Herewith an account of the adventures in England in 2018, written on the spot with scant reworking. The events depicted took place last week ago.

The good thing about doing a play in a small town: you get your notices as you walk down The Street, in the pub, at the Green. The posters were down - outside the Tuck Shop, a bare remainder of the show:

 

We went to a cottage in the country occupied by a actress / comedian who was in Blackadder the Third, to name just a few, The best analogy for America I can think is Jane Curtin - she used to be part of a popular radio comedy troupe, Radio Active, and I gather she played the straight-laced one? Can't say at the moment, since I have no internet. I am in a car, being driven to Heathrow by Graham the Driver, again.

About two hours. Goes quickly. The line to drop off the bag was dismaying, but I’d built in plenty of time - in fact, I did that line, went through security, got a cup of coffee and had time to sit and decompress for ten minutes before the gate was announced. Then it was off down a featureless corridor to the gate - Heathrow, unlike American airports, doesn’t have amenities at the gates, at least in the area I’d been sent. You pass a sign that warns you there are NO TOILETS BEYOND, and that tends to concentrate the mind. You sit in another featureless room and have your passport checked again (total checks: four) before it’s the cattle-call time.

I sat next to a bright lad who had been studying genetics, but was now on to law and economics; lived north of our family farm on the Minnesota side, so we had a little chat about Highway 10, the Motley Cutoff, the dusty life of a combine driver. Then, having had a civil conversation, we mutually agreed to not talk again unless necessary. This is important. If someone else natters on it’s dismaying, because you’ve eight hours to go.

It went quickly. I mean, it was 8 and a half hours, like a shift in an office job without work or chats with co-workers, just sitting, browsing through media. Just another day flying over the ocean in a spaceplane at 30K feet.

Turned into the longest day ever, since I got home at 4 in the afternoon. Leave at 1, get home at four - you’re screwed, but not as much as if you’d gone the other direction. Took me a few days to recover - waking early, thinking I should go down to the ocean.

Thanks for reading; back to standard Bleatage on Monday.

And now, the play.

 

It was the best time. It all seemed like a dream, almost entirely, almost all at once. From Brigadoon to normal life, except this was the lynchpin event, the start of the Third Act.

 

 

blog comments powered by Disqus