No Man's Land - a review

No Man’s Land, showing at London's Wyndham's Theatre, is not a straightforward play but then no one expects straightforward from Harold Pinter. Having said that, it was the most enjoyable and satisfying play I have seen in years. I’m still thinking about it.

SPOILER ALERT: If you’re planning to go and see this production then you may not want to read any further just yet:

The two main characters were Hirst played by Patrick Stewart and Spooner by Ian McKellan. Both are brilliant actors, amazingly brilliant actors, but Ian McKellan was especially amazing. We were close enough to the stage to be able to see each facial expression and mannerism executed with perfect timing to enhance humour, pathos and, at times, creepy discomfiture.

The story could be read in two ways. Maybe it was merely an evening where Hirst had picked up Spooner in a pub near Hampstead Heath and taken him home for drinks. The more they drank the more outlandish their conversations became. All this was punctuated by the arrival of two younger men, both apparently living in the house, one young pretty boy who we were led to think was a toyboy/house keeper and the other a rough character who could have been a minder.

The more sinister interpretation is first alluded to early on in the play when Hirst mentions the phrase ‘no man’s land’. There is a quiet ‘waft’ of eerie music on stage. As the second half progresses it becomes obvious that all is not what it at first appears to be. Hirst is disturbed by images of a drowning man. Spooner is trying to encourage him to return to his writing, become more involved with poetry. He could be trying to pull him back from some state of purgatory, whereas the two younger men could be holding him there, plying whisky and words of hopelessness. I interpreted this to mean that the three actors surrounding Hirst were his alter egos first pulling him into purgatory, then trying to save him from it.

I wondered if there would be a satisfactory explanation at the end but the final lines of the play went as follows:

Spooner: You are in no man’s land. Which never moves, which never changes, which never grows older, but which remains forever, icy and silent.

Hirst: I’ll drink to that.

The advantage of this ending was that we were able to spend a long and enjoyable supper in a Covent Garden restaurant discussing our varying interpretations of what Pinter actually meant by it all.

If you’ve seen the play I’d love to hear your interpretation.

Those Trains Again

Yesterday was a special event, an extremely belated birthday present for Daughter. She chose the Harold Pinter play ‘No Man’s Land’ starring the amazing Ian McKellan and Patrick Stewart. Her birthday was back in March but this play was worth waiting for. What's more, we had front row seats in the Royal Circle of the Wyndham Theatre - a real treat. There’s something magical about those small, highly decorated Edwardian London theatres and Pinter certainly gave us lots to think about afterwards. We continued to discuss the play throughout supper and during our return journey to St Pancras Station, but I’ll talk about our analysis of the play another day, with a ‘spoiler alert’ in case you’re about to go and see it. Today I have a need to discuss the journey. 

I don’t often travel by train although I have recently decided that I can no longer do long-distance driving and so am, unfortunately, going to have to increasingly rely on train travel. I say ‘unfortunately’ because, although I rarely use the train, in the last few years I’ve experienced long delays on three occasions due to someone committing suicide on the line. This happened last night. It created chaos at St Pancras. All trains were stopped and although they kept explaining the reason over the tannoy, it was cold, wet and late. I realise that somewhere, out there in the dark, a family’s life had just been devastated but I wanted to sit down, to get home. I was only thinking of myself.

The last time I experienced this kind of train delay I was travelling to visit Sister down South. I blogged about it in May of last year but the point needs to be reiterated. On that occasion I got talking to a member of staff who was escorting us on a detour back to London and she said that it happens at least two or three times a week. Two or three times a week. That is one of the saddest indictments of a civilised society that I can think of. Our way of life is sorely lacking if so many people want to kill themselves. Was it always this way? Or were people happier living in an extended family situation, with fewer material goods on offer, with less complicated job structures and less demanding work requirements? In which direction have we, as a society, let people down?

Once more, I shall clamber down off my orange box and get on with my day, but the experience has left a cold, 'no man's land' of a feeling inside me. Tomorrow I'll blog about Pinter and the play.

