"I'm not racist, but..."

I don’t remember what prompted me to comment about Australia. I don’t even remember what I said. But I do regret that I said it… whatever it was…

We were in the staffroom at The Old Royal Naval College — some twelve of us, mostly volunteers — awaiting the morning briefing. 

Non-volunteers go by the exalted title of Ambassadors. Basically, they do the same things as we non-exalted volunteers, except that they get to Ambass around with a two-way radio. 

Well, that and they get paid an hourly rate for Ambassing.

That morning was my first session with the Education team, none of whom I’d met before. All of whom know each other. I’d never been to a morning briefing either and am always always anxious and uncomfortable with unfamiliar places and people.

A feeling that was not relieved when everyone turned to look at me as I came in through the door, but only one person greeted me.

Artist's impression of Chris the Ambassador

So, anyway, I made my totally forgettable comment about having recently returned from a trip home to Australia —an inept attempt to join in the conversation, which was probably about the unseasonably warm morning. And one of the Ambassadors (let’s call him Chris, because I think that’s actually his name) commented,

‘Oh, we’ve had a lot of Australians in the Painted Hall this week.’

That’s nice, I thought, he’s noticed. I spoke to a few Aussie couples in there this week too.

But before I could respond with an anecdote or even acknowledge that he’d spoken to me,

‘That’s why our takings are down this week, you know,’ Chris snorted. ‘Australians are cheap. They’re all keen to do the tour until they find out they have to pay. Then they just complain it’s too expensive and walk away.’

Dramatic recreation of  gobsmacked volunteer

I was gobsmacked.

Affronted.

Stunned.

How to respond to that?

It struck me as a pretty unorthodox way for an Ambassador to make a volunteer feel like part of the team.

I’ve met plenty of other stereotypes about we Aussies: we’re crude, we’re uncultured, we’re drunks. We’re naïves who drift around on an island at the bottom of the planet unaware of the way the rest of the world functions.

In fact, I recently happened upon this in an article about Agatha Christie:

Christie relies on certain stock traits for her characters of different nationalities. The French are hotheaded, Scots are thrifty, and Australians are simple.

http://www.bbc.com/culture/story/20180907-agatha-christie-shaped-how-the-world-sees-britain

Ignorant. Maybe.

But cheap?

Really?

I find that hard to swallow.

A British boar

Let's face it, those simple skinflints from Downunder have paid not insignificant airfares to travel from the other side of the globe for a holiday, and then come to see Christopher Wren-designed buildings of British cultural significance.

I’ve met plenty of native Londoners who’ve never in their London-lived lives made the 10-kilometre journey to Greenwich to see those self-same buildings.
It's also kind of weird because the people I talk to are in the Painted Hall on the tour they're too tight to fork out £10 to do.

But I didn't say that.

I didn’t cripple Chris with a witty retort or slay him with a sarcastic comeback.

I merely responded with something disappointingly limp.

And polite.

Then I slunk off to the briefing feeling both conspicuous and uncomfortable.

Wishing I hadn’t spoken.

But the question remains: are Aussies cheap?

Suspending disbelief and Sondheim

The Playhouse Theatre, Covent Garden

I once worked with an editor who hated live theatre.

She had an Arts degree in Literature —she loved reading fiction, running an imagined narrative through her mind. But she loathed theatre.

She was fine with watching a ten-metre-face in a cinema, or a flat-screen human being — she adored movies. But she couldn’t abide plays.

She said it was just not in her to suspend disbelief that much.

A person pretending to be someone else on stage was ridiculous to her.

I never understood.

I’ve always found the theatre magical and romantic and totally absorbing. Being in a state of suspended disbelief is one of my favourite ways of being — nothing else exists, nothing else matters. It’s like a protective bubble where emotion and human connectedness is everything and everywhere. 

Even when shock or outrage or horror exist inside the bubble, they are deep feelings in a safe space. I clearly remember, as a pre-teen audience member, being conflicted by Nancy’s heartbreak in Oliver! and distressed by the rape of Aldonza in The Man of La Mancha. 

 The Ferryman is my fave play so far.

And bewildered might best describe my response to the first penis I ever saw. Although, to be fair, that may not have been suspended disbelief. That might just have been plain old unadulterated unadorned complete and utter disbelief. It was 1969. I was 11 and we’d driven from Melbourne to Sydney to see Hair. My parents believed it was a ground-breaking show that I needed to experience. Very freethinking 1960s of them don’t you think?

Anyway, lately, I’ve noticed something very disturbing about my theatre-going self that has sent me on a long walk in the hall of mirrors.

There’s a production of Sondheim’s Company opening soon and I’ve never seen it done professionally. So, usually, my virtual self would have been lined up at that cyber-booking-counter, Paypal in pocket, at the earliest possible opportunity.

