Because I wanted to be back fairly promptly, and didn't want the anguish of wondering if a bus would ever come, I went by car. Not at all in the spirit of these journeys, I know, but I can console myself that, once in a while, it serves to calibrate the state of public transport. It doubly hurts me since I think my car now costs about three shillings a mile (I don't know how much that is per kilometre, about 10p, I should think) and the buses are free! Oh well; it's probably to do with not really being a native. Confident bus travel is clearly the acid test: maybe it's because I'm not a Londoner.
So the journey was uneventful. Events on car journeys are rarely minor, so that was pleasing. An event on the bus can be someone (child, usually) trying it on with the Ipod. An event in the car can be someone running into the back of you; or worse, you running into the back of someone else.
The Brockley Jack has had a 'make-over': it's much refreshed and smartened up. It now has 'Friends'-style sofas. Fortunately they still have beer, and it's still OK. I sat down with my beer and got tucked in. A chap sat down on the sofa next to me with his lady-friend and got tucked in. Some people have no idea what other people think of them when they do things like that. Or perhaps they just have no self-esteem.
Shoot2Win is about a netball team. Deciding to go set me reminiscing about netball matches I had watched in my youth. This wasn't at all the same. In those days, netball watching was a chance to see girls knickers. In this production, they wore more clothes to play (although that may simply have been the obvious technical difficulty of changing on stage).
The characters were all black girls, but one of the actors wasn't. I can never quite manage my audiential duties in those circumstances. For me, it's just like Shakespeare in modern dress, or Swan Lake with an all-male cast: the body of the theatrical experience has this suppurating wound letting reality leak in all the time. Anyway, it turned out to be a pretty minor leak in this case.
Underneath, this was a rather sweet girly story of hope and love betrayed. Or rather hopes and loves betrayed. All heavily encrusted in the argot of youth. It did have the feel of the language I hear on the buses (when I'm forced into discussions regarding the use of Ipods in close proximity to strangers). Doubly encrusted in what I observe to be the language of black youth, an 'apartness' (using the English word) which always fills me with great sadness. The determination of youth to find its own language (me, in my day, included) is just simply sad. The determination to establish a sub-culture within that is sadder still. So though it is accurate, for me it added a slightly distracting layer to the sweetness of the play. But through all the bitching at each other, the sorrow did get through. There was, in fact, at least for me, one exquisite theatrical moment where the sorrow penetrated straight from heart to heart.
It was a good play, well acted, and I enjoyed it.
And so back to the reason I was in a rush: over which I shall draw a veil. Except to say that driving means I have to come home before I can enjoy the beer; and that it turned out, as these things always do, that there was no need to rush.
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