatre ~ and it's no surprise that now he's turned his writing hand to prose there was an 11-way auction battle for The Shock of the Fall. HarperCollins won. It's out in hard-back - but you can get it on Kindle at half the price...

Blue sky days are over now. Long journey home began languorously in the posh lounge of San Francisco airport (courtesy of a musician friend who also works in the control tower) and ended with a bumpy landing direct into a war zone. Luckily however, World War II turns out to have been wildly funny and a little bit vulgar ~ at least in the slippery fingers of writer-performers Stu Mcloughlin and Howard Coggins. Adolf and Winston is the new show from Living Spit, the theatre company with a mission to "make poorly-researched historical comedy-drama about people that one of us vaguely looks like", on the grounds that Howard looks a bit like Churchill when wearing a bowler hat and a cigar. Even when that's all he does wear.

Because he's in the bath, following political events by phone, realistic crackle-on-the-line provided by a crisp packet. From 1939 to the outbreak of war there's insight into Hitler's invasion plan ~ Howard a camp Rudolf Hess as the Führer searches for ‘somewhere nobody gives a shit about’ (other than Wales) ~ and flashback with ukulele to his rejection by the Viennese Academy of Fine Art despite powerful self-expression in paintings entitled things like 'Jew with a knife in his skull.' We see Churchill haunted by the black dog of depression ~ Stu with a guitar and a fuzzy nose ~ rallying to England's call.  Insults between evil Hun and good Brit escalate into literal struggle for the spot-light until, abruptly time-aware, they decide to set a visible stop watch and tell ~ in a song ~ 'The story of the war in 15 minutes.' Ludicrous truncation brings success to the second: Howard as Mussolini, Stu with pan-brush moustache as Stalin, as Roosevelt, and in a splendid finale as 'the soon-to-be-dead dictator' in a bunker with Eva Braun, who looks remarkably like Howard, in a stomach-hurtingly funny suicide pact scene. The innovative comedy of Living Spit spills endlessly, but what's most impressive is their ability to create mercurial mood-change, terminating hilarity by producing Star of David armbands to share a genuinely moving moment of reflection on that unspeakable extermination. Clever set, witty props, great lighting, terrific musicality, no wonder the full house demanded three curtain calls, and I wish I could say still on at BOV basement, go see! but I was only just in time myself.

Is this the right time for a relaunch Strindberg's Miss Julie, a tragedy of stifled individualism from an era of rigid classism as harsh for the mistress as for the servants?  UK Touring Theatre think it is, and have spent a long time reworking the original script in a 'translation for the 21st century.' Unfortunately much of this accessibility comes across like a Carry On movie, an impression not erased by long sections of stage business with kitchen fittings. Reviewers have not been kind to the production, with one star from What's On Stage and mumblings of lack-lustre direction, clumsy translation, and some performances that wouldn't be out of place in an am-dram church hall production. He didn't think much of the sound, either. I'd agree about most of those, and throw in lighting design too, but I think good actors did the best they could with direction which, like the script, seemed over-forced into unreal realism. The result was a ponderous 'naturalism' swerving abruptly into mania, which is probably why the characters' fights were electric but their connection had no eroticism. It didn't help that Adam Redmayne was miscast as Jean, looking more Dick Van Dyke than Mellors. But, having said all that, it was a better way to spend the evening than anything on telly, and the Merlin audience were warm in their applause.

I was in America when Maria Miller made her debut speech as culture minister and, like the by-election results, found reports online depressing. "In an age of austerity, our focus must be on economic impact..." well, no. In any age the role of art for communities as for individuals is health not wealth ~ although of course by any standards other than capitalism, our health is our most valuable asset. I've started another blog (Apart from that, Mrs Lincoln...) specifically to write about theatre stuff, actually, so I'll post my further thoughts there...
... and end this posting with a last look at my Californian retreat. Lots of coastal walking ~ about two or three hours a day ~ and both my writing projects completed. And good news about two shorts reaching performance. My monologue In These Shoes is online here ~ thanks Clare Reddaway for that! ~ and The Human Angle will be in the IGNITE festival in Exeter on June 7th, produced by Jon Nash's excellent Ripped Script company from Salisbury. I hope to get to see this one!

