Just been having the most awful time.
Jeanie suggested going to the Theatre. Sounded OK. But, Oh Boy!
The theatre is question was His Majesties’ in Adelaide. The seats would be about the right size for an emaciated squirrel. The play was Pinter’s The Caretaker, which is 50 year old socialist dirge; about as much fun as Steptoe & Son but without any jokes and much, much, much longer.
I had taken the precaution of taking some painkillers, and a Valium, and a couple of glasses of red wine beforehand, to try to ward off the discomfort. It was not nearly enough. Within 10 minutes, my back started to give me real pain. Get into another head space, I told myself, and I tried to disconnect with this awful hell-hole, tune out the shouting from the stage, and imagine myself somewhere else. For a few moments I dropped off into blissful sleep, but was soon woken by yet more shouting from the stage and the general claustrophobia of being surrounded at much-too-close quarters by several hundred ardent lefties. And backache that was by now assuming red-hot proportions.
After what seemed like five or six hours (it may have been more) it was half time. I elected to walk home, which took an hour but relieved the pain somewhat, where I am now cheering myself up with brandy and more painkillers.
The back pain will probably subside over the next few days. But mental note: next time anyone suggests going to see Pinter, Beckett or any of that crew, on stage plead illness. Tiredness. Headache. Pregnancy. Diarrhoea. Pretty much anything really.
Cinemas have perfectly comfortable seats. What is it with these awful,awful theatres? And these utterly banal, crappy plays?