You can never have too many discussions

Me reading my poem

The last month has been manic. We are still in the middle of the Jewish High Holy Days, which have taken large chunks out of the usual working week. Rosh Hashonah, the Jewish New Year landed during the first week of my University MA Course. That week also saw the launch of the Welcome to Leicester Poetry Anthology (see details below). I was one of the readers, performing my poem, Leicester Market 1963. I was rather tired by the end of that week. 

Last week was Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement. We fasted to ask for forgiveness for all our sins – another busy day, then! The fast was broken by a lovely meal with a group of old friends and lots of friendly chat and discussions; my kind of evening. The next morning I ran a meeting with the planning team of our Thinking Allowed monthly discussion group. The topic this month will be Why Trump? and inevitably there was much discussion during the planning process.

This week is Sukkot. People erect a temporary structure called a Sukkah in their garden and eat meals out there. It must have mainly leaves for a covering and I think you should be able to see at least one star through the roof. I was honoured to be invited to the Rabbi’s house to eat in their Sukka. It was a fascinating – if slightly chilly - evening with lots of in-depth discussions ranging from archaeological findings in Jerusalem to the meaning of beauty. You can never have too many discussion sessions. I was in my element.

In-between it all I’ve been trying to get to grips with the MA Course. One of the fascinating aspects of this Semester’s work is Research in Creative Writing, the study of the actual writing process; what goes on in my mind when I plan to write, get down to writing, rewriting. It’s a difficult concept to get a hold of because a lot of the planning and honing happens while I’m doing other things and often when I’m not even aware of it. Take this blog post for example:

I decided to relate the business of my month and to introduce this idea of researching creative writing. I am now sitting at the computer typing this with no pre-prepared notes and no plan to redraft (this was not the case. I redrafted a little). It’s more like a chat with you although I suspect the actual content has been percolating in my mind over night, having decided last night to write it. One of the problems with trying to study a subject like creative writing scientifically is that we are human beings and don’t perform well in laboratory conditions – but it is providing me with plenty of material to chat about. Like I said, you can never have too many discussions.

How would you analyse your creative writing process?

 

Poetry anthology, "Welcome to Leicester" is published by
Leicester-based Dahlia Publishing and was edited by
Emma Lee and Ambrose Musiyiwa.

Induction Day

An MA in Creative Writing? At my age? What would the other students think? What would they see when they looked at me? After a stern pep-talk from Daughter and a third outfit change I was ready to face them all.

On campus I was surrounded by students wearing red lanyards, bearing their plastic encoded ID. It was over 30 years since I had graduated from Leicester University. There were no plastic encoded cards in those days, never mind lanyards around people’s necks. Doors were opened with keys, metal ones, and our student ID card was just that, a card, folded into a booklet with our photograph stuck inside. I still have my old ones and have been known to use them as after-dinner entertainment. It was the hair. Year 1 shows me with straight, dare I say, boring hair. In Year 2 it had become a little more ruffled but by Year 3 I was sporting a full-blown, shoulder-length, curly perm, chestnut black with a hint of red.

Just the sight of all those red lanyards made me childishly enthusiastic at the thought of sporting my very own. The large hall in the Charles Wilson Building was set up as a temporary ID issue point. From the door I could see members of staff handing over lanyards with the regularity of a car production line but, as I entered the hall, I was stopped by a security guard.

“Can I help you, Madam?”

“I’ve come to collect my ID card.”

“You mean, you’re collecting one for somebody else?”

My eyes narrowed. “No, it’s for me.” I was trying to keep the anger from my voice.

“Oh!” he said. “How…”

“Don’t!” I snapped but he continued anyway.

“How very brave of you. Well done.”

I was lost for a suitably stinging retort.

“I’m doing an MA!” I barked as if that explained it all, as if there was anything that needed explaining. I thrust my head up and strode past him into the hall. I queued at the wrong desk and then, lanyard hanging awkwardly around my neck, tried to exit through the entrance door. It took a coffee, a strong one, for me to half-recover but I was still seething. I needed a good experience to end the day. Would I find it in the library?

