In Cool Brittainia Where We Lay Our Scene

Hi everyone! Welcome back! To you. To me. To thinking out loud. For not writing, I have two excuses , both alike in dignity. 1) finishing up a bear of a 1st quarter so I could 2) take a fantastic trip to UK. Since I live through words rather than pictures, the next several posts will try to capture the experience. Starting with the back story:

I grew up with creative parents and The World Service from the BBC on my father’s  brushed stainless Technics hi-fi (This was one of my favorite objects as a child. I could write a post on the mass and glide of that tuner knob). When cooking with my mom or playing with my stuffed animals, my ‘other accent’ was British. My ‘other other accent’ was Irish. And such a premium placed on imagination in our house, my other accents were in active rotation. I have loved for a long time these voices, even before I knew the places they belonged to.

Fast forward. In 2011 my heart broke twice. A man, yes.  And also, a ruinous taste of a road not taken. And in the next two years my career floundered, and finally failed. On June 28, 2013 I received my last paycheck until…I got another job. Like so many people in these unsteady years since our economy communicated its sickness with a global catastrophic crash, I was unemployed, uninsured, and prospectless; fearfully spending down my savings, while applying endlessly for jobs and fretting.

In the summer of my unemployment, I took refuge in Daniel Craig’s 007 movies, Ian Fleming’s original novels (both borrowed free from the library), and my imagination. Those voices, and their place were once again a home base for me.

Things turned around for me in the fall. I got a job. I struck up an eager, yet ‘breezy’ flirtation with The Road Not Taken. It was all roses until the winter holiday break, when the network of private and public stressors a family bears together found me in an emergency room on Christmas Day. And this holiday, which I already find grim, cast a long dark shadow over the end of my year. I am restored. And a great help along that journey to this fabulous present was…yessir, London. The voices. This time via Sherlock.

I will spare you my particular manifestation of Sherlust. Suffice to say: I spent most of January in a fantasy world so rich it began to worry me a little bit. One staple feature was a deep and mutually adoring friendship with Andrew Scott. The other was a year spent living as an artist, in London.

We could talk about why I give validity to daydreams, but let’s leave that for later. For now, the facts. I decided to ply my nascent artistry in theatre. Looking around, I found The Royal Court Theatre in London (in case you hadn’t caught the theme), where this spring they are producing a new play starring Andrew Scott (Birdland runs through May 31st). I bought a ticket for the play before I was even sure I would go.

As always happens it was my friends IRL who made this trip better than any fantasy. Mr. Scott just lowered the activation energy, for which I thank him. Cheers!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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