The wrath of the Almighty

Bible-bashing is not one of my favourite occupations. In fact, I avoid it at all costs as a rule. However...

This cartoon appeared on Facebook a couple of weeks ago. In the light of the utterly ridiculous, bigoted, unloving and un-Christian proclamation made by the Bishops of the Church of England today, I made some efforts to find it again as it resonated so much.

The rain and wind are howling outside as I type this. Ghastly UK winter weather? Yes. Global warming? Quite likely. God's punishment? I don't think so. If there is any direct divine reason for the present appalling conditions, I don't believe it to be God's punishment, it's God's tears for those who ignore the greatest commandments of all:

"'And you shall love the LORD your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength.' This is the first commandment. And the second, like it, is this: 'You shall love your neighbour as yourself.' There is no other commandment greater than these." Mark 12:30–31

Do you see anything in there about "except if your neighbour happens to love his own sex"? No, neither do I.

Local theatre... in great shape

Photograph: Michael Stanislaw

The third show in the Sewell Barn's 2013-14 season was directed by Luke Owen, a regular performer with the group, and more recently a published and performed playwright. (I know he gets uncomfortable with his friends and colleagues banging on proudly about his achievements, but given the undoubted success of Unscorched, it looks as though he's going to have to get used to it.)

Having shared a stage with Luke, I knew that whatever his production delivered, it would most likely be intentional: precise, professional and focused. My hope was that his choice of play and performers would permit such an aim to be realised; to my delight, it was.

The Shape of Things, by Neil LaBute, is a contemporary play, dealing with very twenty-first century attitudes.

"When Adam meets a young art student named Evelyn, his world begins to change. The two fall in love, and keen to impress his new girlfriend Adam begins to alter everything about himself for the better – he works out, he buys new clothes, he stops biting his nails... 

But why is Evelyn so eager for him to change? And what is he becoming?"

Having said that: there are shades of Pygmalion here, so perhaps the subject matter resonates far further back than the era of Starbucks, mobile phones and the gym. Maybe that's one of the reasons I liked it so much: real-time relevance rooted in enduring observations of human nature. And it is an excellent script: thought-provoking, funny, sinister, sharply-observed and intelligent.

The four young actors were perfectly chosen. Any small-cast show has the opportunity for exciting chemistry (or not) to ignite the theatrical experience (or not); in this case, the tuning between performers was perfect. Each displaying far more artistic integrity and professional composure than is entirely fair in those so young, the four wove their characters together, bouncing and merging, arguing and sparking, each confrontation entirely believable. It's actually not possible to comment on individual scenes or characters without giving away key plotlines - which I won't, because I want you to go and see for yourselves - but rest assured that all four performers inhabit their characters with total conviction, interact with love and fear and uncertainty and excitement and despair, and truly live. David Green, Hazel Wilson, Louise Waller and Jack Churchill are all to be very highly commended for such devoted and professional work, both as a team and individually.

And as for Mr Owen: this was a fine, fine example of a vision created and realised. With Gemma Goodwin's clean and ingenious set, simple movements of blocks to create various environments, swift transformation of light and stage, and careful use of appropriate incidental music, the world of LaBute's 'Midwestern American university' was firmly established on the Barn's versatile stage. With performers who are mature enough to exhibit skillful stagecraft but youthful enough to be entirely flexible about the characters they create, we were not watching David, Hazel, Louise and Jack, but Adam, Evelyn, Jenny and Philip, and we believed it. And with that precise, professional and focused direction I mentioned earlier, the whole creation was brought together as an exceptional work of art: yet another production of which the Sewell Barn Theatre can be very proud.

As I write this, you have four more chances to witness the creation for yourself. I strongly suggest that you do. Box Office: 01603 697248.

T-Mobile: a tale of how not to do it.

Mobile phones: a necessary evil. Well, actually usually rather useful and enjoyable. I've had one for something like twenty years, and as a geek-queen have always enjoyed making the most of new technology. I keep an eye out for the best deals, ensure I don't need to pay much to upgrade, sell on phones in good condition after such upgrades, and so on. I have two numbers on my account: one each for my husband and myself.

