“where was your conscience? where was your consciousness?”

I called my first ambulance today, on a stranger’s phone.

Nightshift has its own routines, its own camaraderie. It’s an unwritten rule that you all walk together to the station at 7. Possibly a habit carried over from the darkness of winter months, I fall in step with them all and wake myself up in plastic sunshine.

We made it to the junction of what is usually a frantically busy road, but even in London   the roads respect the quiet of a Sunday morning. (I love that not once have I ventured outside, even at the oddest hour of the morning, to find that I am the only one around.) As our sluggish group approached the last few feet of pavement before the station on the corner, we were stopped short by the blood-freezing screech of emergency brakes and a flash of black against the silvery metal of one of those car-vans so beloved of middle-class families.

A collective gasp, a moment’s pause, and then a sprint of those last few steps to the road. There on the tarmac, an Asian man was picking himself up from the tarmac, blood dripping from hands and his forehead. I wanted to shake myself, it took an eternity to absorb each new detail; from the spiderweb cracks across the windshield (the brunt of his impact, then) to the mangled bicycle cowering beneath stalled tyres. There’s no speaking at first until the anonymous driver comes out of the door and faces what he could not have seen from behind that mosaic of cracked glass. T, to my left thrusts his mobile at me, what seems like panic until I see him moving to help the injured man. I press the numbers I’ve only idly dialled in boredom before, the product of a wandering mind and the security of nothing being fact until the call button is pressed. Calm and patient voices record the details of blood and breathing and so many other important little facts. Some official medical type appears from the complex behind us, and I pass the phone to him at his request.

I step away at that. I didn’t witness the incident itself, there were bystanders with a clear sight of the accident, and the CCTV cameras are whirring merrily atop their posts. Collectively, our group begins to disperse towards the beckoning station entrance. We murmur platitudes about luck and how much worse it all could be. I’m secretly proud of myself for feeling nothing. Shock didn’t stop me, and subjective though my analysis is, there was not one quiver of alarm in my voice.

I left them on the platform, cursing the scheduling of trains and made my way to my own line. The head of the stairs doesn’t bother me unless morons are pushing or the rain has created some excitement in the simple act of descending. Today, for a split second there was headrush and something approaching nausea, but it wasn’t vertigo or an irrational fear of tumbling down filthy stairs. With a deep breath and a tug on my jacket it passed, and by Green Park I was engrossed in the story of a baseball game that I didn’t know I would care about. Yes, I’ll be keeping an eye on the local paper when it appears in the office this week, and no doubt we’ll discuss it to death over the next few nights. Amazing to my provincial brain that it wouldn’t even make London-wide papers like the Standard or the Lite. He’s a young and healthy man, and the car wasn’t going all that fast, so chances are…

It’s sitting here with breakfast that twenty associated thoughts waylaid my unsuspecting brain, from the unseen car crash that killed someone I cared for eight years ago, to the smugness of thinking I’ll probably cope okay should someone ever hurl themselves in front of my eventual train.

Still, there’s sleep to be had and cats to cuddle up with.

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Listening to: Built To Spill – They Got Away
via FoxyTunes

“but be careful getting coffee, I think these people want to shoot us”

For the attention of campaigners about all things gay, this is bona fide discrimination.  This is the sort of horror that we, as a ‘community’ should be outraged by and acting to help with.  Those poor, brave people forced to live in fear for their lives because of something we in the UK can largely take for granted. 

Instead of getting pissy about civil partnerships not being saddled with the patrimonial-religious label of ‘marriage’, or diverting time and energy into getting teenagers not to use ‘poof’ as an insult, this is the sort of terrible reality that we should all be up in arms about.  Predictably, the religious idiots leaders are hiding in archaic nonsense rather than easing the suffering of their fellow human beings.  Between this and the Norn Ireland-Amnesty bollocks, I despair of organised religion all over again.  To prevent aid because you want to dictate the terms is disgusting, and followers of these religions ought to be ashamed.

Anyway, SMUG are facing the most terrible situation in Uganda, and I for one will be contacting Stonewall et al to see if there’s even a small thing I can do.

“you should live so long”

Two words: Stockard. Channing.

The easy stroll through Islington to the Almeida Theatre was certainly enhanced by the many, many delicious-smelling restaurants we didn’t have enough time to eat in.  We had higher things on our minds (and a quick dash to Sainsbury’s meant sandwiches in our bags) and so we were on a mission direct from tube station to front row Circle.