I now had my seemingly endless reading list and I asked the librarian how many books I could take out. She checked my ID card and replied, but it was noisy in the reception area and, please remember, I’m not as young as I was.

“Pardon?” I said. “Did you say 14 books?”

“No,” she grinned. “I said 40.”

Forty books! A perfect end to an almost perfect day. MA in Creative Writing? I’m ready for you now.

So much to do...

Days are getting busier. Life is cranking up a notch and here’s why:

I have just registered as a part-time student at Leicester University to study for an MA in Creative Writing. I’ll be a part-time student and so it will take two years to complete. I may use some of my family history research as a basis for wider writing. I have a lot of information about the refugee situation in the early 1900s, about the arrival in England of Yiddish speaking strangers, with a different culture, different beliefs, frightened, bewildered aliens. Prepare to read more about them.

I’m in the middle of researching and writing a book on the history of the Leicester Progressive Synagogue. It is turning out to be more time-consuming than I expected (isn’t everything!) but there are many fascinating stories being unearthed. They’re not yet ready to be told here but I may share a few before publication. The Synagogue building is called Neve Shalom. It was named after a village near Jerusalem where Jewish and Palestinian-Arab families live together in harmony. Neve Shalom means 'Oasis of Peace'. Isn't that a lovely name.

Talking of an oasis of peace, I’ve re-joined the Leicester Writers’ Club and this has inspired me to get back to more of the creative side of writing. They are excellent at critiquing and I only wish I hadn’t stayed away so long. We meet every Thursday evening and it’s going to be a haven for me in what promises to be an extremely hectic year.

Alongside the writing, I am still organising monthly talks, helping to run a weekly luncheon club and swimming at least twice a week. So if I don’t come around here quite as often as I used to, then please forgive me. In the words of that creepy guy from the films, “I’ll be back!”

My Strictly Poem

It surprised me to see that it is five years since I posted up this poem. It's still relevant, still true to the very last word and so, as Strictly Come Dancing returned to the TV yesterday evening, I'm reposting my Strictly poem. 

Strictly Come Dancing is back on our screens.

I’m as happy as Len with a ten.

From now til December I’ll jive in my dreams

with the Strictly Professional men.

I’ll dress up in sequins, a basque made of lace,

high heels and a teeny tight skirt,

doing chasses and flicks with a smile on my face

and not one single muscle will hurt.

Now, I know that a dream should remain strictly that

but this dream is a much longed-for goal.

It’s to dance a routine with a cane and a hat
in the arms of that cute Brendan Cole.

Conflagration Anniversary

Yes, I do mean the Great Fire of London but I wanted an excuse to use the word conflagration. It rolls around the tongue in a most satisfying way. Today is the 350th anniversary of the fire which famously began in Pudding Lane, London.

When the alarm was first raised, the Lord Mayor of London was told of the news. His response was said to be,

"Pish! A woman might piss it out!"

He was wrong! It burned for four days, aided by the recent drought and tinder dry buildings. London houses in those days were closely packed together and many were made of wood and straw so, unsurprisingly, the fire quickly spread. Somewhere in the region of 13,200 houses were destroyed and about 80,000 people were made homeless.

People came from all around to help fight the fire. Even King Charles II joined the firefighters. What's more, the fire destroyed any last remnants of the plague which had still been killing so many people only a year earlier. The main records of the event are from diarists who had little interest in the poor people. Samuel Pepys talks of such essentials as making sure he had buried his Parmesan cheese to keep it safe from the fire. Little is known about the vast encampments outside the city where the homeless were forced to settle, for anything from months to years, until houses were rebuilt.

It would be interesting to know a bit more about what happened to them but, if this had been a current event, reporters would have zoomed in with their cameras on every painful detail of hardship and deprivation. I have said this before in an earlier blog, but it bears repetition. We expect to be informed about disasters, but there is a difference between reporting the news and being given a ghoulishly voyeuristic view of these events and their effects on the victims.