Another timeslip week of writing and ~ mostly ~ walking along the glorious coastline here, watching the birds: pelicans cruising overhead, curlew and teeny sanderlings paddling the rim of the sea, immigrant gulls that have travelled 190 miles from Lake Mono to this shore... The wild flowers are vividly indifferent to colour co-ordination in a way that  would exasperate an interior decorator ~ orange poppies, pink and golden iceplants, yellow daisies, blue iris, maroon scabeous, and big bushes of purple-blue echium where bee-sized humming birds buzz. And as well as seals sunbathing on Moss Beach, this week I had a distant glimpse of two Big Grey whales, jetting spray and breaching the water like dolphins.
On Wednesday Mo and I went to Ocean Beach where we found hundreds of sand-dollars littering the low-tide sand. These beautiful circular formations are not shells but skeletons of animals: they're  echinoderms like starfish and sea-urchins. Live ones would have a dark red fluffy covering, a bit like a 1970s Plumbs sofa-cover, but these are definitely collectors items.

As the temperature topped 23 degrees, and I'd finished my 'month of poems', I inaugurated a 'poem space' ~ simply staring at the taffeta tones of the sky without word-shaping. My last piece in the poem notebook was a Recipe for Miramar Beach cocktail:
     1    Beat some sea foam into firm peaks and set aside
     2    Sift white sand with enough saffron to tint to the colour cappuccino icecream
     3    Take a vat of Blue Curaçao and pour steadily on the base
     4    Slowly add Crème de Violette to deepen the tone at the top of the blue
     5    Spoon the beaten foam along the base
     6    Add a twist of birdsong, garnish with golden poppies, and enjoy!


Thursday night was a trip to the city for a meal in Original Joe's and to see Beach Blanket Babylon, the world's longest running musical review, served up old-fashioned music-hall style with red-curtained stage and drinks service to your seat. It's a unique-to-San-Francisco show, billed as 'hilarious spoofs of pop culture and political characters, spectacular costumes, outrageously gigantic hats...'  and that's all true. Fast moving, funny, with gloriously OTT costumes ~ the headgear gets crazier and crazier, culminating in a massive hat comprising the entire skyline of the city in the final number. My favourite sketch was Thriller with a brilliant Michael Jackson impersonator and the English royal family as the zombies....

My last full week here ended with a great music night at Mo and Anjas, fantastic food and five hours a fabulous playing & singing from seven guitarists and a fiddler ~ including, this being California, Dylan, Paul Simon, the Eagles... today we all feel a little frail.

Meanwhile, back in my real world, good reports of the Story Friday night which included my monologue, and I'm pleased I'll be back in time to see my short play The Human Angle produced by Ripped Script for the Exeter IGNITE festival ~ it's on at the Globe Inn on June 7th, bookable here.

Kate Atkinson can't write without a title. "If you have a title, your thoughts gather to it like iron filings to a magnet," she explains during her Q&A session at Bay Books in Strawflower Village, just off Half Moon Bay, on Thursday night.  It's an unexpected privilege to hear a master of her craft in this crowded little bookshop the other side of the world.  She's a witty speaker, with the same dry humour as in her characters use ~ particularly when responding to the more baffling aspects of audience sycophancy: ("How do you know when to turn from yin to yang, Kate?" "I have no idea.").
Dave Minton and I arrived with notebooks in hand, agog to glean tips, while Mo was there as a long-time fan of her Jackson Brodie books.  He lent me Case Histories, which is utterly brilliant, full of blood and dour hilarity. (Does Kate like the TV version? "It is what it is, it's television. If you do a deal with the devil, at some point you have to stop screaming.") Here's Jason Isaacs as her laconically sexy private eye: Kate likes his look but his Yorkshire accent she says is rubbish.

