Last Good Friday I was at Westminster Cathedral being slightly overwhelmed by the narrative of sacrifice and humility in the Passion story; this year I went to Waiting For Godot at the Barbican. There's not much I can usefully add to the mountain of words written about Samuel Beckett's masterwork, so I won't try, beyond observing that the back-and-forth, sing-song talk between Didi and Gogo in this pedigree production was beautiful, music to the ears, and spun a web of intimacy in that cavernous theatre. Contrasted with that, the disorientation of the action of the play, a thick air of helplessness, as in a bad dream.
Incidentally I watched the whole thing with an eye-wateringly painful headache.
On my ownsome all this weekend as B and the boys are in Bristol with her parents, so Saturday I did my first shift as duty manager at Southwark, and I'm back to do the bar tonight. As barman I'll be able to nip in to see the show, which is David Eldridge's early play Summer Begins.
Very good to have the flat to myself for a short while, but looking forward to having them all back tomorrow, not least so B and I can carry on with our second viewing of Bleak House, on dvd this time, as when it was on telly in the autumn we lost the plot when we went to Trieste.