The kitten is now named Chloe. I slept on the sofa with her last night. Besotted.

It’s freezing. And raining for something new. But we got a kitten!! Well, Felicity and Lawrence got a kitten. Her name at this stage is Yuku Vegemite Pusska. Yuku is Aboriginal for Tree (Felicity likes trees a lot), Vegemite was my suggestion in a moment of patriotism on a miserable British day, and Pusska is what Lawrence has decided to call her, regardless of her official naming.

I did a big shop at Tescos. Still no sign of tofu. Disheartening. But I found felafel mix!
We had a household feasting and played poker and the board-game Cranium. There was also some tequila involved and dancing around the pole in the kitchen. Felicity tried to teach us some moves. Apparently, I looked like a matador.
It’s still raining. Seriously cold.

Today I caught a matinee of “In Extremis” the magnificent love story of Heloise and Abelard, by Howard Brenton, at the Globe theatre. It was a magical show and a wonderful day of good fortune. While waiting in line to buy a 5 pound standing ticket, several people tried to sell me spare tickets they had, but they were out of my price-range. Then, randomly, a lady offered me a 19 pound ticket, as her brother wasn’t feeling well, and had told her to pass on his ticket to someone who looked nice :-) So I had a great seat next to a very kind Swiss lady called Constance (yes, Lady Constance!). We chatted, both alike in enthusiasm and she even bought me tea and a cookie in interval! I spent my 5 pounds on a program for Constance and cushions for us both to cover the hard wooden bench seats. Not exactly going Elizabethan! (I will stand for Othello next month and have a pint in the pit). In Extremis was brilliant in the spectacular round Globe. The stage is glorious and the actors impressively engaged all the audience from the opening greeting and reached the high galleries vocally and physically. The play was very funny, the humour, slapstick, especially working in such an immense open space. I would LOVE to work in that space. The theme of Aristotle’s logical approach to faith and ensuing religious debate was made completely accessible by clever writing and articulate performances. Awesome.
Unfortunately it’s raining again. And bloody cold.

Had lunch at Brick Lane with Jacobie, Angus and Steve. Brick Lane is the Indian and Bangladeshi dining boulevard. Kind of like Chinatown, where you are invited/harassed into restaurants as you stroll down the street. We were shuffled into one and despite the surly waiter, had a yummy filling Indian feast.
As Brick Lane is in the 'real' London city, that is- the financial district, it was very close to Lawrence’s workplace at the Royal Bank of Scotland near Liverpool station, so we met briefly for a drink at a snazzy bar called Jamie’s.
In the evening, I saw a production of Athol Fugards “Sizwe Banzi is Dead” at the Barbican. This play is famous and has been touring with it’s original performer-creators for 20 years. Unfortunately I just missed that ‘original’ production in season at the National last month, but this was a version directed by Peter Brook in French language with projected subtitles. It was a beautifully simple show (as Brook is renowned for) and very moving. There was lots of humour despite the apartheid subject matter: Sizwe Banzi “dies” when he takes a identity pass with a permit to work in town from the body of a dead man in order that he can stay and work in the town to earn money for his family – he throws his own id away). I found moments a little slow in pace, and wondered if it was deliberate to assist with the subtitling. But the performers were quite extraordinary – very detailed and very refined at the same time. Highly physical and expressive. Magnificently observed characterizations. Of course, now I’m longing to see the original version.

Friday night in London! I met up with Jacobie and friends at the groovy Alphabet bar in Soho. Apparently there is a map of London painted on the bar floor, but I only read of this after, and had neglected to look down while I was there. When it closed –at only 11pm!!- we moved on to the immense waiting queue for Fabric nightclub. Never before have I seen such a line, not even for a rave at the showgrounds in Brisbane. It was even segmented off so that cars could still turn down streets that passed through the waiting throngs (of teenagers mostly). It was a freezing windy night. Somehow Steve wheeled and dealed and we got to jump the queue, the lady on door-duty making a significant profit on our ticket price. I won’t reveal how much we paid to get in in Australian dollars as it is embarrassingly excessive. The club was huge and the music quite good, lots of drum and bass rooms, but very crowded and smoky. We had a great boogie nevertheless, the highlight being several drum and bass remixes of ACDC, and I arrived home at 2pm to be greeted by my concerned big brother bearing freshly cooked haloumi. Odd. But somehow perfect.