There's been coastal fog in the morning several times this week, holding back the sunshine and blitzing blue sky until afternoon, which has been good to keep me focussed on the writing schedule I arrived here with, or at least some of it. Amazingly, I've kept up the poem-a-day-throughout-April challenge from Carrie Etter (whose blog has some great prompts.) Not all achieve what could be called lyricism, but musing and scribbling along the beaches, headlands, and coastal paths has been a fabulous way to spend the hours. I've been up as far as the Moss Beach marine reserve to watch baby seals bouncing down the beach like hoppity balls, and all the way down Half Moon Bay where the dunes are thick with pink and golden iceplant flowers. The birdlife here is amazing: plovers and curlew fishing in the lowtides, while on the cliffs there's the drama of egg-robbing raptors mobbed and chased away by the tiny blackbirds. It's easy to go into a total reverie but that would be dangerous when re-entering human habitation: road rules here, to my alien mind, seem completely chaotic. Crossing the highway involves pressing a button and waiting for an illuminated little man on the far side, which is logical, but almost immediately a big red hand starts to flash a warning countdown as six lanes of traffic thrums beside you, and as in America drivers are allowed to turn right when the lights are red against them if the road seems clear, and truck drivers appear to think this means clear of vehicles not bodies, this can be scary. On sideroads, paradoxically, cars courtously stop at the sight of me lurking on the sidewalk. Baffling.

On Saturday night we drove 'over the hill' for supper ~ about the distance of Bristol from Frome but over here this is almost like popping to the local. Fusion Peruvian Grill does a fantastic platter of red snapper and seafood, if you're ever wondering where to go in downtown San Mateo. Today the sun's out, the sea's blue and so's the sky, and I can't believe my time here is half over already...

Sunday morning in El Granada... in Café Classique beside the shore, with mellow guitar playing and full-on sunshine through the cedar trees. It's my writing-and-walking month in California, but after the winter we've had I've done more striding than scribing. I think when I packed to come here I'd forgotten what spring is supposed to feel like, I had to get myself a tee-shirt from the Thrift shop I was so unprepared for warmth.



This is the view I never tire of. 
Silver-grey sand, platinum blue where newly wet, 
spreading from my feet for miles beneath 
that inconceivably enormous, unbelievably blue, sky. 
Soft moon, frail as half blown dandelion down. 
Purr of white waves at the lip of the long topaz sea. 
Cliffs saffron in the afternoon sun, flickered by 
seagull shadows.  The moon rises as I write. 
A moment of eternal transience.  Another of them. 
I gather it in with the rest of the harvest.

Mo and Anja's new house, where I'm staying, is not only temptingly close to the beach but also has an enticing back garden perfect for reading in the sun... cue for a book recommendation: The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joy ~ an engrossing tale beautifully told, plangent with truths about life and death and love. Harold learns along the way that it was the smallness of people that filled him with wonder and tenderness, and the loneliness of that too. The world was made up of people putting one foot in front of the other... and he learns more too, in a touching redemptive conclusion to his 627 mile pilgrimage. Mo's friend Dave Minton is a writer too, and my first evening here coincided with one of his Spoken Word nights. I persuaded Mo to co-read my short play Park & Ride as my contribution, and his perfectionistism demanded so many rehearsals the piece went down a storm. Quieter evenings all lovely too, conversing over supper as sun sets over Half Moon Bay.

Back in the UK: May 3rd is the next Story Friday in Bath at Burdall's Yard where I would definitely be at 8pm if I could, since as well as organising a really good event, A Word In Your Ear will include my latest monologue In These Shoes, performed by Kilter Theatre.  If you go, do send me feedback, I'll be wondering with fingers crossed...

