At least on the train, I can go to the loo without the permission of the TUC; and I've figured out how to get to Queen's Street Station without having to walk too far; and I'll avoid the Glasgow rush hour on the motorway. So I have another tilt at public transport.
As the bus trundles up the Paisley Road, I get a clear view of the fast-flowing motorway: Oh well! Let's hope the loo on the train isn't broken, and the bus driver behaves himself. Which he does, and I find myself at Queen Street, with time to check and see if the ticket office displays any notes about the 'restrictions' applying to cheap day returns. Of course, it doesn't, at least not that I can see.
I grit my teeth, and ask the machine to give me a 'std' day return. This causes considerable interest on the train: the conductor asks to see it a second time. He turns it over in his hands: "You know this is …". "Yes, I do", I tell him, showing off my local knowledge, "I may want to come back on the 18.15". He shows far superior Scottish know-how: " that's an awfa lot a money for quarter of an hour." He looks genuinely puzzled. Everyone in earshot is waiting for my response. I am inwardly squirming, because I know he's right: I would never dream of doing this at home in normal time. When I'm on holiday, I treat travel as a 'one-off' cost. That means I really don't worry to much about spending carefully. I am surrounded by lowland Scots: they will not understand this explanation. Invention is required: "I have a rather special date when I get back", I tell them. "I wouldn't want to be late". They look approving: an ageing gentleman making a special effort for a lady: aawwww! We all go back to our newspapers. (This is, of course, the 'Walter Mitty' version. The real version contained only the uncomfortable squirming.)
We stop at Falkirk High (this must be names after a school, mustn't it?). As I read my newspaper, I half-hear an announcement: "… change here for services to Poland and Linlithgow …". Poland? I'm totally distracted; I must have misheard that; but what did the announcer actually say? As we pull out, I see a sign with an arrow and the word 'Polmont'. A bit of a disappointment: I have to recategorise Falkirk High, from international interchange back to provincial station.
This time the Eticket tent computer has heard of the show, the system operates smoothly, and I emerge ticketed: into rain, rain, rain. Natives of Edinburgh must look like prunes; there must be less need to bath here. Anyway, it gives me a good excuse to hide away in Sandy Bell's, which I have now sussed out is near the Student Union, which is being called the 'Gilded Balloon' for the duration. When I settle down with my IPA, the rain immediately stops and the sun comes out. I am not fooled by this temperance trickery: I know what will happen if I step out the door. Which is exactly what does happen when I do, later.
For me, 'Torn Out Pages' turned out to be about the audience. It was well-attended, and, although it was about a rather difficult and unpleasant subject, we were sensitive enough to laugh at the funny bits and hold our breath at the tense bits. But we didn't know the play had ended: the musician had to lead the applause, which made us feel bad, and must be rated a mistake.
And there was a glaring flaw in the plot. But I seemed to be the only one who noticed (I read the reviews attached to the flyer, none of which mentioned it, one of them actually saying exactly the opposite). But this allows me to offer even higher praise to the cast, who carried me past this to the points the playwright wanted to make: a very satisfying performance. Helped by the incidental music, which was live, something I can't remember having come across in non-musical theatre before.
And so back to Glasgow: gallingly, before 16.40: I crossed my fingers and hoped that it would be a different conductor.
No comments:
Post a Comment