My working week... at the auction house, 'South Ken'
Friday 18th May
Stationed in the 'Europa Room' all day, I guarded/ assisted in the viewing of "property from a Chelsea townhouse" a random collection of items all once belonging to someone far too wealthy who had rather eclectic and ostentatious taste. To pass the time, I moved between the patches of sunlight (sunlight!) filtering in through the skylights, and shifted from rug to rug as my heeled feet began to ache after several hours standing with little distract me from the pain. The carpets provided some relief. Of the 12 pairs of shoes I brought with me, not one pair is both flat-soled and suitable to Christie's dress code. I can forsee this becoming problematic. I witnessed the first breakage to occur since I've been at Christie's. A small glass fell out of a box whilst being transported upstairs to a viewing room for display. I didn't ask it's value. But the porter responsible did not seem too concerned. Christie's insurance cover is quite extensive I believe. 7 hours in the one room with sparse human traffic could get tiring but I try to chat with anyone who comes my way. As well as occasionally talking with viewers and joking with other staff, I am hiding a Shakespeare sonnet or two in my apron pocket to memorise and keep my brain active.
Saturday 19th
In silverware for the weekend I had to endure the crazy silverware dealers, snorting and sneering as they violently rummaged through the cutlery, platters and teapots. I think their tactic is to trash the items (verbally, I mean) out loud to the other dealers in an attempt to put them off bidding for items that they are after, saying “oh, this is all junk” and the like. I was quite stunned at the way they clashed around the objects, hundreds of pounds in value. A breed of their own.
Sunday 20th
More of the same in silverware but even zanier dealers.
Monday 21st
Today- 19th Century British Ceramics and glassware (minus at least 1 item from friday’s accident. A little nerve-wracking being around the fragile glass but no breakages by me, yet.
Tuesday 22nd
I spent the day in the ‘Long Gallery’ overseeing 19th Century European paintings. Could only find one that I really liked. Who buys this stuff? I worked late as there was a function on; a late view, invite only, of a sale called “elements” – mantle-pieces, bird-baths, garden ornaments, another odd collection. A few fancy looking people showed up, but it was pretty tame. Nice hors-d’oeuvres.
Wednesday 23rd
I learnt about catching buses in peak hour. I started catching the bus rather than the tube to and from work out of laziness – less distance to walk on either side, and no having to change from one tube to another. However, the 25 minute bus ride of yesterday became an hour and 15 minute journey! It was apparently also lengthened by the advent of the Chelsea Flower show opening. Fortunately, I’d made some allowance for peak traffic and was only 5 minutes late. I worked in the front gallery, same collection of paintings but more traffic passing through as it is the first gallery after reception, so more people to talk to, more questions to answer. Hours passed a little bit more quickly. It is quite amusing that tea and lunch breaks are arranged from the moment I walk in to work. It seems very high priority here.
Thursday 24th
The tube in peak hour is hot and stinky. Nobody talks or smiles (not surprisingly).
I was on meet-and-greet duty in the front gallery again for the morning, but after my first tea break (we get at least two as well as lunch!), I got to be more useful. I helped with the removal of paintings, (and removing the nails too), in a reverse order to their lot numbers, so that during the auction, they are held up in correct ascending order. I also assisted in this job during the afternoon sale of the ugly paintings I’d been watching over for a few days; For internet bidders, the auctions are videoed and can be viewed on the internet live. So had you tuned in this afternoon to Christie's live, you could have seen me displaying these ugly artworks in the manner of a sale-of the century hostess.

Aside from great pay for doing very little and the prestige, of course, another perk of my job is the subsidised lunches. For 40p, I can get a cup of hot fresh vege soup; for 80p a plate of main meal with salads (and there are always vegetarian options) and dessert for 40p. And they are always very substantial and quite delicious. This is why the organisation of breaks is top priority, no doubt.
That is all I have to account for almost 60 hours of my life this week- spent on my feet!! Thank goodness for Jacobie lending me her flat shoes.

And the theatre...
There is a law in Stratford that no building can be built larger than the Royal Shakespeare Theatre. How cool is that? The theatre is about to be restored, at a cost of about 100 million pounds. Wow. It is wonderful to be in a place where theatre is appreciated and attended. It won't be open for a couple of years, by which time, I'll hopefully be employed there... The Swan Theatre was magnificent - I'm not sure what improvements they are planning... and the surrogate RSC home during the renovations, the Courtyard Theatre, was a fabulous thrust stage.
In the era of the Bard, audience members enjoying one of Shakespeare's plays would make a penny payment into a box that was carried around. After the performance ended, the players could be found counting their pennies in a room which became known as the box office. And so with pennies in hand (pounds, rather) I joined the queue at the Courtyard Theatre to wait for any returned tickets to see King Lear, with Sir Ian McKellen in the title role, no less. After an hour or so- success! For only 10 quid I scored a seat in hot demand (the queue grew significantly). I celebrated over a drink with another successful queuer, a young aspiring actor from Birmingham named Pete, down the road at The Black Swan. This is a cosy bar adorned with hundreds of photos of actors who have past through it's doors, and a large pretendy-bronze bust of the Bard as a centrepiece. It has been nicknamed by the townsfolk as the Dirty Duck. I didn't ask why.
And so I was fortunate to have a seat for the great play, though high up in the gallery, quite central, to watch Gandalf play quite superbly, one of the greatest roles written by Shakespeare, or anyone really. I think the play is conceptually and lyrically brilliant, however, I hesitantly admit: ...I'm just not that into it. This is a sad realisation, that I can't honestly say "I love Shakespeare's King Lear". The performers were extremely good, Sir Ian as King Lear, Sylvester McCoy (Dr Who!) as his fool, Monica Dolan as Regan, his 2nd daughter, and William Gaunt as the Earl of Gloucester, were especially fabulous, but I have to concede to my hopeless romanticism in craving a love story. The lack of this was not aided by the performance of Romala Garai as Cordelia (of Havana Nights Fame. Yes, really), who, while absolutely gorgeous, was very weak. A weak, giggly, pathetic ditzy girl. I am open to interpretation in Shakespeare, but it just didn't work for me. Or perhaps it was simply that she used dancing "twinkle fingers" as she acted. Nevertheless, it was an outstanding show.

