Panic in the Barbican

I frequently endure mild panic as I enter the Barbican complex. For varied reasons I am often late or have poorly described plans for meeting places. I get shown around by those helpful runners that guide late-comers to their ticketing desks and seats. I'm actually a member as well, but this doesn't make any difference and the idea of spending time in the special lounge might appeal but has yet to occur.

Saturday was no different as we crossed town from Chelsea in order to see Improbable's 'Panic' in the Barbican Pit. We ran across concourses, we ran down spiralling stairs, we hung a left to get tickets. We made our way into the already darkened theatre. The performance had started. The actors were on stage. "Hello", said Phelim from the stage, "...and Welcome".

We sat, gathered our wits and decided whether to be panic-ed or to take off in another direction.

Multi dimensioned, with a level describing the actors, a level around the on stage personas and then a further flight into the mystic, this is a magical and spellbinding performance.

There's a dreamlike sequencing, where what's top, bottom, left and right becomes difficult to fathom, but always within the theme of The Great God Pan being both everywhere and stuck alone waiting for his Nymphs in a bedsit in Brixton.

I enjoy the quirky portrayal, the gear changes between actors playing in the various levels, and the way even the stage's visual plane is adjusted for some of the scenes.

Pan is a tough god to deliver. Panic, bufoonery, cloven hoofed paganism, fooling with nymphs in the woods, horns sufficient to have him re-written as the devil. Or as a particularly *ahem* three dimensional character of the sort you wouldn't get in any IMAX.

Pan-character Phelim McDermott and his strong cast of (P)angela Clerkin, Lucy Foster and Matilda Leyser ran a slickly timed though intentionally haphazard performance to be proud of - "Can someone help me with the legs?" called for some complex puppetry. There was a full and metropolitan audience who laughed their way through the right parts of the show and clearly approved.

An episode about self improvement set in the middle layer labyrinth of the Brixton flat was made complex by the piles of books and sharp things on the floor which could be removed by event vacuuming. I would have sensed a random 'self -help title generator' if it wasn't for the real books being produced from brown carrier bags to illustrate the theme.

There were dream sequences with aerial swishery and personal revelations from the actors where it became deliberately difficult to determine whether these were from characters or the people themselves.

But lets not forget Pan's stand-up role in the woodlands with the nymphs. There was more than an eyeful of that too, along with revelations from the nymphs themselves of their special healing properties and other appropriate dispositions.

The staging, lighting and mystical music (was that Dolly Pardon being played backwards at one point?) added to the atmosphere of being transported into a woodland and later into the Labyrinth. Brown paper and straw featured heavily in the set which worked exceptionally well as a component of the production.

As I left, in my mind I could still hear twigs snapping, the hoot of an owl and the flutter of a bird taking off... or was it the rustle of a self help book?

Londoners...Go see!

renaissance

Sitting here listening to the Clerkenwell Polka by Madness after an evening at a Heathrow hotel. Sometimes it feels a bit nuts in the head to be going back to an airport at what should be the start of the weekend, but I was meeting a good friend from Boston who was passing through from Belfast on the way back home, with an overnighter on the H2 bus route.

He's been in a new hot shot intergalactic job for a while and it was a great chance to hear the latest and trade a certain amount of gossip over a lemonade and a glass of wine. He's on an early flight on Saturday morning. My next one isn't until Sunday afternoon.

budget wordle

UK 2009 budget as a wordle. "We're going to need a bigger plug...", etc.

collapse of plan creates a new window of opportunity

The collapse of a well made plan today for entirely external reasons means I can spend some time in the UK before I hit the trail again on Sunday.

I will still have my time cut out anyway to get my stuff done.

But tonight instead of another view of a runway, I'm back home and decided to watch some telly, and surprise people by answering the phone at rashbre central.

I can hear a conversation suggesting that I'll be at the Barbican on Saturday, but I shall try not to panic.

Slaughtered Lamb hosts The Low Anthem

After the car phoning me, I spent the rest of the day in a video conference with three other European locations, which went on until around 20:00. Now I'm in a hotel with an excellent view of a foreign runway. I can't hear the planes, but I swear I can smell that aviation fuel aroma.

The good news today was that we found out that the fabulous band 'The Low Anthem' are doing a couple of London gigs next month in Farringdon at the Slaughtered Lamb.

We've managed to bag a few tickets for both nights.

UPDATE: Reviewed here

thoughtful car averts chase by cops

I prevented a Police car chase today when my own car decided to phone me.

"Ring Ring", it went.
"Hello", I said.
"Hello I'm your car, registration blah blah blah".
"Huh?"
"I might have been stolen, check whether I'm where you think I should be..."
"Huh?"
"Press 1 if I've been stolen or 2 if you know I've been moved without the key"
"Huh?...Ahah!"
"You pressed the button to say I've not been stolen"...
...and so it went on.
Yes.
They've taken my busted car away on a flat bed trailer to have the springy-ness re-boinged. It will return a veritable Tigger in a day or two. Meantime I'll be driving to Heathrow in the green teapot.

editing the week to sound bites

As I tippy-tap these posts, I can't help thinking how much of an edit there is between what happens and what gets recorded.