(steps onto soap box)  

Please, if you're a news reporter, back off from people's tears, broken bones and weeping wounds. They are not news. They are an invasion of privacy.

Lazy August

So many red flowers in the garden this month. They seem to be reflecting my mood, lazy and languid. Only the bee in the bottom photo is doing any work:

Hope you're having a great August holiday time. September will be the start of a fresh academic year and a new adventure for me, but I'll talk more about that next month...

Richard III in stained glass...

...and highly detailed pictures


When I was a child I always took a book to bed with me. I didn't always read the words. Sometimes I just looked at the pictures. There was one book in particular, British Wild Flowers, that was a favourite. I still have the book. It has a green hardback cover and colour plates every few pages.

In those days books were mainly black and white. Colour pages were printed on a different paper and, I suspect, expensive to reproduce. I would turn to one of these colour plates and examine it in minute detail. I don't remember ever putting the book down so it must have been a most effective method of lulling myself to sleep.

This was one of the pages that helped me enjoy many a peaceful night:

On a completely different subject but still talking about detailed pictures, Daughter came to visit this week and we went to Leicester Cathedral to see Richard III's tomb - she couldn't come to Leicester without seeing it, now could she!

Two new stained glass windows have appeared since I last visited the Cathedral. They are designed by Thomas Denny and are on the wall beside the tomb. They depict all aspects of Richard III's life, death and subsequent rediscovery. These photographs don't do them justice. Just like my colour photos from my old nature book, these are the kind of windows that, no matter how many times you look at them, you keep seeing new things.

(Thanks to Hilary Melton-Butcher from Positive Letters ... Inspirational Stories for cropped versions of the following photographs. I was having trouble editing them and she came to my rescue.)

Do you have any favourite pictures or photos that can be looked at an infinite number of times and each time new things jump out at you?

An Ode to a Satnav

It's holiday time and I've been out and about, driving through London and half way across the country. Thanks to my satnav I didn't get lost once so, with tongue firmly in cheek, this is my...

Ode to a Satnav

We used to use maps to find out where we are.
Now we plug in our satnav instead.
We don't find which way's North by locating a star.
I'm afraid that map reading is dead.

But you can't trust a voice from inside a machine
that says, 'make a U turn' all the time,
then it takes a short cut leading into a stream
and you're up to your big ends in slime.

I would say, 'ditch the satnav. Go back to the map.'
But I know that I won't follow suit,
cause my satnav's called Sean. He's a clever young chap
and, between you and me, rather cute.

East Meets West - A Richard III Extravaganza

We have created a Richard III extravaganza. Last week we gave our first performance as part of Leicester's ArtBeat Festival and I'm delighted to say that it was very well received.

Nimisha Parmer showed us the story of the Battle of Bosworth using the ancient Indian dance style of Bharat Natyan. Her son, Aayush, accompanied her on the drums.

I took to the floor next, performing a rather tongue-in-cheek interview between a modern day reporter and the Witch of Daneshill. It's all in my book if you'd like to buy one - The Children's Book of Richard III. I went on to explain how a King's body came to be under a car park in Leicester.

Me playing the part of the Witch of Daneshill

Our grand finale was Richard Buckley, head of Archaeology at Leicester University, the man who led the dig that discovered Richard III's body. He gave us a fascinating insight into what the dig was like and then produced a 'King' in full period armour with sword, dagger, halberd, the lot. It was not only the kids who were excited. We were all fascinated by this King-cum-knight in almost shiny armour.

Richard Buckley on the left with a halberd

Richard Buckley demonstrating how a dagger was thrust through Richard III's skull
(as you can see he didn't really do it!)

There are plans for repeat performances so if you missed this one then watch this space for the announcement of our next Richard III extravaganza.

Three Free Things...

…or free free fings if said very quickly.