I was more engaged by Chekhovs, The Seagull, directed by Trevor Nunn also, which is in rep(eratory) with King Lear, and was fantastic; the first time I have seen this play produced. The stunning set from the night before was transformed with giant trunks of birch trees (I thought palm trees but was corrected) and (again) awesome lighting, turning the decrepit palace of Lear into a lakeside manor with makeshift stage on the banks for Nina to tread the boards.. (It was so good it made me think of a Bruce McKinven/Matt Scott combo).
The Cordelia from last night, did not irritate me as much in the 'weaker' role of Nina. But her voice at a constant sob in the throat gratingly reminded me of my own vocal weakness.
Back to thoughts on King Lear; why are Regan and Goneril - the 'evil' sisters- almost always cast with dark-haired actresses in the roles, while pure and good Cordelia is usually blonde!?! Thank god for Deb Mailman in Barry Kosky's production several years ago. Humbug.
A highlight of both shows was the actress who played Regan in Lear and Masha in the Seagull: Monica Dolan. She enacted a drunk in both shows but very differently and totally brilliantly. She was utterly engaging. And she was the only actor who received a spontaneous applause upon an exit. Not even Sir Ian McKellen achieved this. Of course, he received a massive applause at curtain call. And he deserved every clap. He is quite exeptional. Lawrence said I should have yelled at him: YOU SHALL NOT PASS! But really, he can go wherever he wants I think. Just like the motto on Shakespeare's coat of Arms acquired late in life: Non Sanz Droict. - Not without Right. Ain't that the truth. Anyway, King Lear was more than worth the 10 quid, as was the Seagull a bargain at 15 pounds.
But the greatest bargain of all was seeing the RSC's A Midsummer Night's Dream at the Swan Theatre for 5 pounds. Though I bought a standing ticket, I nabbed a seat high and central. The performers were from India and Sri Lanka, and spoke the Shakespearian dialogue in 6 different languages plus English, on a spectacular set: in red dirt, a large trallice-like structure of wooden bars and beams covered by paper was broken and dived and jumped and rolled through by performers, with wild lighting, live drumming, rope climbing, dancing, singing, and all in sexy colourful costumes... this was possibly the best production of a Shakespeare play I have have ever seen, if not the best play ever. Never before have I seen such a standing ovation at curtain call. When I saw the all-male Russian Twelth Night at the Sydney festival, the audience all gradually rose to standing and gave the performers 9 curtain calls. However, at the end of this incredibly vital show, the audience unanimously leapt to their feet in applause. No hesitation, no self-consciousness, just utter JOY. One lady, staying at the YHA with me, had no previous knowledge of the play, yet managed to understand the narrative enough from the occasional line in English, and seemed to enjoy the show almost as much as I did.
Now a possy of five friends from the queues and the hostel, we partied on after this enchantment for a few hours. One of this fascinating troupe was a very kind, rather liberal-minded Anglican priest from Utah. As well as being intriguing company while waiting for tickets and genrously giving me a lift to the hostel when my bus failed to turn up, he was also kind enough to bestow a blessing upon me. After I admitted that I had succombed to purchase a spell called an "actor's blessing" from the Stratford witch shop -i'll try anything to help- he said: I'll give you a real one, laid his palm on my forehead, said some positive words, and I believe, passed on some super-duper good energy for my career. Hallelujah.
Stratford Upon Avon was a quasi-religious experience all round. But just like many other religions, faith, worship and idolatry is not cheap! My adventure was a little (big) extravagance on my UK adventure, but absolutely worth it. At least I was restrained in one aspect.. Apparently Stratford is also famous as being a good fashion shopping district. But as Arkadina in The Seagull says: I HAVE NO MONEY! I'M AN ACTRESS, NOT A BANKER!!