I've already been back to the UK and then flown out to another place by the time I write this and as an account of 'le mini-break' it misses huge amounts of the experience.

But I take that as a good thing - the richness - yet also a mystery that sometimes I get stuck about what to write. So amongst the things I've skipped over would be the fashion show on the beach, sponsored by NRJ radio (it took me ages to work that one out). The curious addiction to cafe liegeois. The flat above the music shop. Knowing the short cuts through the cobbled streets in Dinant. A nostalgic visit to the Casino at the Hotel Normandy. Hearing a story of domestic neglect whilst winding through lanes in Brittany. The whole Absinthe saga. Le Pot d'Etain for four. I think that's enough.

Normal service will resume shortly.

the small cow was a sign that we were tourists

More search for sea and sand between the toes on Saturday, after starting with a visit to the market.

I would have said French Market, with its calvados, fromage, huitres and smokey saucisson. Très magnifique as they might say.

Luckily our local friend was able to point out the tell tale signs of us being treated as tourists, although even I suspected something when the milk for the coffee arrived in a little cow shaped jug. Small children passing were saying 'La vache' - so I suppose it was still broadly educational.

Many locals were meeting and greeting one another and then with perfect timing, two people I'd met for the first time the previous day strolled right past our table. So we greeted one another in a proper French style and then they looked at our little cow and we looked at their leeks. You had to be there. Emily handed over the dozen eggs destined for the evening's omelettes and we headed for the coast with the lid down on the car.

the mediaeval village divulges a popular restaurant

Part of the plan behind this trip was to meet friends in a nearby French village, around a kilometer from our hotel, which we achieved with superb co-ordination.

We also headed for other nearby locations such as the mediaeval village on a rock in the Manche. Mont St Michel could be a set for a film and would tax the finest Disney Imagineers to create something with as many twists and turns.

We strolled the ramparts and finally stopped in a restaurant where countless well known people had dined, including Presidents, Kings, Prime Ministers, film stars and singers. Close to our table were signatures from the Bolshevik-Leninist Leon Trotsky, ex UK Conservative leader Margaret Thatcher and the straw hatted french singer Maurice Chevalier.

after the journey, the quicksand was nothing

After the mechanical, industrial and documentary challenges we finally made it across to France. A change of plan and a different hotel for the first evening, before onward to Normandy.

And in keeping with the spirit of the journey we soon found a dangerous beach, and then subsequently an area sign-posted with quicksand warnings.

borderline decisions impeding progress

The journey to Folkestone worked.

In the spare car, with the silver one to be taken away to be fixed next Monday. We even managed to zig and zag our way through the blockade and past all of the lorries parked on the M20.

Right the way through to the French control point at the tunnel. We were even on time for our originally planned crossing.

Feeling pretty good.

The inevitable question about tickets and passports. I had all the necessary documentation, but my accomplice did not. Merely a driving licence. I'd asked about the passport when we were only a mile from home. Let's say I didn't ask in a clear or precise enough way.

Anyway, we've now been refused entry to France and have a form to prove it. Invited to the little white room by a pleasant gendarme for questioning and paperwork. Then escorted from the French part of the UK end of the Tunnel back to British jurisdiction, by security.

Actually, I'm in the clear.

I can still come and go as I please. But right now I'm waiting for the other passport to be retrieved. Having run the gauntlet of roadblocks, Operation Stack and similar, we decided it was best for me to sit here with the car.

I've been doing work emails on my blackberry and now moved onto my Macbook Pro. In a moment I may write a new novel. There should be enough time.

shock car moment

My car has decided it doesn't want to go to France. I was just getting ready to throw some luggage into the boot, when I noticed it had adopted a lower slung look than customary. I walked to the front and my foot clipped half a serious looking metal ring laying on the ground.

I think it has been looking at too many pictures of French Citroens or something. The new low-slung look was an effect of a shock absorber catastrophe. I noticed a clunk sound when I was driving back from Heathrow yesterday, and fear that something important has snapped.

Oh well, it looks as if the little blue convertible will be making the trip to France instead.

UPDATE:
Motorists have been warned to expect serious delays due to Operation Stack being implemented on the M20.

Industrial action at the French ports of Calais, Boulogne and Dunkirk is preventing ferries from crossing the Channel, meaning freight must use a section of the motorway as a giant lorry park.

Fishermen are protesting at ever tougher EU-imposed fishing quotas, and are calling for more support from their government.

Police are closing the coast-bound carriageway between junctions eight (Leeds Castle) and nine (Ashford West), with motorists being asked to find alternative routes.

Eurotunnel will continue to transport freight and people who have already secured bookings.

I wonder if our ticket will still work?