Friday night's Hip Yak at the Archangel in Frome was, as performance poetry enthusiasts will see from a glance at the names on the poster, joyful, provocative, and 'Blimey, kaleidescopic!' as aptly summarised by my vox pop. Chris Redmond, Jonny Fluffypunk, and Liv Torc are all worthy headliners in their own right, and if you add Byron Vincent as guest, you're certain of a fantastic night of offbeat wit & highly original imagery. What's great about all these poets' observational comedy is the way they share something of  themselves, and Byron digs deepest of all. I randomly managed to win the Yakety Yak slam too ~ didn't have the forethought to photo my trophy in situ so here it is back home about to be ceremonially placed on the telly alongside the Mother's Day card that says 'Well it's been lovely but now I have to scream.'

And now I'm off to pack. My next posting will be from Half Moon Bay in California, where I intend to divide my time between writing and walking along the bay where the Pacific waves roll against dunes rich with pink and golden ice-plants... and enjoying the company of my generous friends who take me into their home for a month at a time. It's a loving connection that goes back to 1964 so plenty of reminiscences too...

Two Gentlemen of Verona the second of Andrew Hilton’s productions for SATTF this spring, is one of Shakespeare’s early plays but it has all the confidence and zest of the later comedies with a plot slightly more easy to follow. Basically, only one of these two avowed friends is actually a gentleman: the other is a disloyal, devious, and disturbingly inattentive to detail since he can’t recognise his own dumped girlfriend in slacks pretending to be a boy… Mistaken identity, and the convention of impenetrable disguise, are themes and conceits the bard used much in later plays, and here they send abandoned Julia off with her maid to find, and forgive, deceitful Proteus and restore Silvia to loyal Valentine so the mixed-up lovers, as at the end of Midsummer Night’s Dream, can be reunited. The laughs ~ and there are many ~ come mainly from the servants’ interaction with their masters and mistresses, and with each other, which is so fast-paced and droll one suspects much credit should be given to Dominic Power for his ‘edition and additional lyrics'. Set and costume design are delightful, elegantly evoking an indolent era of class distinctions, and an amazing cast ensure each scene sparkles with high-energy wit. Special appreciation to Piers Wehner as Proteus who manages the difficult feat of remaining endearing despite his conniving, Jack Bannell as a gorgeously heroic Valentine and Chris Donnelly who with Lollio as Crab the dog provided some of the best moments in a superb evening of theatre. It's on at Tobacco Factory till May 4th ~ go see in Bristol or follow the tour.

An untheatrical posting for a nontheatrical week. I seem to have been mostly preoccupied with stuff in the news, reflecting on the aptness of Bob Dylan's 50 year old lyrics you play with my world like it's your little toy... and re-posting parodies on Facebook.

There's more to depress than amuse, even in the risible claim of Iain Duncan-Donut that he could live on £53 a week, what with the insistence of George Osborne that welfare is 'hugely expensive' ~ not if you compare it to (as Michael Rosen does) bailing out bankers, turning a blind eye to tax havens and giving tax relief to top earner's pensions ~ and then the horrendous causal connection made by tories & tabloids between a psychopath who carelessly kills his children and everyone in the UK on benefits. A relief to read the sanity of Owen Jones and Grace Dent on this case. Even Ann Widdicombe showed a smattering of compassion until she got started on the depravity of communal living and the need for Social Services to remove children from households with more than two adults in a relationship. Good thing she didn't live in medieval times, she'd have cleared every building from tithebarns to manors. And now the Metal Lady is beyond reach of Atos evaluation as fit for work, I'm thankful again for Owen Jones to say it like it is: It will only be worth celebrating when Thatcherism is finally purged from this country, and a Britain run in the interests of working people is built. Then we really can rejoice.

Now for something completely delightful: Comme une Image (Look At Me) a movie from fantastic actor/writer/director Agnes Jaoui, made back in 2008 but fresh-feeling as well as funny, tender, and irresistible. Well-observed characters and a storyline that's endearing without being 'sweet', and above all a brilliantly economic script, showing how tight writing makes the subtext shine.