This was a first for me, I rarely venture into Islington unless I’m killing time between lectures, and so it was that I set eyes on the Almeida for the first time.  It’s delightfully small, like a toy theatre almost; intimate enough that I wouldn’t be surprised if the people down in the stalls were flying-spittle victims.

Now, y’all might have heard that I loved, worshipped and adored the West Wing, and my affections were fairly torn between CJ Cregg and Ms Channing’s fabulous Abbey Bartlet.  This was the moment I finally got around to seeing some West Wing alumni right here in London (having completely missed Rob Lowe and Richard Schiff), and who better to start with?  Can you imagine my heart-stopping terror when K opening the programme resulted in a single sheet of white paper floating towards the ground?  For the uninitiated, a paper insert usually means a major cast member will not be performing.  Thank whatever-is-responsible that it was a false alarm, the simple page containing merely a running order.

Minutes later she was right there in front of me, stage makeup creases and all, and nothing short of breathtaking.  She can act though, not that it was ever in any doubt.  Despite nine billion stage incarnations of Grease, she’s been the only one to give a heart to Rizzo’s default of tart.  Every overlooked indie film she’s turned her hand to has been compelling, and like any long-standing actress there are some turkeys that were clearly bill-paying roles. 

For what our friend R calls a “me2Jew”, you can imagine how enthralled I was by this snapshot of Jewish family life in the Depression.  Clifford Odets has written a mostly excellent play, though the son’s character has a tendency to speak in speechifying passages that betray the author’s own motivations.  The plot development was telegraphed pretty early on, but there’s nothing like poignant inevitability to tug at the old heartstrings.  It’s all tastefully bleak, from the tights and vests strung across the auditorium like tragic decorations to the worn and tattered set furniture.

John Rogan was outstanding as Jacob, even if he was a mouthy Communist of the most unrealistic stripe (the Communism, not the acting).  The remaining cast were outstanding, though Ben Turner as son Ralph had a bit more convincing to do.  I know he was portraying the worst kind of dreamer, but it still felt a teensy bit stage school.

Worth the money though, especially at such reasonable seat prices (£26) and even the programmes priced back at a more respectable £2.50.  We were too lazy to move from our little bench seat to check out the bar, but it seemed very poncey-Islington-wine-bar, which is just right for such a funky little theatre.

Most of all, I love it when someone you’ve invested hours and too many pounds in following the career of doesn’t let you down.  I was sure Stockard would live up to the hype, but she really hit this one out of the park.  She can come and smash things in my house any time.

Awake and Sing! at the Almeida Theatre, N1

Booking until Sat 20 Oct 2007 (limited season)

My embarrassing tendency to fall in love from the front row of the Royal Circle strikes again.  Though I was dazzled by Julie Atherton the first time around, the gap between viewings of Avenue Q allowed me to forget her utter fabulousness.  It’s perhaps obvious that I can fall hard for a good leading lady, but when said leading lady can sing, mimic, act and operate two puppets all at the same time, well damn.

Some shows don’t stand up to a second viewing, but Avenue Q’s production stays just on the intentional side of gimmicky.  The singing cardboard boxes may seem like a rip-off of The Producers’ dancing pigeons, and occasionally it’s hard to overlook that some characters end at the waist, but the fantastic songs and phenomenal comic timing of the cast save the day.

Ah hell, it turns out I would have sat through Mamma Mia to get a night on the town with my bezzer, and walking them to the hotel let us wander wide-eyed but sleepy through Covent Garden, just as in love with the city as with each other.  Unfortunately the romance was ruined by the heat on Holborn platforms, but we made it home alive anyway.

—————-
Listening to: Over The Rhine – Last Night On Earth Again
via FoxyTunes

Proof that the world must surely be ending!

                                                                                                                                         When the Misery Line is the only one with good service, how far from the Apocalypse can we be?!

“when I am king you will be first against the wall”

Screw the RMT and their reactionary Communist nonsense.  I agree with last week’s caller who pointed out that Mrs Thatcher would sort them all out.  I feel for the Metronet, but there’s no way they’re going to be thrown to the wolves with all this publicity going on.  There’s such a thing as picking your battles.  BITE ME.