NOW I am in LOVE with London.... because it is only two hours away from heaven: Stratford Upon Avon. My pilgrimage into Shakespeare Country was via the overland train from Marylebone Station (a short tube ride from home). I was moved to tears by the beautiful moist sheep-speckled pastures in arrays of brilliant greens -yes I realise the lush vibrance is the result of all that bloody rain, but I'm in love. I want a house in the country with a herb garden, a puppy dog (as well as the 5 cats)... And then I'll just have to take a short stroll in to work at the RSC...
Hedge-lined paddocks with splatterings of butter-yellow flowers, bushes of bursting blossoms, cute cottages in tudor style, overflowing gardens and friendly homely people. Perfect.
A 10 minute bus-ride out of central Stratford, I settled into the youth hostel, a gorgeous old Georgian manner called Hemmingford House, with happy-to-help staff, decent rooms and good breakfasts included (scrambled eggs and croissants). Then I headed out to roam about the rurality. Once in town, I had a quick coffee at Mistress Quickly's on Henley Street - Shakespeare's street!, tasted some "traditional" fudge, then hopped on the city sightseeing tour to get my bearings, and a running commentary to go with it. I do enjoy the cute extra tid-bits the tour bus guides add to general information of places. I'm not sure they're all true, but I'll include a few here, unverified, because I like 'em.
The name Stratford Upon Avon comes from the Latin Strat (street) crossing Ford (river), and Avon is Celtic for river. And so you have a street crossing a river on a river. In fact, the bridge over the river is actually the original bridge built in 1490 (scary when you are in a big tour bus). Oh but Stratford Upon Avon is sooo much more than that!
As we drove through the quaint town it was noted that only one building within the town centre still has a thatched roof, aptly named the Old Thatch Tavern, which somehow escaped the ban on thatch rooves because they posed a serious fire-hazard, but more on thatch later...
First stop, at Will's birthplace house on Henley Street, I took a slow walk through the Shakespeare museum absorbing as much as possible. This is all looked after by the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust. Amongst many wonderful preserved artifacts from the man himself and his life and times, there was a displayed glass-panel window- the original window. It was replaced in the wall at some point during restoration on the house, but kept for posterity. It bears the signatures of hundreds (maybe thousands?) of other visitors who earlier made a similar pilgramage to mine in visiting the origins of the great Bard. The clear-glass was cluttered to a frost appearance by the squiggles of the likes of poets and writers John Keats and Alfred Tennyson, Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy and the great actress Ellen Terry (thinking of you Emily!) to name but a few. A sign below the window indicated that the glass also beheld the scratching mark of my great ancestor (WARNING: name-dropping ahead) the famous Shakespearian actor, Sir Henry Irving, but I could not find his signature amongst the multitudes. So I asked the room attendant/guide if she knew which one it was and if she might be able to point it out to me. She promptly began to tell me that FAR more important people had been to this holy Shakespeare shrine than little old insignificant Sir Henry. And that he hardly impacted on the birthing room's historical fame. There was impressive back-pedalling when I explained I simply was hoping to see Uncle Irvings handwriting...
Hmph.
On to Anne Hathaway's House... Anne at 26 and 3 months pregnant married the 18-year-old William Shakespeare. Go Anne with her younger man! Their families were friends for some time. In the parlour we were shown the small bench where Will and Anne would have sat during courtship, and no doubt Shakespeare spoke beautiful poetry to woo her and clinched the deal with a perfect rhyming couplet. The guide in Anne Hathaway's kitchen explained how the term curfew came about - meaning cover the fire; It was the woman's job to cover the fire of an evening so that the house, thatch roof and all, didn't catch alight in the night. A man was entitled to beat his wife if she failed this duty so long as the beating stick was no thicker than his thumb. This being the rule of thumb. The term pot luck came from the standard daily meal of stew in the Elizabethan kitchen to which each day, random veges or meats were added to top it up. This could continue for over a week or so, all being stirred through, thus your dinner could be a rabbit bum from last friday or a fresh potato of the day, depending on pot luck. This scrumptious stew was served with bread at a board propped up on trestles. This board had a polished side for display but was turned to the rough side for dining. It was a multipurpose board, used for farming and other business meetings overseen by the chairman of the board, for playing cards where hands had to be kept above board, and several houses would drag their boards outside to create a makeshift stage for travelling players to tread the board... Are you board of this? Okay, I stole that last cheesy joke from the guide too.
The gardens around the house were fabulous, and apart from the visual pleasure they gave, they also probably helped to drown out the human stench, as the Elizabethans only bathed once a year. They apparently had a fear of water somehow associating it with witches, I can't remember this one exactly.. but I am inclined to believe they were just too darn cold. Anyway, this tardyness in hygiene led to the pretty tradition of brides holding bouquets on their wedding day, clearly to sweeten the marital rights.

A few miles out of town at the stunning Mary Arden's house (Shakespeare's mum), the thatched roof was under repair as we pulled up in the big red tour-bus. These thatch roofs, like modern roof, don't last forever and required fixing or replacing sometimes. They often had little patterns on the tops of them which were the thatchers signature. These thatchy shelters are, apparently, responsible for the invention of the four-poster bed. The cover over the top of the bed supposedly prevented rats from dropping through the roof on to you as you slept. I guess they also stopped rats' droppings from raining down on you aswell. Or to protect from raining cats and dogs...
The Forests of Arden (famous in As You Like It) were at the edge of the property owned by Mary's father, Robert Arden, and it is from them the family name was derived. They are now largely depleted because of the building of houses. And thatched rooves. The branches of the Arden Forests were collected by the workers of the town; whatever they could reach and pull down with their farming impliments by hook or by crook, they were allowed to keep.
Because I had a matinee to attend, my tour of Mary's house was in fast forward, which was a shame as their was heaps to see there on the two functional farms, including a falconry display, and the staff were all dressed in period costume and actually operating the farms in period manner. Candles had been made of pork fat as beeswax was rare and expensive in the era, and I even missed out on seeing a rabbit being traditionally prepared for consumption. Damn. I skipped the maze-garden too, as I didn't want to get lost and be late for the RSC. I also didn't have time to meet the farm's bull, King Lear. Or was it King Leer? Next time.

Another particularly gorgeous building I saw in the town was Mason's Court (good name too) which is one of the oldest residential houses in Stratford, having been there since the 1400s. There was apparently less windows on houses in Shakespeare's time than there are today as there was once a tax on windows for some mad Elizabethan reason, so many were bricked up, giving rise to the term daylight robbery. Hall's Croft is another 'Shakespearean' house I didn't enter so will have to visit when next in town (or when I'm living down the road). Dr John Hall was married to Shakespeare's daughter, Susannah. They gave birth to Shakespeare's only grandaughter, Elizabeth.
One of Dr John Hall's remedies as a medical practitioner of his time would have been to treat patients with sore throats by dangling a frog down the afflicted's throat. More afflicted- the poor frog, in panic, would hiss and spit (wouldn't you?) and the spit it would release contained antiseptic. Hence the saying having a frog in your throat I like that one). Shakespeare's school still remains by the Guild Chapel, and the site of Will Shakespeare's retirement house called New Place is attached to the still standing Nash House, which belonged to wealthy property owner Thomas Nash, who married Elizabeth. Nash House is also on the to-do list for next time/ when I live there.