I'm ending with me on a rock called the Giant's Chair, a 100 metre drop on either side, on a four hour walk to celebrate that Saturday the sun came out...
And a link to where I began, as wonderful Elvis Mcgonagall joins a topical debate on BBC Weekend  (16 minutes in) with his incisive wit.

Creative initiatives are coming together in Frome: the Words at Frome Festival group has now submitted all our events to the brochure for publication, and Nevertheless Productions secured funding for our next pub theatre collaboration with Stepping Out ~ hence celebration, with tapas at the Garden Cafe.

Due to accidental embroilment at Tobacco Factory cafe in the launch party of Nigel Shipley's paintings of Bristol ~ I love this one of the marina ~ I nearly missed the launch party of Tobacco Factory Theatre's new season brochure which has an amazing range of innovative productions, from the ambitious balloon fiesta piece Hot Air in the main theatre to community shows like Hermione Steel and the Island of Lost Minds from Stepping Out Theatre at the Brewery. Great to see so much new writing!

Then on to An Act of Twisting at the Bierkeller, a chilling exploration of the psychology of torture ~ except 'We don't use the T-word,' the trio of novices quickly learn, 'Manipulation is the preferred term.' Trainer Penelope (Lizzy Dive) provides data on sensory deprivation, official rationales, and sadistic tips like 'a little apparent kindness can be heart-breaking' ~ all realistic enough to make this fantasy project shockingly plausible. We watch the rookies overcome instinctive aversion to be slowly drawn into the game: there's a smart one (Kirsty Cox), a keen one (Annette Chown) and a stroppy one (Laura Fautley) but who will collect the information, and who will crack... this added dimension of social experimentation keeps you guessing till the end of Ian McGlynn's thought-provoking play, strongly acted by all the women and directed for maximum impact by Hannah Drake.

Disturbing statistic from Your Somerset: almost a quarter of the county's children enter Reception class already obese or overweight. At least they can learn how to improve their fitness and social confidence, perhaps, when they're taught the skills & understanding they need to thrive in the world... which are no longer times-tables, spelling, and early English history! Get yourself a laptop with a calculator & spell-check, Mr Gove, and google the parable of the Sabre Tooth Curriculum. The wise old men were indignant. If you had any education yourself, they said severely, you would know that the essence of true education is timelessness. It is something that endures through changing conditions like a solid rock standing squarely and firmly in the middle of a raging torrent. You must know that there are some eternal verities, and the saber-tooth curriculum is one of them! Written 1939, still profound today.

"There was culture of walking in Victorian times we've lost today," author Peter Clark explained at the start of his talk on Dickens' London at Wells Library. Nietzsche believed "all truly great thoughts are conceived by walking" and Dickens thought nothing of walking 10 or 12 miles a day ~ or rather, he thought it essential for mental balance. Many many of his characters go on long walks and the novelist's own prowls around the city provide the social observation which makes his work so rich. Peter himself is a great walker ~ he celebrated his 70th birthday with a walk up Ben Nevis ~ so we shared walking reminiscences as Wendy drove our posse home to Frome. Currently I'm reading The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce which expresses through bittersweet fiction how "Life is very different when you walk through it."

Monday was Daffodil Day at Mells, when the village population swells by approximately 1000% as surrounding lanes become mile-long gridlocks and a mini-Glastonbury springs up. Frome is only an hour's walk away through Vallis woods beside the river path which is thick with snowdrops & scented with garlic, and I joined the pilgrims braving icy temperatures, rewarded by Frome Street Bandits in the Music Tent and Bugs in the Nunney-Acoustic-on-Tour.