Back in the summer, one of our phones had its upgrade, and with the shuffling around of handsets in the household, we ended up with a spare, excellent condition, iPhone 4, still locked to T-Mobile. I obviously recognised that it would be easier to sell the phone if it was unlocked. Here's the saga.

19th July: I phoned, and requested the unlocking code. I was told it would take 20 days. Fine.

I was on holiday in the summer, and realised at the end of August that I'd heard nothing.

9th September: I called again. T-Mobile denied all knowledge of the previous call. I was told it would take 20 days.

18th October: having heard nothing, I called again. This time I had the presence of mind to ask for a name. 'Jenny' on 'x731' listened carefully, told me she would escalate the matter to a 72 hour timeframe, promised faithfully to call me back on Tuesday 22nd October. Are you surprised that I heard nothing?

28th October: having heard nothing, I spoke to 'Jamie O'Hanlon' and went through the saga again. I was told it would be sorted by Thursday 31st October. And that he would call me.

1st November: hooray! A text message from T-Mobile! Unfortunately, it informed me that the IMEI number they had was incorrect, so they couldn't complete the process.

Monday 4th November: I called again. After explaining the whole sorry story (bearing in mind that I was in serious need of the money for the phone at this point) I was told explicitly by the person I spoke to (whose name I sadly didn't get on this occasion) that it would be quicker and easier to go to 'any branch of Carphone Warehouse', and pay a fee to them to unlock it. At this point, we checked the IMEI, which proved to be entirely incorrect on the T-Mobile records, and I gave them the correct one.

This being the case, well, I figured it would be simpler to sell the phone, as locked to T-Mobile, but letting the purchaser unlock the phone themselves if they needed to do so. (As such, I charged less than I would have done had it been unlocked.)  I quickly found a buyer via my contacts on Facebook, arranged to meet, and the sale went through on Wednesday 27th November. The purchaser took the phone off to Carphone Warehouse after meeting me, and also tried T-Mobile. Both told the buyer that the unlocking couldn't be done by them (despite what I'd been explicitly told before).

29th November: having ascertained that the buyer of my phone, having given me the money in good faith, could not unlock the phone to use it, I called again. I explained in great detail to 'Winnie', and pointed out that I had had no customer service to speak of, no callbacks, no help. She said that she would have the matter escalated and solved within 72 hours (have you heard this before?) To give her her due, she did phone me over the next couple of days - to let me know that she'd made no progress. Eventually, she failed to call me as promised on 6th December...

6th December: I called again, and went through the whole business with 'Ann-Marie'. She agreed it was unacceptable, and that she would make absolutely sure it went through in 72 hours (what?), and that she would call me back on Saturday 7th to touch base. Are you surprised that I heard nothing?

9th December: I called again, and went through the whole business yet again with 'Bernard White' (ostensibly on x54652). He promised faithfully that he would call me back on Wednesday 11th December as he was (guess what) ensuring that this was processed manually and 'should be done by the 10th'.

I am typing this as I wait on 'hold' (nearly 30 minutes so far, and this is on my third attempt this afternoon) to speak to the mysterious Bernard White. I am listening to exceptionally annoying music, and have done for at least 15 minutes of that time, with nobody returning to the call to reassure me that they are trying to put me through.

The purchaser of my phone still can't use it. I told them what I had been told by T-Mobile about the unlocking process, which proved to be entirely false. I feel a responsibility to my purchaser (unlike T-Mobile). She has so far had the phone for two weeks and has been unable to use it. 

Had the phone unlocking happened back in the summer, when this laborious process began, I could have sold it for more money as it would have been ready for any network; it would have been worth more at that stage, too. As it is, I have spent countless, fruitless hours on the phone to an assortment of incompetent idiots, each spinning me a different line; and it's not just me that is involved, but the poor lass who has bought my phone in good faith.

And still I wait. And wait. And wait.

PS: as I concluded typing, the call disconnected itself. Today's calls have been (a) a failed attempt to get through, (b) 10 minutes followed by (c) 27 minutes. And no conclusions.