Shakespeare died of fever on April 26, 1616 aged 52. Legend has it that he actually died of drink. Under the weather with a fever, he still felt inclined to celebrate his birthday so hit the town hard with his mates.. and passed away three days later.
I cried tears of gratitude at the burial place of the Bard. Beautiful architecture and stain-glass windows, Shakespeare's grave is 17 feet below the Holy Trinity Chapel. The site has a curse on it to scare off anyone planning to move his bones: Coffin recycling was common practice in Will's time but he didn't want a bar of it. As depicted in the famous gravedigger scene in Hamlet "Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio", old bones like Yorick's skull, were removed from a coffin to make room for a fresh corpse. The bones were then burnt on a bone-fire or bonfire.
Unfortunately the plague hit Stratford around the time of William's birth. Believed to have begun in the Garrick Inn, the words were inscribed on it's door: hic incepit pestis "here is the beginning of the plague" in July 1564 when Will was 3 months old. When one died from the plague, their body was wrapped in a bag and dumped in the street, while the house where it came from was locked from the outside for the proceeding 40 days to contain what plague-germs were still amongst the household. Those dead in the street were gathered by some poor soul in the middle of the night, or in the dead of the night, and taken to be dumped in the Plague Pits and covered with lime.
When someone had died -and I'm talking about from causes other than the plague now- the body was laid on a table in the centre of a room while friends and family ate and drank around it over a couple of days, just in case the person was only sleeping heavily and decided to awake. Indeed, they held a wake. (wait, it gets better...) Sometimes they hadn't waited long enough before putting the body to rest in the earth. This was realised when the aforementioned coffin-recyclers discovered finger-nail scratches on the internal walls of the coffins, the marks of desperation from those who'd awoken to find themselves buried alive! So the Elizabethans instigated the practice of tyeing a string from the wrist of the assumed dead person to a bell which would sit above ground at the grave site. If heard ringing by whomever was on the graveyard shift, one was able to be saved by the bell (told you).

I found my way to Tescos (like Coles) this morning, finally stocking up on the fruit and veg I've been craving. I did not inspect the aisles thoroughly on this visit as I had plans to get to RADA. The discoveries of UK food delights wil have to wait.
So I arrived at the prestigious Academy (so excited, I forgot to take a photo), greeted by the very friendly and helpful course co-ordinator, Sally. She chatted to me about what to expect, stressing NOT to stress about performing a monologue on the first morning of the course. Stress and performing monologue do not have to be synonymous do they? Then Sally lead me to the dream RADA library where I pawed over the shelves, but was not allowed to borrow books out. Torture. I have noted the locations of desired books so I can bolt to the library on day one to hoard them.
In the evening, I caught the tube to Embankment and walked up The Strand, past many snuggly pubs and stately theatres- The Adelphi, The Savoy, The Lyceum (homes for big musicals it would seem), selecting the warm-looking Wellington pub for a glass of Chilean merlot and a catch up with school friend, Rebecca whom I hadn't seen in two years or more, four?. Beck had graciously offered me a ticket that an aquaintance of hers could not use, to OrangAid at The Lyceum, a stand-up comedy night in aid of the Sumatran Orangutans. Not only was it a good cause, but to my great delight, Bill Bailey, famed of my favourite comedy series of the moment, Black Books, was the headlining act! Even better, it didn't rain on the way there OR on the way home!! A splendid evening all round. All the comedians were very funny; Kevin Eldon, Simon Amstell, Dave Lohns, Sean Lock and Phil Jupitus, but the highlight for me was Bill Bailey's cockney tribute to the 80's musical legends in a rendition of Hokey Pokey in German, a la Kraftwerk.

On friday, Jacobie, Kate and I had a cup of tea on the top floor of the Tate Modern Gallery. We didn't view any art, just the View., which was not as spectacular as I had hoped. A city is still a city. Afterwards, we wandered past a random pirate ship by London Bridge and through cobblestone alleyways to the Borough Markets - a bustling, vibrant collection of delicious aromas and general buying and feeding frenzy. This market is held on fridays and saturdays and sells baguettes, cheeses, berries and nuts and freshly baked cakes. These are the things I particularly noted but there is much more on offer. We sampled vegetable wraps followed by chocolate brownie and truffle for dessert, and unanimously agreed that we'd be back sometime for more. Soon. At a shortage for time, we only had a sneak preview of the Globe Theatre. Which was very special of course. It is quite clean and new in appearance so not entirely authentic, however, that bothers me little. I'm just holding out for warmer weather so I can view shows from the unsheltered standing area, pint in hand, just as the masses did in the Elizbethan era.
In the late afternoon, I escorted Jacobie to a job interview in New Bond Street which is somewhere in the 'city'. While I waited for her, I had a glass of wine and chatted with some locals having post-work drinks. Generally, I have found Londoners to be very genial and helpful. But I've not yet experienced the tube at peak hour...
I spent the night at Jac's place, sipping vintage wines left over from a Christie's tasting - a girl's night. Slept the night in her true London matchbox room. Then hallelujah! We woke to SUNSHINE!! Too early to rise for work though, we watched helplessly as the clouds sped in to settle as another gloomy London day.
Not so gloomy is my new job at Christie's!! It is a dream job for my purposes. As a viewing assistant I earn 9 pounds an hour, which is a big plus on the 6 or so I would earn slaving as bar or wait staff. And my duties involve answering the occasional question about a location of something and babysitting numerous fabulous, beautiful, quirky and odd works of art, furniture, jewellery, silverware, ceramics and glass, and various random item of antiques and collectables (a jar with human foetus, old dental sets, early Russian spacesuits, dolls etc). For the weekend, I was on the 'view' entitled "Sporting Art, Wildlife and Dogs", especially selected for me by Jacobie so I could be surrounded by animals. While the game-hunting images were a tad disturbing (why would you want a painting of a bird corpse on your wall? WHY?), there were some great pieces in the collection. My favourite 'lots' were a couple of slumbering leopard paintings: A Comfy Branch, and my pet-favourite (hee hee): Tree-top Siesta. Other gems included elephants, cheetahs and a beautiful lanky giraffe at a waterhole (sense an African theme here?). I had the privilege on this first day of assisting the specialist in the area to do his round of condition-reports. As he had injured his writing-hand at jujitsu, I was enlisted to make notes on the craqueler, stretcher-marks, discolouration, signs of restoration and other blips that would affect the auction price of the item. I even assisted with shining a UV light over paintings to look for these faults. Fascinating.
Last night, I went to a housewarming/engagement party of friends of Lawrence and Felicity. A huge feast and lots of boisterous, friendly Aussies and Kiwis, the night would have been very enjoyable if I could've stayed longer. But... work in the morning.
Today, I interacted more with some of the other staff, who are mainly arts students and practitioners, including a struggling opera singer from New Zealand. All in all a very interesting and fun bunch. As are the customers. One I spent some time chatting to was a carpet dealer who was scoping the rugs displayed throughout all the viewing rooms. I commented on an Eastern European rug with birds on it that I have grown fond of in my section. The dealer informed me that whilst it was colourful and attractive, the carpet would not be a good investment because items with bird designs did not sell well. This is due to a superstition originating when miners took birds down the shafts with them to warn them of falling ground, earthquakes and other hazards as they sensed them and alerted the miners with their squawking. Thus it became considered bad luck to have birds in the house, even if only an image on a rug. I wonder how my father, a geologist, feels about the mexican bird rugs around Mason Manor? Dad?? As is usually my opinion, aesthetics overrides all, including superstition. The rug was quite beautiful. And if I had a spare 3000 quid...
Some of the clients come in to peruse Christie's riches with their dogs in tow. The owners are generally fashionable women or gay men and their dogs are equally gorgeous and well manicured. At five minutes to closing time today, a glamorous lady entered the Coleridge Room where I was stationed, with her cute accessory King Charles spaniel, named Dolly (I did not make that up, I asked her). Just as security were doing their rounds to kick stragglers out, I caught out of the corner of my eye, a tiny trickle of doggy-pee escaping Dolly, and narrowly missing an extravagant persion carpet. That it was only a little bit of widdle, and it had missed the precious rug, AND it was time to go home after 6 long hours on my feet, I decided that I didn't see it. Sorry Jac. The sporting art, wild life and dogs...I love my job.

