I dreamed I was in Arthur Miller's flat. He was being terribly amiable and I was frightened of saying the wrong thing as he was clearly non compos mentis and having trouble orienting himself. He spilled some orange juice on the floor, and tried to sweep it up into a dustpan. When most of it was in the pan he threw it over his shoulder, with a laugh.
I saw that Nick Hornby in the playground at Highbury Fields. He was with two women and assorted children. The adults were making an awful racket at the swings, making WOOO noises at the offspring. Spike was nonplussed but I had to give up reading my paper.
At pm's blog, I left a commiseratory comment about his not getting a particular job. I said 'welcome back to the ranks of the freelancing/idling/despairing'. Meaning well, of course, in a throwaway stylee. Meaning, you'll shrug it off, rejection's a bitch, etcetera. Now, after a comment from esteemed playwright Gary Owen I look like one of those schadenfreudian types, or something. Someone who's glad to have company in his failures. He says to pm, I think you're 'anything but idling or desperate'. But I didn't mean to say he or I or anyone else was desperate. Despairing at the shortsightedness of others, yes. Despairing at the fickleness of some, the lassitude of others, and the general not-fairness of the way things sometimes fall out.
Now I'm sounding shrill. I'll stop. Except to say, I loved Gary Owen's play Shadow Of A Boy, and was very glad to have the lead actor from that, Rob Storr, in my recent reading.
Mike Leigh's play Two Thousand Years was our anniversary treat on Wednesday. I'd booked the tickets in the summer, before ML had told anyone publicly what the play was about. Well, since I'm married in to the North London Jewish Mob the play was very apposite (an invitation to a cousin's boy's barmitzvah was among the Christmas cards that morning). And I'm well enough acquainted with that Guardian-reading, secularised, conflicted-about-Israel slice of Jewish London to recognise ML's achievement in bringing it to such vivid life on stage. But more than that, I thought the play was incredibly moving, its sensitivity and melancholy humour very pleasing. The dialogue was so beautifully judged, so musically true, it was a jolt when the very occasional lapse made you remember you were watching a play, not eavesdropping.