Update : 11th December 18:15: after a total of 53 minutes on the phone, across three separate calls this evening, I spoke to 'Karl Fitzgerald', who tells me that 'Bernard White' had left the office at 6pm (if my first call had got through to him he would still have been there). 'Bernard' has not left notes on my records for the matter to be escalated as he promised. 'Karl' assures me that he will 'escalate' the matter and he will ensure that 'Bernard' will call me back on Thursday morning.

Are you going to give me odds on whether I receive a call, never mind an unlocking code?

Update: 12th December: So, we finally got there. Two phone calls from Bernard and one from Paul (the latter being from the Social Media team), and - just after midday - email confirmation that the phone had been unlocked. (No code required, simply instructions for rebooting the phone.) Email forwarded to purchaser, and a grateful reply from her later in the day - using said phone.

So what do we learn from this?

• Keep a note of every single call you make and message you send, with all the details. Make sure you know the facts.
• If your initial attempt doesn't work, make it public. Blog the story as I have done. Stick to your facts as recorded above.
• If you have problems with a mobile phone company, don't bother using the phone to contact them. (Ironic, huh?)
• Instead: use social media. Somehow it appears that responses are far better (this isn't the first time I've experienced this: the Twitter and Facebook teams are much more on-the-ball than the call centre versions).

It may simply be that the staff of the Social Media team are better at their job. Or maybe it's because the public nature of the complaint makes it rather more important that they perform said job. Call me cynical.

Final, ironic, PS: 13th December: As I complete typing this blog post, a text has just this minute arrived from TMobile. Is it an apology? An offer of some compensation? No. The text reads:

Thanks for submitting you request to unlock your phone. Please allow 20 days to receive your email detailing the code and instructions to unlock your phone.

WHAT???

Festen: a dark celebration

I saw this show on its opening night. I'm delighted to report that my enthusiastic urging to see it was, in my opinion, wholly justified: it was a startlingly impressive show.

First, a few comments from other audience members:

"I would like to publicly congratulate Michelle and the cast and crew of Festen. I saw the production yesterday and I can truly say it is a most engaging and atmospheric performance. The language was at times a bit 'strong' but that was not a problem.  I felt involved in the ghastly revelations at what, on the face of it, was a happy dinner party celebration. The audience were all equally enthralled, there was the occasional short sharp intake of breath which convinced me they also were involved with the dysfunctional family. Comments during the interval and after the performance were among the most enthusiastic I have ever heard."

"Awesome production, loved the Michael Douglas charm of the father, superb acting from every character, a complex set of characters & perspectives brilliantly portrayed. They captured all the emotional tension and loved the 'silent scene' and very clever use of the limited space, thoroughly enjoyable night out and one which will be remembered for a long time."

"Amazingly successful, engaging production. One audience member said she had seen it at the Theatre Royal a few years ago and our production was just so much more atmospheric!"

"Just back from seeing Festen... It was just fantastic, it's left me feeling a bit speechless, the actors are utterly professional to the very end, an absolutely tremendous production as always. Thank you for a great evening."

"Big Congratulations to all the cast of Festen, James Thomson, Jesse Kirkbride and all. A brilliantly directed and expertly written piece of theatre. Challenging and direct with distinct and believable characterisation. A breath of fresh air at The Sewell Barn Theatre."

And my favourite review so far, from David Shaw:

"What a play!! What a production!! Brave, corrosive, coruscating. I can't remember being so involved in a production.  You were there, weren't you? and frequently wishing you weren't.  When they sang that song at the end of act one I felt disgusted, dirty and ashamed.

All the cast were excellent.  I particularly liked the maid, her naivety, her freshness, and was so relieved that she gave us a glimmer of hope at the end. Shadows of Casablanca "at least we will have Paris!!" And she was such a contrast to the chef who was malevolently terrific. Faultless, everyone.  And I want to be directed by that woman!!"

And from me?

Well, this is not a light-and-fluffy evening at the theatre. It's dark, emotional and intense. There is strong language, and there are 'adult themes'. But then, if you want light-and-fluffy, there's plenty of chewing-gum entertainment available on the goggle-box.

