Blogallimaufrey

I just walked past a mirror and saw my dad reflected in it.

Now my dad was not an ugly man as looks go; tall, broad, grey haired, with deep grooves running from crooked nose to the corners of his mouth and a naughty twinkle in his eye, when he wasn’t frowning or being choleric. I was always aware of his distinctive face, without ever studying him too closely. His doctor once said that he had the head of a ‘Caesar’. To me, of course, he was just dad. Annoyingly himself. Always.

And now I am him. Oh dear. Not bad for a man but for a woman, not so good.

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I have been a tardy blogger for weeks. Not that I’ve lost interest, it’s just life being contrary. I may have two gardeners, but one of them, Paul, is one of those people who only need to look at a tool, or swat a wasp, for it to jump up and bite them somewhere painful. Since I’ve employed him he has had blood poisoning from a rose thorn, a swollen arm and near collapse from a poisonous spider bite, something totally unheard of in this region, and now he has cut half his finger off with an electric saw. And lately it’s done nothing but rain on old Gardener’s day, giving him a perfect excuse not to turn up.

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Then there’s Millie. You’d think an old girl like her would stay away from confrontations. Not Millie. Good-natured and sweet though she is, she is curious and forever sticking her nose in where it’s not wanted. Last thing at night she strolls down to the paddock to see who else is around. Whoever it was she met gave her a thoroughly bloody nose, deep gashes over both eyes, and a small round hole in the side of her face. The first night it didn’t look so bad, but by morning the wounds had became infected and inflamed. She developed large, angry red blisters in her armpits and groin and both ears are lined with pebble-like lesions along the edges. It’s impossible to say who attacked her, fox, badger, a cat, but she certainly didn’t come away victorious. A course of antibiotics was prescribed and then treatment with steroids, to reduce the inflammation. We are back and forth to the Vet’s.

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But May has had good aspects too. Social life is picking up. It’s never right though, is it? When people invite us I complain that I’d much rather stay at home, and when they don’t, I complain even more.  Shades of my dad? Theatre outings are high on the list of diversions. Three so far this month; Simon Russell Beale as the National Theatre’s King Lear; then Henry IV, Part I, (Part II still to come), and Roaring Girl at the Swan in Stratford.  There is much to be said for going to see familiar plays; you know them well enough to concentrate on an actor's interpretation of his role and the differences between productions, rather than straining to listen to every word.  But I’d never even heard of ‘Roaring Girl’ before. This Dekker and Middleton comedy written in 1611 is the story of Moll Cutpurse, a cross-dressing protofeminist 300 years ahead of her time. Updating the play to the Victorian 1890s didn’t altogether work; the verbal filth, smells and sounds of Jacobean London which permeate the original play didn’t match my idea of prim and proper Victoria’s city. No ‘ruffianly swaggering and lewd company' in her time. If you believe it.

Just one more play to go before the end of the month.  I’ll try and turn up here a bit more often than once a week too.