Three weeks into what shall become known as the ‘plastic boot’ period, Hopefully not too long to go. I have got away with a couple of small roles ‘without boot’ too. There’s not a great deal of moving around in the role of 1st Armed Man. It rather defines the phrase spear-carrier. Then learning Ravel’s l’Heure Espagnole on two weeks notice and three days rehearsal. Quite terrifying, even though my role was a minor one. The attached photo shows the cast on their way to performance. You will notice the various coping strategies. Learning the score, whistling the tune, or giving in to apparent mania. I am due to sing the Count in the Barber of Seville on Sunday for a different group. This is a little more substantial - I am only offstage twice, and one of those exits is for a quick change. It shall be performed with boot. I doubt the company will be too impressed when they realise that my footwear makes my every move sound like the arrival of a cyberman. The swordplay involved may prove quite interesting too.William is back in hospital - this time at the Chelsea and Westminster for a longish stretch. The idea is to try him on food. Sadly, this will not mean the boy tucking into a burger and chips, but rather Mummy and Daddy preparing amino-acid soup to pump overnight into one of his tubes. Hardly Gordon Ramsey. Meanwhile, William has developed his own unusual take on eating. It consists of plucking imaginary foodstuffs from the air, then either eating them, or offering them to me, so that I can pretend that the sausage, chocolate or strawberry calls to be let go, and has to be rescued from my mouth. All rather surreal, especially when he starts eating elephants, triangles and colours. So, in celebration of William’s new-found propensities for imagination, I took him out to the Tate Modern. This was an education for him, me, and for the countless gallery-goers that he chose to regale with his insights.
“What’s that, William?”
“Colouring in. An orange rectangle” (Mark Rothko)
“What’s that, William?”
“Cutting out.” (Matisse)
Surely pretty astute. It normally takes a degree in Fine Art to get to the stage of wondering what constitutes a stripe in Rothko’s Four Seasons’ murals. William was straight in there with a decent opinion, armed only the basics of crayon usage in his skills set. He’s the man.
After the gallery, we went to Borough Market. William was not as impressed with the cheese shop as I was, and insisted on clasping my hand over his nose. In fact, he has decided to frame any feelings of general malaise in terms of food. “I’ve lost my biscuit,” seems to be William-speak for “I’m generally cross, and haven’t quite figured out why.” It’s fair to say that his biscuit was missing as I sat him in front of the goats’ cheese counter of Neals Yard Dairy. Goodness only knows what he would make of the less-than fragrant mushrooms I recently discovered growing on the carpet in my flooded flat.