Yesterday, I battled my Queensland mentality of staying indoors (changing/cancelling plans etc) whenever it rains, finally dragging myself out into the wet to see a little more of London, though mainly to seek a job. I wandered along the murky Thames River on the Southbank in the drizzle, past Lambeth Palace, the London Eye (if it went lots faster I'm sure it would be lots more fun), looking over to the magnificent gold-glittering (even through the rain) houses of Parliament and Big Ben (not as big as I expected), to visit the National Theatre and the Old Vic, rain-soggy CV's in tow. At the National - a modern brick-box of a building hiding three theatres : the Olivier, the Lyttelton and the Cottesloe- I only briefly poked my nose around before navigating my way to the stage door, where I'd been informed by kindly security staff that I'd find the human resources department. Once there, I was directed to an in-house phone and spoke to a very efficient sounding lady who told me in her crisp clipped english that I was to apply only through their website. A little perturbed, I trudged on to the Old Vic, my London A-Z clutched close to my chest, also quite soppy now despite my (cheap = frail) umbrella, where I met a lovely young man in charge of seemingly hundreds of ushers all loitering on the stairs as a performance of Osborne's "The Entertainer" took place within. Displayed photographs of this theatre looked magnificent and regal, and while Kevin Spacey himself was not in the building all the staff seemed friendly and smiled at me (probably out of pity at my dismal drenched state). The amiable manager stated the obvious: that he had plenty of staff. Nevertheless, he took my CV and gave me some positive affirmation based on his own employment experience. Not particularly encoured however, I traipsed home, in more of a pelt than a trickle now. My flares soaking up the rain to my knees, I finally understood the jeans-inside-the-boots fashion which previously bewildered me. Then my umbrella died. I had heard an amusing description of London as an umbrella graveyard (umbrella necropolis!). Unfortunately it is true. And not so funny now. Umbrella inside out, spokes exposed, entirely disfunctional, I marched half-drowning through puddles, in my heavy flares, miserable. Not a bloody street sign anywhere to be found, I somehow found familiar territory, the slightly-overdone-chocolate-cookie aroma of a nearby coffee factory heralding home. Saturated. I wondered about the suicide statistics in London.

Today, a visit to Doctor Theatre. I attended (via another drizzly walk) a matinee of "Attempts on her Life" by Martin Crimp at the National Theatre. I was keen to see this play as I had worked on parts of the script in an acting workhop with Kate Gaul in Sydney. About a visual artist who has documented attempts on her life (including a succesful one), I loved the writing, fascinating in that it was unallocated dialogue, therefore up to the director and actors to assign words to characters. Open to interpretation indeed. It was an engaging performance though not exactly escapist theatre. The large cast maneuvered and operated perhaps nine or more video cameras around the stage, as well as an assortment of props and projection screens, peformed music live and even line-danced at one point. It was clearly a big-budget affair, which I enjoyed, but I'd love to see a profit-share version. Walking home in the rain AGAIN was not as torturous this time, thanks to the inspiration of theatre.
Moreover, good news arrived in the form of a call from fabulous friend Jacobie offering me a job. I am to be a 'viewing assistant' at Christies Auction House where Jacobie is deputy front-of-house manager. Relief. I start this saturday.