Every one of the characters was consistent. No matter how much or how little they had to say or do, they remained steadfastly within their creation, never dropping their alter-ego for a moment. Given that the experience of the cast ranges from a teenager to an octogenarian, this was impressive. Every single one of the actors was focused and impressive, and I could mention every single one by name; but I have to especially commend Terry Cant for the strength, charm and vulnerability of an extraordinarily difficult creation; and Matthew Buck for an intense and passionate performance that, at times, literally took my breath away.

The direction of this complex piece was excellent. Working in the confines of the intimate Sewell Barn, which is both a huge benefit and a potentially tricky limitation, the interaction of characters (sometimes with three scenes superimposed over each other) was kept clear and strong. The brave use of silence and discomfort was deeply affecting and effective. The set was elegant and sophisticated without being intrusive. The use of music - both as performed by the cast and as incidental mood-setting - was haunting and atmospheric.

If you really cannot bear the use of four-letter words (not gratuitous, although frequent: they are intrinsic to certain characters); or if you would be too deeply disturbed by the powerful portrayal of abusive family relationships, and feel that you would therefore be prevented from appreciating the skill and dramatic intensity, then perhaps this play is not for you. However, if you are willing to suspend preconception and to immerse yourself in a fascinating, powerful and thought-provoking piece of theatre, I strongly recommend that you catch one of the remaining performances. As I've already expressed on Facebook: if either caution or apathy prevents you, it will be Your Serious Loss.

Festen plays at the Sewell Barn until Saturday 19th October, including a matinee on the Saturday. Visit the Sewell Barn website for details, and/or call Jarrolds on 01603 697248.

I've never tried it so I don't like it

There's a splendid quote that I'm rather fond of from the inimitable Lewis Carroll.

Little girl to nurse: "I'm so glad I don't like asparagus."
Nurse: "Why, dear?"
Little girl: "Because if I did like it I'd have to eat it - and I can't bear it."

How much does that apply to many of us with new experiences? Specifically, in this case, theatrical experiences. Yes, I know I've been here before (several times): my love of the theatre (from all perspectives: performer, director and audience) means that I believe passionately that 'trying the new' is something that we should all do. But I'm about to bang on about it again.

I've said a lot of this already in the lead-up to a previous show at the Sewell Barn: Airswimming. You can read the post here. This truly magnificent show was a classic example of the comments that I hear, time after time: "I so wish I'd seen that play - I heard it was brilliant." The same was true of the show that followed it (When the Rain Stops Falling). Both shows were stunning experiences, superbly acted and directed, highly challenging, and outside predictable theatrical fare. Neither was Ayckbourn or Shakespeare, or the stage version of some recognisable TV show. In fact, you'd be very unusual if you'd heard of either of them before (I certainly hadn't). But these were evenings that I wouldn't have missed for the world.

Now, the upcoming show at the Sewell Barn is Festen. It's dark, disturbing and powerful. It's not a light-and-frothy farce or a Mills-and-Boon dose of slushiness. There's strong language, there are 'adult themes', and no, it's not suitable for young children. However, I've seen some rehearsals, and can strongly, highly, emphatically recommend it. There are some stunning performances, an extraordinarily well-designed and imaginative set, superb direction.

"It's not my sort of thing"... how do you know if you haven't tried it? I wouldn't have thought that a tale about two women incarcerated for fifty years in a mental asylum for the crime of having children out of wedlock was 'my sort of thing'. (If you're wondering, my 'sort of thing' is more likely to be a hefty dose of Kander & Ebb, stuff-strutting and fishnets.) Yet I left that theatre having laughed and cried, thought and pondered, discussed and dissected; yes, stimulated. I didn't know what to expect, and I got it.

