The demon TfL Planner managed to outsmart me once again. There's always something extra to look out for. This time it was where the bus was actually going. No, don't laugh, it's easier than you think. The Planner told me the stop to get on at. I told me to get off at London Bridge, and I knew I would recognise that, so I wouldn't have to worry about on-board information. But I was getting on in Kingsway, where there is usually a row of buses crawling up towards the stops. And there, in the middle, with its number just sticking into view, was the 521, which the planner had instructed me to take. I had hardly any waiting time. Except at St Paul's, where we were 'all changed': it wasn't going all the way. So I then had to revert to type and find the nearest tube station. Which I did with the aid of a street map posted in a new development. Which got me on the Central Line coming up to Bank in the rush hour. No doubt the Planner was reminding me how difficult it is for commuters; that I should be grateful I just do it for fun now. And I am, I'm glad I don't have to do that anymore.
Of course, when I get to London Bridge, I have a long walk to the Union. Every time I do this, I vow to check whether Waterloo is closer. And every time I forget. Just a minute ago, I hauled out Google Maps, and checked by satellite. And I can see that Waterloo East (which is what I'm interested in) is much closer.
The Recognition of Sakuntala is an ancient play: fourth century, would you believe; by India's most revered Sanskrit poet and playwright, Kalidasa, I'm told. And it showed. It's the prologue, or maybe just chapter one, of the Mahabharata. The text (I've no idea where this translation came from) offered little opportunity for the sort of adventures the modern theatre likes to indulge in, particularly with Shakespeare. So it was performed more-or-less 'regular', which was just terrific. With material of this quality, the actors really only have to stand there and say their lines, but this was well staged, and the actors brought it to life. The playwright even uses the main character to address the audience directly, which produced a distinct murmur of approval.
There was a discussion afterwards, but I disapprove of that sort of thing. I think it's a bit like buying a book and finding the author comes along with it to explain it to you. (Although, come to think of it, there are a number of authors who might thus make very nice bedtime reading.)
Getting home was another catalogue of errors. I managed to just-miss the train, so that meant Lewisham and the bus. It also meant scampering off one platform and onto another at London Bridge, where I managed to just-miss the next train, which meant scampering off that platform … and so on. I felt like I was in the train station scene in Monsieur Hulot's Holiday. Anyway, I didn't get to the pub till a quarter to eleven. But I really enjoyed the play, so it was all worthwhile.
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