While the departure was traumatic, the flight from Joburg was easy, my first expedition aboard British Airways. Meals were slightly different which made them slightly more exciting than those on Qantas. The wine was South African, yum. And the small two-hour time difference made it comfortable, I managed to dine and fall asleep at appropriate times. I also watched the all-American-dream movie "The Pursuit of Happyness" -if you have money you can be happy- yes, and despite feeling financial fretting of the pound vs oz dollars coming on, I slept solidly for much of the 11 hour flight.
Collected from Heathrow airport at the ungodly hour of 6.30am by my wonderfully generous (hungover) big brother Lawrence, I was driven back through London with an abridged commentary. The first obvious contrast from my homeland Australia (don't mention the weather!) was the architecture. Lawrence described the difference between Georgian and Victorian styles which encompassed the vast majority of London buildings. And I have promptly forgotten it. Hotels only differentiated from personally-owned townhouses by signage. Lots of repetition here in whatever style it may be!
Arriving in Kennington, my first impressions of Lawrence's flat are that is just what I imagined a London flat to be, though I wasn't really prepared for the tall narrow stairs and VERY cosy living. An adjustment after the luxurious lifestyle of the Brisvegas Mason manor! Not much storage in these quaint townhouses. But I am very grateful. My bedroom is small and snuggly, a perfect size to suit my purposes: a futon bed with room for me and my books to lie beside me (or human company, of the South African variety if I get lucky!), a wardrobe and clothes drawers with just enough space for my excess-luggage apparel and 12 pairs of shoes (I swear they bred in my bags on the way here), and a window overlooking a little green park speckled with roses and English wildflowers. And children playing. In the rain. Under a cloudy-grey sky. London. And I saw a squirrel!!!
Overcast. Still very early. Felicity, Lawrence's girlfriend stumbled out in her pjs to say hello before going back to bed...a little sad having said goodbye to her parents the day before, after their short holiday from Australia. I unpacked, showered, decorated my room with Shakespeare books. Then Jacobie came over around lunchtime and Lawrence produced a pre-chilled bottle of champagne to celebrate her birthday and my arrival. Joy. As the afternoon progressed we moved on to Amarula coffees over a catch-up on all the news (gossip).
At dusk we met up with friends Kate, and Jac's flatmates Steve and Reece, at The Three Stags, where we sat in Chaplin's Corner.. a small designated non-smoking cubicle in the pub. Charlie Chaplin senior, an alcoholic, apparently drank at this very pub. Regularly, one assumes. Felicity and Lawrence joined us there for a drink, then we progressed to the local thai restaurant for dinner, which was very tasty, especially after aeroplane meals.
Later, we said goodbye to Jac and went to my new home. I met the absolutely lovely, cheery, also Australian, flatmate Troy (if you thought I was chirpy...!), then I realised I was jetlagged, or simply exhausted from the day's (and previous week's) excitement, and proceeded to sleep for 12 hours.
Today all I have managed to do is to veture through the park and down the road to a convenience store (which also sells alcohol, now that is convenience) to buy some vegetables to fill a need in this household. Didn't feel like exploring much in the cold and damp. The weather here is not exactly conducive to, well, anything much at all really.

Things done well And with a care exempt themselves from fear...

I'm not just writing this because I'm super keen on Daniel (I think everyone's figured that out by now, including Daniel)... but his show really is quite brilliant. It's a little intimidating, but inspiring at the same time. I do feel a deep longing and dread fear of this style of creative physical theatre. Improvisation and devised performance seem very scary, it's been such a long time since I practiced in that manner. And Daniel's writing is very clever and laugh-out-loud funny aswell. Very impressed. I am certain this emersion in creativity will improve my complexion. Or at least my soul. And hopefully some of those skills will rub off on me too.
After the run, Daniel took me out for a delicious vegetarian dinner at an Indian restaurant called karma. One South African practice I am growing accustomed to is payment for car watching. This is a small donation made to someone who will guard your car from theft while you are dining, or shopping, or visiting friends etc. This even occurs in suburban streets. There is a tiny little hut which looks like an outhouse in Daniel street - is it an outhouse?? Or just shelter from the sun? for the use of the car guard. Daniel's household doesn't use this car-minding facility at R400 per month (i think, which is about $80AUS). Instead, exits and entrances to the house require the complex locking and unlocking and opening of a large gate. This was still somewhat novel to me though I imagine the process would fast become painfully bothersome. All houses in Johannesburg have high fences with some variation of pointy dangerous blades or wire (some also electric) on top to deter burglars. This prevented me from making much observation of Jo'burg architecture, though Daniel's place reminds me of a house I lived in in Ashgrove during uni - high ceilings with fretwork, possibly art deco? dark wood door frames and some panels, and a lovely big garden and yard (good for rehearsals).

