So I seem to have failed to say anything at all about Chicago here. Which is careless as it was magnificent. It took place at Pitlochry Festival Theatre as part of their season and was a stunning example of how smart doubling - and tripling - can make a West End size show practical for a "provincial" (and I use that word with a high dose of salt) stage.
BS, Siobhan, her daughter and I staggered up in September one Saturday for a sun-soaked day out. The show was all sorts of marvellous. To the extent that I managed to convince Phil (not known to be a musical lover) to drive for one hour from our half term holiday accommodation approximately located near Crieff to attend the show again in its final week. I booked the tickets. My heart sang.
But we'd made a cardinal error. Booking a semi-detached holiday property with loopy neighbours. We were scheduled to attend on the Friday for the matinee. Thursday night, late, pottering the dogs around the garden for a final nightcap as it were, and the neighbours suddenly emerged from the house and started shouting at me (literally) for having tormented them the previous evening with barking. (If I had been less startled, I might have thought of Caliban. But I didn't.)
I stuttered an apology. But it became clear on quiet discussion and reflection (not involving the shouter) subsequently that as the dogs do bark when left unattended, maybe leaving them twice in three days - for a fundamentally non-essential theatre trip - was inconsiderate.
So I SACRIFICED MYSELF. I don't think I've ever willingly not gone to a show that I eagerly anticipate without exceptional good reason before. It was a strange (middle-class) gut wrenching pain. I stayed with the b%$£*d animals. And Phil and the child enjoyed the show. Luckily they did enjoy the show. While my ticket lingered unsold at the box office. (Ironic given the dull ticket kerfuffle for our first outing.)
An impossible to ignore sign that I have slid at some point into that group which I could never have conceived I would join: the group which is the Dog Lovers.
BS, Siobhan, her daughter and I staggered up in September one Saturday for a sun-soaked day out. The show was all sorts of marvellous. To the extent that I managed to convince Phil (not known to be a musical lover) to drive for one hour from our half term holiday accommodation approximately located near Crieff to attend the show again in its final week. I booked the tickets. My heart sang.
But we'd made a cardinal error. Booking a semi-detached holiday property with loopy neighbours. We were scheduled to attend on the Friday for the matinee. Thursday night, late, pottering the dogs around the garden for a final nightcap as it were, and the neighbours suddenly emerged from the house and started shouting at me (literally) for having tormented them the previous evening with barking. (If I had been less startled, I might have thought of Caliban. But I didn't.)
I stuttered an apology. But it became clear on quiet discussion and reflection (not involving the shouter) subsequently that as the dogs do bark when left unattended, maybe leaving them twice in three days - for a fundamentally non-essential theatre trip - was inconsiderate.
So I SACRIFICED MYSELF. I don't think I've ever willingly not gone to a show that I eagerly anticipate without exceptional good reason before. It was a strange (middle-class) gut wrenching pain. I stayed with the b%$£*d animals. And Phil and the child enjoyed the show. Luckily they did enjoy the show. While my ticket lingered unsold at the box office. (Ironic given the dull ticket kerfuffle for our first outing.)
An impossible to ignore sign that I have slid at some point into that group which I could never have conceived I would join: the group which is the Dog Lovers.
posted by Claire at 8:08 am
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