Fevered Sleep

Friday 26th April 2019

Fevered Sleep

Interrupted sleep. I wake at 4am. I need to visit the loo, but first I have to take my mask off. I think I've slept well, at least so far (I usually wake up earlier than this).

Fevered Sleep. The house lights go down and the four male dancers settle stage left; the nine girls stage right. There is a large sheet centre stage, made up of pages of newspaper stuck together with thick white tape. The wall at the back of the stage is covered in newspaper, and there are pieces of screwed up newspaper littered beneath it.....from which a fifth male dancer covered from head-to-toe in newspaper and tape, like a well-read Worzel Gummage, suddenly emerges and teeters toward centre stage.

I switch the Continuous Positive Airway Pressure machine off; the whirring whooshing stops as the supply of pressurised air is cut off. I slip the elasticated headband over the top of my head, and the nasal 'pillow' falls away, taking the pipework with it...I'm free to head for the convenience.

The dancers, adult and pre-teen, meet centre stage and lift the sheet of newspaper off the floor. It billows like a wave, then suddenly falls in a simple act of stage trickery over the head of one of the male dancers, transforming him into a shapeless monster....the girls squeal in delighted terror and dodge frantically about the stage, daring themselves to land the odd blow on the meandering beast. I'm transported back in time to a vision of my father pulling his baggy woollen jumper over his head, the emptied sleeves turning into monstrous elephantine trunks, and my sister and I laughing and screaming at the same time as the thing chased us about the house.

I'm back in the bedroom. I sit on the edge of the bed and take a sip of water from the bottle on my bedside table. I don't usually don mask and pipework again at this point, as my sinuses are usually a bit blocked up, which interferes with my breathing through my nose, but tonight things feel clear, and I re-position the mask, head strap, and pipework, switch the machine back on, and get back under the bedclothes.

The girls mimic the movements of one of the professional dancers, straining their bodies into unfamiliar shapes, smiling the while; they get their own back later, as they voice movement directions through microphones which the male dancer has to attempt to emulate.

I have to confess that me and my CPAP machine don't get on terribly well. The machine was donated to me by the NHS following a diagnosis for chronic sleep apnoea. While I'm very grateful, the machinery makes for an uncomfortable night of interrupted sleep. 

Fevered Sleep; a ground-breaking theatre company headed by David Harradine, a canny and inventive Yorkshireman who happens to live in the flat below our friend Katrina in Clapton, east London, with his husband, the actor Carl Hawkins. Their website describes the work as experimental, risk-taking art, developing "brave, thought-provoking projects that challenge people to rethink their relationships with each other and with the world". The final section of the piece sees myriad dance formations filling the stage from left, right and centre, the girls being hurled through the air at speed, the unbounded joy of the experience reflected in their bright eyes. It works like a fevered dream.


https://vimeo.com/153937408

L-R Lesley Allan; Katrina Duncan; Aki;
Me enjoying pre-show tapas in the Norfolk Arms

Don McCullin in Concert

Weds 24th April 2019

Don McCullin - In Concert

Aki asks me who we are seeing tonight. We are sitting at a table for two in The German Gymnasium in the heart of regenerated Kings Cross; she's just ordered the pork knuckle with sauerkraut...I've plumped for the chicken schnitzel with sweet potato fries. There are two half pint 'flagons' of pilsner fizzing away on the table in front of us.

"Is it a folk band?"

"A folk band?" I cry with comic scorn..."Nope".

"Classic?"

"Classic...!?! I hope not!".

I'm determined she doesn't find out who we are about to see at Kings Place this evening. I booked the tickets last month as a late birthday surprise, shortly after we'd visited Tate Britain to attend an exhibition of Don McCullin's more famous, or infamous, black & white prints, documenting some 60 years of his bearing witness to man's inhumanity to man. A BBC documentary added further interest in him, as we learnt he'd been born and raised in Finsbury Park, at No.40 Fonthill Road, just around the corner, a stone's throw from one of our favoured local Italian restaurants.

Aki's pork knuckle looks huge, served with potato dumpling and a beer jus. I bet her she won't be able to finish it. I get stuck into my chicken schnitzel, which is painfully hot and scalds my tongue, so I'm surprised to find the fries are lukewarm. 

As we enter the foyer of Kings Place, I instruct Aki not to look at any posters for fear of her discovering what we are about to see. We get through the foyer without incident, but as we reach basement level she notices the pile of books being prepared for signing at a table outside Hall One, and she gleans the author's name on the spine! Darn it....but she looks pleased.