"What if I don't like it?" Well, sue me. The worst that can happen is that you feel you have experienced nothing in that two hours or so that has given you an intellectual or emotional workout. Personally, I think that's very unlikely. Don't get me wrong: I don't leave every show I see raving about it (far from it). But I can safely say that, in some forty years of theatregoing, I can count on the fingers of one hand the shows that I really, honestly, seriously disliked on all counts. For 99% of the time, I'll leave full of questions, comments, praise - and, yes, criticism - but very, very seldom unmoved. Even a show that left me, on the whole, underwhelmed will have some performance, some element of direction, some creative idea that has thrilled or interested me. In other words, it is very unlikely to be a completely wasted journey. On the other hand, I see television shows all the time - especially so-called 'talent' shows - that leave me thinking "well, that was two hours of my life I'll never get back".

As I've said before: do yourself a favour. Try it. You might like it. And even if you don't wholly, unreservedly 'like it', you'll take away something: a new experience, a thought process, an emotion, a challenge.

And if you do shift yourself to buy a ticket, you'll have done something else: made it more likely that shows like this - and unlike this - will be put on at this unique venue in the future. Because without you, there is no point.

Box office: 01603 697248. Over to you.

This week - nothing.

Hearing your husband preach each week has its good and bad points. Not, I hasten to add, in respect of his sermons: I know I'm biased, but he remains one of the most good-humoured, intelligent preachers I've ever heard, irrespective of my relationship with him.

No, I refer to the fact that sometimes (whether intentionally or not) he manages to produce some thought, some soundbite, some observation that goes straight to the heart of whatever it is I happen to be struggling with at the time. This was the case this week. And last week, actually: being a Harvest homily, I have actually heard it two Sundays running. Not that I mind.

The address began, as so many of his do, with a joke.

Two old friends bump into each other on the street one day.  One of them looks forlorn, almost on the verge of tears. 

His friend asks, “What has the world done to you?”

The sad one says “Let me tell you.  Three weeks ago an uncle died and left me $50,000.”

“That’s a lot of money!”

“But then two weeks ago a cousin I’d never even met died, and he left me 100,000.”

“Sounds like you’ve been blessed....”

“No, no, you still don’t understand.  Last week my great-aunt passed away, and I inherited nearly a quarter of a million!”

“Then – why look so glum?”

“Well, this week – nothing!”

Of course, this then led us into the focus of Harvest Thanksgiving: being deliberately aware of blessings, all good gifts around us, etc., and proactively expressing our gratitude to The Boss - whether by stewardship, hospitality, or a basket of random cooking apples and tinned soup to be donated to a local charity. However, the story took me somewhere slightly different.

There have been some fairly difficult times recently: for my friends and loved ones, and therefore for me as well. I'm a solver, you see. Anyone who knows me well, especially in a professional context, will recognise this: I like nothing better than a cry for help to which I can respond, making it all better. "Cassie - why doesn't the computer do this?" "Cassie - how do I deal with this pile of stuff?" "Cassie - have you got the music that I need?" However, most of the recent tricky stuff has got me down rather badly - because most of it is of the type that has no solutions. Nothing, niet, nada. I am left floundering, disempowered and helpless.

My life is usually one that bounces along with a fairly high proportion of good things. So when I find, in one fairly short period, that I'm fighting this lot, it's a bit of a blow. In absolutely no order of seriousness: a badly sprained foot, and hence dropping out of the play I was in; resulting pain stops my regular walks, so I put on weight (always an issue); my father descending ever more rapidly into dementia, and all the ghastly stuff that goes with it for my mother; a colleague's father dies suddenly, another colleague's mother is diagnosed with terminal illness; the freelance earnings take one of their occasional nose-dives, but it's bad timing; three (THREE) of my clients, lovely ladies and in one case a close friend, have serious marital problems; a very dear theatrical colleague has painful and as yet undiagnosed health problems; and so on.

It's all fairly ghastly, and the nonsense with my foot - hardly earth-shattering news in itself - undermines my usual sense of optimism, leaving me debilitated and depressed.

And then along comes my husband's little story. In a reluctantly-accepted lightbulb moment, I think: well, if you take 'weeks' and replace them with 'years', or even 'quarters', my life's been a bit like that. Every year, when my husband and I probably bore the collective pants off our friends and relations with the ubiquitous Round Robins, there is always so much more to celebrate than to commiserate. Friends, visits, music, food, drink, theatre, food, places, photography, family, work, play, joy - including, within the last two years, my 50th birthday and all its joyful celebrations, and a magnificent four weeks in the USA. Not Pollyanna-style - the good is always interspersed with the bad and the ugly - but on balance, a pretty colourful and fabulous cornucopia.

