SATURDAY, June 29, 5:07 PM

Southwold street festival today. It had giant puppets, they said. Denis, I was pleased to learn, was not a fan of giant puppets, and regarded them with deep suspicion and mild contempt. I share the view.

But of course we had to go, just to see what was up, and spend our 50 pound Adnam’s gift certificates. (Payment for the show.) I decided on a bottle of single malt, which came with a free slab of chocolate, a tea towel, and some cookies we could have for dessert. It came to 49 pounds.

Huzzah, the parade

We saw one of the puppet masters attempt to extricate himself from his costume - a portly fellow who fell on his fundament, and I am here to tell you that decency forbids me from posting the video. WHAT? Natalie says. YOU COULD GO VIRAL

Nah. On the other hand, I almost revealed myself as a touristy boor when I saw what they were serving as “hot dogs” outside Adnam’s. It was obviously a brat. Obviously. There was no way that was a hot dog. For a moment it seemed to Natalie as if I was moving forward as if to tell them of their error, and of course dad, no. I probably wouldn’t have. And I’m sure any such instruction on the true nomenclature here would be met, at best, with genial indifference.

“I’m trying to spare them some bother when they come to the states and order a hot dog and get an actual hot dog,” I said. “They’d feel foolish, having thought it was one thing when it was actually another.”

Somehow she was not convinced by my altruism, suspecting I was just looking for an opportunity to be right about something. Feh.

There was a band on an Adnam’s truck, making me think it was a company band, and that everything in town eventually gets gathered up by the company. I did not expect this to be their opening number.

Down to the river where all the fishing boats are docked, or not, if they are out fishing. There’s another festival down there, a music concert complete with a stage that has a SAVE OUR SLIP banner. I do not know which slip is in danger. Astrid charmed her way through the barriers - cars were prohibited, but she applied wiles and local cred - and we got supper from a fishmonger.

		I’d never heard of some of these. Mmm, Dabs and Brill for supper!

Drinks at the Anchor with some locals, met some new people down from Tunbridge Wells. Which made me laugh, and I had to explain.

"So where do you live?" I asked one of the new people I'd met. South of here, in the new part to the east. "So down the High Street, off to the left on the road past the Kings?" Yes, you know the new white house? "Yes."We’re on the corner. Stop, think: "do you have a free-standing kitchen in your backyard?"

Why . . . why yes

"I’ve been there! I’ve been inside! Last year you asked Astrid to turn off something in the house while you were away, and you gave her the code. We took a package in."

Dinner at home. Sampled the Adnam’s whiskey. I’d heard disparaging things. They were not entirely wrong. It had a rawness that broadcast its youth, but it softened its tone after it had been reproached by ice. I drew a line on the bottom of the bottle that claimed the last dram, and said Denis could pour all he liked as long as that portion remained when I returned.

When I returned.

When next I cross the lawn in the morning to make breakfast, to pat Mabel on her sightless noggin, to make streaky bacon, to look at the Telegraph but not read it. When next I came to prepare whatever show we do next, slipping into the old roles around the kitchen table in the middle of the morning. When next I came to enjoy the quiet muddle of the afternoon, the walk to the Tuck Shop for eggs, or the Thatched Shelter, or the clawing sea. I always feel the same thing when I am here: of course I am in Walberswick, I belong in Walberwick, I am absolutely myself when I am in Walberswick, the absolute essence of the dream of England.

All because I picked up the phone and dialed Peg Lynch. But now this part is done.

We’ve had Boston, then Walbers. Now for the Third Portion!

MONDAY, July 1st, 1:08 PM

LONDON!

Have to leave for the sound check in a few minutes. It’s all up in the air whether it’ll work or not, but we’re hopeful. I am bringing a bag of cords and dongles, as one does. Who doesn’t travel to another continent with cords and dongles.

So: Get this for travel complexity: Astrid, Denis, Astrid's friend and yours truly drove down from London. Natalie goes with Alex to a town where Alex will stow his work van, and then they take the train.

Annnnnnd: Wife! Sara has arrived in the morning and gone to the hotel. She's jet-lagged of course. She hits the sack and I go to the Tube station to get Natalie. I'm early. It's cool. Old.

We are staying at a hotel named . . .

La Gaffe. Literally, The Mistake. Jocularly named because the man who opened it was warned it was a mistake.

The rooms. The rooms, they are small.

Dinner that evening with members of the King's London contingent at a Turkish restaurant in Hampton Heath. Old friend stops by, hailed warmly; passes his phone around, shows a picture, asks how old we think this bloke is.

I don't know, 50s?

"He's 81!" he says. "Amazing, isn't it."

(The fellow is John Etheridge, of Soft Machine among other things, and the friend is an old bandmate who went on to play guitar for some scrappy band called The Police. Andy Summers. So yes I am holy shite holy shiteting through all of this.

Next Day. Sara and I had a nice cold breakfast in the Mistake’s little cafe, then collected Natalie at the flat where she’s house-sitting. (SO MANY moving parts to this trip.) We spent a nice morning walking around Hampstead Heath, which has only a few examples of haunted Druid trees:

I pointed our path to the area of the house where Astrid / Denis / Alex were staying. Ta-da: Alex lopes out of the house, somewhat surprised to see us in this context, and sends us inside. Had a nice chat with the Powells, and I had to ask Robert if the author of his most famous role, Anthony Burgess, ever dropped by the set. He did not. But we talk about the show and other things. House full of memorabilia of the most extraordinary sort. Capital fellow. Time is short and DAMMIT I do not have time to ask about playing Mahler in the Ken Russell movie. DAMMIT.

Sara wanted to go see Wimbledon and maybe look around the grounds, which might work on any day except the one on which the actual Wimbledon thing is happening. But off they went, Mom and Daughter. They watched some games in a pub by Wimbledon, which is almost as good as the real thing, I suppose, and I . . . went to the tech rehearsal.

And here my troubles began.

We set up in the John Keats Library. And I mean, set up: we put the stage together, all the while being sniped and castigated by a sour man whose job it was to do this, but he had Covid. He was also present, masked, saying things like “If you’d listen to me.” Hard to do that, mate, you’re muffled. Then the AV people arrived to set up the projector. I should note that the library’s projector, as well as the rest of its audio gear, appeared to be from the actual collection of John Keats himself. Nothing worked properly. I put the HDMI into the new rented projector but could not get the audio out. The tech guy supplied by the rental firm labored for a very long time before going back to the shop for more gear.

The additional gear did not work. After two hours he hit upon a solution, and we were good to go - except we had no confidence this would work at all. Well, soldier on, and do what you can. Went back to the room, tried to nap, but that was hopeless. No show jitters - just doubts about the AV system. Since I run the show from the iPad, swiping and poking, I had a lot on my shoulders. But I had enough successful run-throughs to make me feel okay.

Post-show:

Yes indeed. That's him. Michael Palin showed up, which was nice, and I think he would agree:

Nice to talk to him before and after. Remembered me!

Afterwards to Laura and Bill’s flat for post-show triumphal dinner. She writes Fireman Sam and also used to do something about a tank engine named Thomas on some island run by a fat controller who wears a top hat. And some other things. Bill was a Goodie, among other things.

Back to the hotel in fine spirits, the shows all done, the run successful, with more to come.

I can’t believe I looked out from the stage and saw Michael Palin in the audience, smiling.

A box in my life I never expected to tick.

Monday: 24 hours in London Town