Thursday entailed more rehearsals on the lawn. I went for a walk BY MYSELF in the dangerous, crime-ridden streets of Jozi. It was only a couple of blocks to the shopping centre, but I was instructed not to talk to strangers. So I said hello to the car guard. Then I politely declined the offer of a lift (and a coffee) from a man in a BMW. Then I spoke to the avocado man who was selling his produce on a street corner. A lovely (yes, black) guy with a massive smile, he easily convinced me that his avocados were cheaper and better than those available in store. I also spoke to some girls I encountered perusing the red wine beside me in the earlier mentioned wine aisle. A tid-bit of wit dripped upon us as a group of guys passed us gracing us with the assessment "alcoholics anonymous"; a quick quip returned by one of the girls: "alcoholics UNANIMOUS". Hmm. After some time had passed and I was still discovering new items on the shelves (the sweets and chocolates aisle by this stage), I received a concerned text from Daniel. In two hours I had not found much "suitable for vegetarians" so wandered back, passed smiling avocado man, and tried not to talk to strangers.
Another sofa showing for friends in the evening. I did a terrible job of prompt duty. A credit to the work (and my excuse)- I was too engaged in the performance to follow the script.
Friday I tagged along to rehearsals. Aware of the Yoko factor here, and trying hard to be a useful presence, I prompted (badly) again for the afternoon showing. After a feedback session, the audience of about 6 friends/acquaintances/theatre types all went out to dine and drink with us at a local bar in Melville, a trendy arty suburb just down the road from Daniel's home at Auckland Park.
Saturday (departure looming).. more rehearsals. While the Collinger cast reworked and fine-tuned moments following up from yesterday's response, I watched Daniel's mate Scott Sparrow, tech and mark-thru his one-man show, The Performer's Travel Guide. Also extraordinarily creative and clever. If only I could have daily exposure to this kind of process, the fear of it may slip away. Daily exposure to Daniel would definately help....
Our last supper: a spectacular meal at a Vietnamese and Thai restaurant called Soi. I am going to attempt to replicate one of the entrees we ate, documented here to aid my memory: Squares of spinach leaves about 10cm X 10cm are rolled into cones, into which minute portions of the following are sprinkled: lemon, ginger, coconut, lemongrass, chilli, peanuts and...damn.. one more thing I can't recall...starting with O maybe.. Daniel?? Anyway, it's all drizzled with palm sugar (that tasty dip often served with spring rolls). Tasty. Watch out for it next time I invite you for tea... We orderd a cocktail for dessert, a 'Velvet Turkish Delight', which was indeed the most delightful cocktail I've ever downed.
Sunday was the tech and final dress for Dr Collinger's Funeral Service, in preparation for the Festival of Fame (yes, yes, it's a terrible name isn't it), a school festival held at the National School of Arts. The school is not particularly flash looking, nor well-funded apparently, however, it appears to offer great arts education and opportunities. Certainly something I would have appreciated and gained from at high school age. I took photos of the dress rehearsal. Very reluctant to leave.

Let the world slip, we shall ne'er be younger

My arrival in Joburg was accompanied by my first overwhelming experience of jetlag. Or it could have been another strand of delerium resulting from my sighting of Daniel bearing roses at the airport...
Sunday night we dined at the Catz Pyjamas, a favourite from last Johannesburg visit, for the obvious cat theme which includes many and various cat images and a cat-walk of fame: bronze stars lining the stairway inscribed with the names of feline legends such as Sylvester and (Calvin and) Hobbes. We byo'd a delicious South African cab sav which was one of a number of delightful gifts (successfully) designed to seduce me, including a HUGE box of Lindt lindor balls. Was there ever hope of resistance?
On monday we eventually ventured out to Woolworths- a far flashier version than it's Australian namesake- to do some grocery shopping. Amongst other exotic gourmet goodies, this Woolworths sells ONLY vegetarian cheeses. Impressed. We spent the evening preparing a meal for Daniel's brother Matthew, wife Bridget and the digsmates (flatmates) Rene and Jaco. Daniel created once more the most delicious meal i've ever had - sorry Mum- tagliatelle with caramelised onion, aubergine and mushrooms in vegetarian camembert and fetta. Yum. Also probably the most unhealthy meal i've ever had. Daniel claims it is the only meal he knows how to cook. If that's the truly the case, i think i can cope with it. And despite my fear of encountering cricketing enthusiast Matthew post-world cup thrashing of South Africa by Australia, it was a lovely evening. I was neither personally blamed for the SA cricket team's dismal performance nor credited for Ricky Ponting's brilliance. Surely i get credit for appearing to know anything about cricket at all.
Tuesday was a public holiday - Freedom Day, in recognition of ALL South Africans being given the right to vote (only in 1994!). However, Daniel had to go to rehearsal. So i went on another grocery outing, this time with the digsmates, Jaco and Rene, to the less lavish Pick'n'Pay. I got lost in aisles of unusual foods and packaging. The vegetable selection process here is complicated by having to take each different veg to be weighed and priced at a manned station seperate from the check-out counter. It's not easy being green. (And there's no recycling here- Mel you would be traumatised) Furthermore, it quickly became apparent that various other vegetarian staples were not going to be found adorning these shelves. Disheartened by the lack of tofu, vietnamese rice-paper and felafel mix, i was comforted by the vast SA wine selection centrally located in the foodstore, and spent some time there getting acquainted. Meanwhile, having already completed their shopping necessities, Jaco sent Rene on a search and rescue mission for me. Finding me in a haze of new and exciting South African groceries, she led me reluctantly out of the shop with only two bags full. I continued to pass the time until Daniel's return, meal-making with my limited vegetarian resources... The actor returned, we went for a 'sundowner' drink or two at a cosy bar before returning to sup with friends Ally and Linda.
This morning we explored the Museum Africa, an educational and quirky historical gallery housed in an impressive architectural structure with a great layout (i did not get lost). The exhibitions moved through tragedy and inspiration. One display was a replicate shanty house which I found chilling and disturbing considering these tiny dark shacks are standard accomodation for the majority of South Africans. Then there was random uplifting interactive displays, such as the giant kaleidescope into which Daniel and I climbed.
We wandered back through the markets by the Market Theatre where i found Mum her mother's day present (which, in retrospect, happens to be the ONLY South African purchase i made other than food and drink. NB: superior restraint).
Sans rehearsal venue for the afternoon, Daniel, Taryn and Ally are practicing in the backyard while i blog. Later, there is to be a showing of "Dr Collinger's Funeral Service" in the loungeroom.