It's pretty much a full house. Some of Don's more famous images are being projected onto a large white screen above the stage, and there are two empty chairs and a small table with glasses of water set centre stage. Fergal Keane, the BBC reporter, who was reporting from Khartoum only the night before at the public protest against the newly incumbent military regime in the Sudan, enters stage left, and introduces his interviewee in glowing terms, citing his journalistic integrity as an inspiration to his own career. Don McCullin, now in his mid-eighties, enters to a rapturous round of applause and takes his seat opposite Fergal. Mr.Keane has a wonderfully gentle interviewing technique, his sonorous Irish burr reverberating around the intimate Hall One; both have been adorned with head mics. 

Fergal gently guides Don through his early life, career beginnings, and wartime experiences, ending up some 45 minutes later with questions about Don's current obsession with photographing the landscape of the Somerset Levels, where he now resides. Over the course of the evening, Don has hinted that his often harrowing work still haunts him, and admits to having had several bouts of work-related depression which saw him take solace in the bottle. He confesses that he felt his work has not changed humanity one iota...wars are inevitable where humankind rub up against one another. There's a depressing thread running through the evening as we all mentally clock in with the more recent atrocities reported in the news; the shooting of Lyra McKee in Derry, the Sri Lankan Easter massacres, ISIS and their grisly modus operandi. There are fifteen minutes of Q&A at the end, with one woman telling him tearfully that he should look on his body of work as shining a light into the dark places of the human experience, and that he should consider himself doing mankind a great service. It's an emotional moment; and when he leaves the auditorium to a standing ovation, the lights come up to catch us all blowing our noses and wiping a tear from our eyes. An extraordinary evening in Kings Cross.

Last day in the Land of the Rising Sun

...and so another exotic holiday comes to an end. We are spending one last night at Aki's mum's flat in Inage before we head back to Blighty tomorrow via Narita Airport.

Aki has treated me to a memorable stay encompassing introductions to her family and friends, a trip into the mountains within stone-throwing distance of the awesome Mt Fuji, bathing and breakfasting in a traditional ryokan, 6 nights in a Tokyo hotel, rockin' the night away at the Gigabar, an evening of blues at Blues Alley, a boat trip along the Sumida river, and copious amounts of tasty food!

Hope to return in the not too distant future...maybe when the cherry blossom graces the branches of the trees...

Tent London

Visited Tent London this afternoon, in Brick Lane. Part of London Design Week. All a bit hit and miss...though some good stuff if you persevered. Particularly liked this storage unit by a young fellow based on Church Street, Stoke Newington (though wasn't sure about the two timber battens glued to the bottom). Quite fancy half a dozen in my bedroom, but at £750 a pop, may have to wait!!!

Big Breakfast Mutual Inspiration Club

Set the alarm for 0625 this morning, as I had to get to Spitalfields for the inaugural meeting of the Mutual Inspiration Breakfast Club, an idea spawned by the mercurial Mr Bob Karper. I had contemplated sending an apologetic text, and having a lie-in, but really glad I made the effort. Met five very inspiring individuals at the Breakfast Club in Artillery Lane, and set goals for the coming month. I intend to use this blog as a developmental record as things progress.

I posited three main goals this month, namely to lose some kilos, write a song, and perform it at an open mic.

The first got off to a bad start as I tucked into a large breakfast, and downed two lattes, but I received much encouragement from my co-conspirators, and will begin in earnest henceforth. The main immediate aim is to show restraint in the face of puddings and confectionery!!!

I have an idea for the song, inspired by my commute into work on the Victoria line of a morning; London Underground's repeated exhortations to refrain from trapping my items in the closing doors. Now I've just got to write it....and pencil in an open mic appearance...

Longer term, I aim to get fit, get qualified at MRICS level with the Royal Institution of Chartered Surveyors, and organise a Rock 'n Roll Circus. In pursuance of the latter, I have pencilled in a meeting with Adrian Berry, who runs Jackson's Lane Theatre. Will keep you posted on that one...

Time for a cup of tea....and a banana.

Bathtime Bliss

I wake at 10am, bleary-eyed after a much-needed night's sleep. Yesterday's journey had exhausted me.