And this week - or this period of the last four months or so - nothing. Bad news, ill health, deep sadness in many quarters. And I can't do bugger all about most of them. I can keep doing the stuff I do best - organise, pay bills, be taxi service, be there, make stuff work - but I can't make it better for anybody, including myself.

Even as I read this back, I think, "well, that's a load of crap. It's not 'nothing' at all. You've had a week with very dear friends and a week in a beautiful place in Wales. You've created a successful concert with some stunningly talented friends." So even that is true: it's never 'nothing'.

But even if life feels like wading through treacle right now, for the most part - it's just a phase. It's just 'this week'. And joys go on around me. Two other dear friends, after many years and several disappointments, have just produced a beautiful little boy. Another pair of theatrical colleagues, gorgeous people both, have got engaged. Yet another pair celebrated the most inspiring, simple, joyful wedding it's ever been my pleasure to attend. Their stories weave around my own, in their own colour and light, and they celebrate their 'great weeks', and share them with the rest of us. That keeps me going.

And when, as I trust and know from experience it will, my next 'great week' comes around again, I hope I'll be able to share it with those I love and care for. Meantime, I've got to keep remembering: it's just "this week - nothing". Not "this lifetime".

What the pigeon was doing

I was asked, a few weeks ago, by a Facebook friend, if I could provide a few photographs as 'writing prompts' for a creative writing challenge created by Word Bohemia. Of course, I was delighted to do so. The challenge began on 1st September, and two of the four images so far have been mine, which gives me an odd sense of vicarious fame.

Today's was a photo that always amused me - not least because I always wondered what the pigeon was up to when I took it (in a doorway in Norwich, if you were wondering). Now, thanks to the splendid Alan MacFarlane, I know. Completely inspired.

***

Coool

… 32, 33, 34 …

Let’s go there.
Admiralty Arch?
Yeah.
Are you serious?
Yeah, why not?
We spend most of every bloody day on that, that’s why not.
Alright then, what about up there?
On his hat I suppose?
No, don’t be daft. That would be too obvious. Besides it’s lunchtime, there’ll be a queue.
Bloody hell.
What?
Sometimes I wonder what damage all that pecking has done.
It was just a suggestion.
We were up there ten minutes ago, remember? That’s the first place he’ll look.

… 45, 46, 47, 48 49 …

We could jump buses for a while.
Too much effort.
National Gallery then?
Western European painting exhibition on. It’ll be packed.
South African Embassy?
Too political.
Charing Cross Monument?
It’s got to be somewhere in the square remember.
St Martins?
They’ve got the nets up. Bob got stuck earlier. Did I tell you about that? Funny story -
Yeah you did. Come on, we need to hurry.

… 58, 59, 60, 61…

Right, let’s think…
I know!
What?
Behind one of the lions.
Go on.
We stand out of sight then move round depending on where he is.
Finally a good idea.
Thanks.
But not good enough.
Guh. Why not?
Somebody’s bound to drop crumbs and I’ll get distracted.
Alright then smart arse. Where do you think we should go?
It’s obvious.
Is it?
Yeah.
Let’s hear it then.

… 73, 74, 75, 76…

We stand on that window ledge above his head.
That’s dafter than anything I’ve said.
You think so?
Yeah, isn’t it?
Listen, you know what he’s like.
What do you mean?
He always does things first and thinks later, right?
I suppose.
Well, what do you think he’s going to do when he stops counting?
I dunno.
Give me strength … He’ll take off, won’t he? Then he’ll start looking for us.
And we’ll be -
Right there where he won’t think of looking for us. Exactly.
Brilliant!
Let’s get over there.

(A SHORT WHILE LATER)

…89, 90, 91, 92, 93 …

Heh heh.
Shush.

… 96, 97, 98, 99, 100. Coming ready or not! (flap, flap, flap)

Brilliant.

***