A few weeks ago I was meeting Daughter at St Pancras (our usual meeting point these days) and I stopped for a minute to watch people using the free pianos. There are three of them spaced out along the concourse and they all seem to be permanently in use.

That day a man was playing a lovely piece of music when a mother with a small child stopped to watch. The child’s mouth was open in amazement. The piano player invited the child to have a go. She touched the keys tentatively. Then he played Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. The expression on that child’s face was priceless. He may have created the start of a lifelong passion and all from a free piano.

It made me think about what other free facilities we have available to us these days. Yes, there are the parks, flower beds and occasional fountains but you can’t do anything other than look at those. I mean things to interact with. A few days later a walk on the local park with the Grandkids reminded me of two more free things.

Many local parks now have fitness equipment for use by anyone at any time. What a brilliant idea.

You may have noticed from the picture above that, although it was a lovely warm afternoon, the equipment was not actually being used. Never mind. It's there for when people fancy it. Maybe first thing in the morning there are queues for each item.

The third free thing was being so well used at the park that I couldn't take a photo for fear of upsetting people. That is the table tennis table. Yet another brilliant idea and one of these days I shall go down there with a table tennis ball and have a go. Anyone fancy a game?

My cats can plan and plot

I bet you think that cats can’t plan or plot together. That’s what I thought until last week when the grandkids came to visit.

My cats, Charlie and Mabel, are terrified of visitors, especially children. They disappear down the end of the garden as soon as they hear children's voices so I thought it would be fine when the grandkids asked if they could bring their new dog for a visit.

Just before they were due to arrive I made sure the cats had eaten and were in the garden. They had extra food and water in the greenhouse and would be able to spend the day out there. But things did not go as planned.

As soon as we sat in the conservatory, Charlie arrived at the window. She spent a good half an hour motionless, staring at the dog. It drove the dog crazy. She barked and threw herself at the window, kamikaze style. All the time Charlie sat without even moving a whisker.

When Charlie got tired of the dog-taunting game she strolled away down the garden.

“I bet she’s going to tell Mabel,” I said and the grandkids laughed politely, in a kind of 'grandmas are silly' way. However, less than a minute later Mabel was at the window doing exactly the same as Charlie had done, taunting the poor dog. Mabel is never normally seen by visitors, ever! When she tired of the dog-taunting game, Charlie took over once more.

Now tell me that cats can’t plan and plot together.

It’s good to talk...

...but bad to be indecisive

It all began when a few of us felt that we needed something to keep our brains active. We thought it might be a good idea to organise a monthly discussion group but we didn’t know if it would work, if there would be any interest in it or even if we were up to the job. After much indecision we agreed that the only way to find out was to try.

That was over a year ago. The group has gone from strength to strength. We meet in the local Synagogue Hall. Everyone we know is invited to join us and I’m delighted to say that people are turning up regularly. The group is called Thinking Allowed (with apologies to Radio 4's Laurie Taylor) because it seems to accurately describe what we do. We have covered a wide range of topics, from the effects of superstition on our actions to the role of music in our lives to the influence of the Internet. This month’s topic was, inevitably, the EU referendum. I thought people would groan and stay away but no. The discussion was as animated and enthusiastic as ever. (For those who are interested, we held our very own secret ballot at the end of the discussion and the result was overwhelmingly in favour of staying in.) 

These discussions don’t run themselves. We meet a few weeks before each session to plan arguments for and against our topic, create a list of bullet points so that the chairperson - we take it in turns in the chair - can move the discussion on if necessary. (Sometimes we have a more in-depth discussion at these planning meetings than at the real thing but that’s another story.) Then there’s the hall to arrange, the advertising of each month's meeting, the cake, biscuits, tea, coffee, milk etc to buy. One day I suspect we will run out of topics, energy and drive for all this but for now it’s a regular feature in our diaries and I, for one, am glad we took the plunge. 

Have you been unsure about organising something and then been pleased that you did? Or are you still indecisive? And if you are then might I politely suggest you give it a try. What have you got to lose?