I'd had trouble staying awake at the opera last night. I went for several reasons, firstly to get a look at the fabulous interior of the National Opera House, all plaster and gilt, and secondly as there was little else to do in the city this evening. I wasn't in a fit state to go shaking my booty at the city nightclubs!

I took my 12Lat seat in the stalls amongst the great and the good of the city, who seemed to have come out in force. The place was packed to the rafters. I then sat through four acts of Pucini's La Boheme, which I can precis as follows:

Act I - an artist's garret in Rome. Four impecunious students struggle to pay the rent. Rudolfo, the writer amongst them, falls in love with Mimi, the girl downstairs, who strays into his lair looking for a light for her candle. She has a bit of a cough.

Act II - a cafe in the Latin Quarter. Rudolfo treats Mimi to a night on the town. Mimi still hasn't taken anything for that cough!

Act III - a square at night. Snow is falling. It transpires Mimi has left Rudolfo because he is always jealous of the way she looks at other fellas. Mimi comes back. Her cough has got worse.

Act IV - back in the garret. Mimi's cough finally takes its toll and she expires in her lover's arms.

No wonder the suicide rate is up!

This morning, I breakfast at a wee cafe.....one of a chain which seem to have sprung up like a rash across the city. But the coffee is good, and the sausage and scrambled eggs are cheap. The waitress places two large salt-cellers on the table, and what I initially assume to be the salt looks more like pepper. I swap them over, but the second one also looks like pepper. I conclude it must be paprika. It's only as I take my first mouthful that I realise I've peppered my eggs with cocoa and cinnamon meant for my cappucino!

For the next two nights I am sharing a room with a chum from Shrewsbury, who is coming over with my sister and her fella this evening. I drag my wheeled suitcase across the cobbled streets of the Old City, intending to put my baggage in storage, but the staff inform me that my room is ready.

The hotel is palatial compared to last night's accommodation, and I am delighted to find an ensuite bathroom, in custard-powder yellow! I haven't got a bath at home....indeed I haven't had a bath since Christmas, so I spend the next hour or so soaking in blissful contentment.

More photos at http://www.flickr.com/photos/fourthflaw/sets/72157600070311161/

Suicide City

It says in my Berlitz Pocket Guide to Riga, that the Latvians come fifth in the European Suicide League Table. That's a surprisingly high position given how small the country is, and the guide book cites the eternal grey skies as a major contributory factor.

As I descend the steps of my Boeing 737, the gloom greets me, together with a chill wind from the east.

The girl at the Tourist Information Office in the central square speaks her English with a Canadian twang. She tells me she yearns for the streets of Montreal where she recalls people smiling as they passed. "Everyone is so glum here", she complains, glumly. And I have to say, she is right. As I wander the medieval cobbles, I am reminded of the grim features of the people of Huddersfield on a cold winters' afternoon.

Further evidence of the local's suicidal streak comes at every street corner, where people seem to suddenly lurch off the pavement into the oncoming traffic. The pedestrian traffic light system takes a bit of getting used to, but I soon find myself confidently following the locals lead, joining the shoals of lemmings diving in concert across the boulevards.

Worse, though, is the tram system. The No. 7 tram stop in Aspazijas Boulevard, for instance, is graced with a purpose-built shelter and platform serving the west-bound tram....those passengers wishing to board the east-bound service, however, have to congregate on the opposite pavement, rushing into the busy thoroughfare as the tram comes to a stop in the centre of the carriageway. Alighting passengers take their lives in their hands as they leap off the bottom step and into the traffic stream, which screeches dutifully to a halt as they do so.

I fear suicide is easy on the streets of Riga!

My hostel accommodation for the night might be described as basic, but this would be putting a positive gloss on things! It is housed on the first floor of a decrepit and crumbling 19th century building opposite the grey brick post office HQ. Ulrika signs me in and takes my money off me....I foolishly pay for the two nights in advance.....I am due back on Sunday night; in the interim staying at a hotel with some chums, who aren't due to arrive until tomorrow.

Ulrika guides me down the corridor, which smells of dirty mop, and ushers me into my room. I assume it was once a vestibule when the building was in its heyday.....now it is painted a grubby salmon pink, has two single wooden cots, a fraying navy blue office carpet, and no curtains.....oh, and a small stool, which I commandeer as my bedside table.

As I hunker down for the night, I realise I have discovered another contributory factor to the suicide rate....

More photos at http://www.flickr.com/photos/fourthflaw/sets/72157600070311161/