Lagging on the cultural front

If there's one cultural event I regret not having seen it's Jerusalem. It totally passed me by. I had been about to book tickets before Christmas and then didn't. What made it worse was when my colleague arrived into wirk last week and said: 'you'd love it'! And as of last week it is over. Today I found myself trawling the online news to see whether it would go to Broadway for another run - perfectly willing to arrange a weekend's trip to see it. Mark Rylance was reported as saying that he may resume the role in five or six years, if the appetite is there. Come on BBC, how about filming a special performance?

Tickets for Hockney's exhibition at the Royal Academy are also being snapped up left, right and centre. I don't care to mention Hirst, about whom I hope future fables will be written in the vein of The Emperor's New Clothes! It makes me realise that London is the hotbed of culture. And for that reason alone I can't see myself ever leaving this city, which so many of us adopt with the fervour far greater than the native. Nor have I yet been to see The Artist, or Shame, or Margaret. (Forget The Iron Lady.) It would seem I've fallen a little behind on the cultural front. What have I been doing? Well, working, writing, nursing headaches. Puking up, yes, seriously. I'm not sure if I've had/got some sort of stomach virus but the past week has been physically testing. Although one evening I felt so subdued it actually had me in a good tone to write from the deep, poignant part of myself. I also neglected to book a massage, since November, despite now knowing that they ease the stress and reduce the headaches. That was rectified today though as I treated myself to an hour long deep tissue massage at Earthlife, in an arch beneath Kew Bridge. Having my arms included was a revelation, not least because the masseuse had to say twice 'relax your (left) arm', which I found difficult. I hadn't realised that the arms bear the brunt just as much as the neck and shoulders when one spends every day desk bound, head always a little forward, shoulders hunched - and arms always (like now) held aloft to enable the constant tapping, writing, carrying, holding onto tube rails in rush hour.
Anyway, not much of a post, but that's all I can muster for today. I'm almost at the end of Howards End. I'm also dipping into Sean O'Brien's poetry 'November', which hasn't yet touched the spot, having failed to reveal any truths to me. I'm also reading this werk's Times Lit Supp, London Review of Books, and for a bit of a change, The New Yorker.
Onwards. With nurofen and pepto-bismol aka 'the pink stuff'.


Popular Posts