Sometimes it's great to see a show without a reviewing remit, and as Michael Frayn's Noises Off has arrived at Theatre Royal Bath after a 'triumphant' West End run, there's no need for me to add my two-penn'orth as southwest columnist for Plays International.  So I went along for the promise of hysterical uncontrollable laughter and because I've been a fan of big-name-draw Neil Pearson since Drop the Dead Donkey days. Farce at its best isn't far from satire and the first act brilliantly parodies theatre company back-stage traumas, but after the interval characterisation ebbs and action becomes increasingly manic and less funny. But it's a brilliant production, a clever set and great acting so if your aunty loves farce, take her along.

And finally...it's National Poetry Writing Month, Carrie Etter tells me, so I've recklessly committed to a poem a day throughout April. Some will probably be haiku ~ here's today's, entitled Interflora window:
glitter-sprayed bunnies
profer eggs with toothy grins
Christ must be risen.

Eighteen is a magic number associated with both conflict and stories in Hinduism, so perhaps there's extra significance for The Three Snake Leaves now it has been performed by the same trio of storytellers for eighteen years. There was certainly something magical about driving into the snow-bleached Welsh mountains for these 'fairytales grownups from the Grimm forest' performed by Hugh Lupton, Sally Pomme Clayton and Ben Haggarty, supported by two musicians and a score of instruments ranging from a water-warbler bird whistle to a four-tiered rack of bells. The tales are all fantastical, word-pictures swirling like dark robes glinting with gold, but lies like beauty are only skin deep and when every twisted thread is finally woven into place the message is redemptive.
This was the piece, I learned from my story-teller friend Lisa, which reintroduced the classic oral tradition into performance: as Hugh told us at the start, behind every story-teller are the shadows of those who through the ages told these stories before.  I can't find an image that evokes in any way this extraordinarily powerful presentation so here's a picture of Abergavenny, where we were transported deep into the extraordinary and often painful psyche of humanity in the Borough Theatre while the world outside froze.

Frome Library, which has been closed for a month, reopened on Wednesday with cakes and a speech explaining that Frome has now been Are-eff-eye-deed, which meant very little to those of us unfamiliar with Radio-Frequency Identification use of electro-magnetic fields to transfer data for the purpose of automatically tracking tags attached to objects.  (thanks, Wiki.) After some strummed Wordsworth and an excellent taster workshop on Writing for Wellbeing led by David Goldstein, it all began to feel more like the Frome Library we know and love, despite the reader-focussed kiosks in the entry which have replaced the book-borrowing-focussed desk.

Is every art work an expression of its artist? How do characters arrive on canvas, or in scripts? Christopher Bucklow was talking about his Talking about Painting exhibition with Steve Hennessy at Black Swan Arts  on Wednesday. Chris wanted to explore the similarities in their creative process, as painter and playwright, and reflect on a shared perceptions of their characters as part self & part myth. 'Part of creating anything is to make ourselves well,' as Steve succinctly said.  Dreams and metaphors are 'part of the cats-cradle' too, and Chris's idea of art as belonging to 'the theatre beyond the paintings'. Fascinating stuff ~ though not for the audience member who used the Q&A to opine "It's a flat surface, get used to it." Brecht might have agreed.

Frome Scriptwriters have been working on monologues for actress Becky Baxter to perform at The Cornerhouse as a fringe event for Celebrating the Imagination, and the chosen scripts were announced at our meeting this week. Becky, who picked the pieces she felt had most theatrical scope for her,  was wowed by the writing standard of our fledgling group and we were wowed by her brilliant read-through, so after an exciting evening we're all looking forward to When She Imagines... on May 16th. By which time ~ we hope ~ Frome Festival brochure will be on the streets, crammed with amazing and quirky events. Nevertheless Pub Theatre has award-winning contemporary drama with What's the Time Mr Wolf?, there's no less than THREE unmissable poetry nights, there's a book quiz, workshops, talks from publishers & meetings with agents, in fact everything's unmissable so clear July 5th-14th for one of the top 5 small festivals in one of the top 10 small towns!