Only this time I wasn’t.

I hesitated.

In this production, Bobby (the role made famous by Larry Kent and Neil Patrick Harris) becomes Bobbi —female, and Amy becomes Jamie— not female.

So, all of Robert’s songs will be in a female voice, and Amy’s manic (Not) Getting Married Today will be Jamie panicking about his impending gay wedding.

Why was I disappointed to read that?

The Globe

I understand that Western literature and theatre is dominated by dead white males.  And I totally get that gender-blind casting gives women a chance to play some of the greatest roles. Indeed, it was as far back as 1899 when Sarah Bernhardt first played Hamlet. But I felt let down when it was announced that the recent production of Hamlet at The Globe — I’d bought tickets well before the season opened — would have a female in the lead, and that Ophelia was to be played by an extremely handsome bearded and be-gowned young man.

Oscar Wilde, National Portrait Gallery

I wasn’t deterred at all by the colour-blind casting of the recent production of The Importance of Being Earnest. The personality and nature of a character isn’t determined by the skin they’re in. But I didn’t understand why the director needed to begin the show with Algy kissing a handsome young man goodbye, and I was disappointed when this was followed-up by the oh-so unsubtle suggestion that he also enjoyed a sexual relationship with his butler, Lane.

And I was positively confused as to why it was necessary for a huge homoerotic painting to be hanging in the sitting room where Algy entertained Lady Bracknell.

I’m pretty sure everyone in the audience understood how Oscar Wilde was persecuted. Camping up one of his masterpieces and stripping out its satirical subtleties doesn’t help balance the ledger.

Does it?

I’m far from prudish.

And I’m in no way homophobic.

But am I sexist?

It really is taking me some time to adjust to gender-switching in shows I know and love.

London Coliseum, St Martins Lane

My hesitations about Hamlet were unfounded. I thoroughly enjoyed the gender-equal production. But it didn’t prompt me to any new understanding of the poetry.

And I couldn’t help but worry about all those young audience members, studying the play in their A-levels, who were completely bamboozled.I have bought tickets for Company.

But I confess I was not swayed by belief in the value of — or even a healthy curiosity about—the gender-switching. It was my faith in the director, Marianne Elliott ( War Horse and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time). Well, that and the fact that Broadway legend Patti LuPone will be reprising her role as the caustic Joanne. Delicious.

So I’m still pacing the hall of mirrors.

And wondering.

At heart, am I sexist?

Do I actually suck at suspending disbelief?

Or am I just a bit of an old-fart who’s resistant to change?

I’d love to know what you think about gender-blind casting.  

But not about me. Please don’t tell me what you really think of me.

I'm already feeling a tad exposed and uncomfortable here, staring at myself in all these mirrors!

Musings on Mary, Meghan and Marriage

The Old Royal Naval College, Greenwich

Like countless others, I was swept up by the romance and history-making of the royal wedding of Prince Harry and his lady-love Meghan Markle. Their globally televised nuptials (and some pretty cute souvenirs I picked up at the Old Royal Naval College) led me to ponder just how different things were for Mary, the monarch at the very heart of the Painted Hall, where I volunteer. I got to wondering if their stories —  Mary and Meghan, some 341 years apart — had anything in common.

They don’t really. Well, not much anyway. But I had a lot of fun down the research rabbit hole, so I thought I’d share some tidbits I discovered.

Girlpower!

Born at St James Palace on 30 April 1662, Lady Mary of York was the oldest daughter of King James II. Her mother, Anne Hyde — no relation to the park — had eight children during the eleven years of her marriage, but only Mary and her sister Anne survived beyond childhood.

West Wall of The Painted Hall

So, Mary was a Taurus; Meghan’s a Leo. I might be drawing a long bow here, but both the bull and the lion are symbols of strength. Definitely nothing girly about a bull and a lio­n — right? And history records both our M’s as being willing to stand by their beliefs, and to use their status and strength to help others.  

Mary was joint ruler with William. She made all the tough decisions while he was off battling the Catholic foe. More than that, Mary’s compassion for pensioned seamen was the driving force behind the creation of the glorious riverside buildings we know as the Old Royal Naval College.

Likewise, even before she became a Mountbatten-Windsor, Ms Markle was a Global Ambassador for World Vision and a United Nations women’s advocate for political participation and leadership.

Strong women, both.

Almighty Power

Statue of Mary at Royal Albert Museum

When the Lady Mary was just nine, her mother died of what is believed to have been breast cancer. The sisters were sent to live with their Uncle Charles (AKA King Charles II) at Richmond Palace and their grandfather, Lord Clarendon, at then-idyllically-rural pre-rugby Twickenham.

In a controversial and unpopular move, James II had converted to Catholicism, while his brother had remained a staunch Protestant. The English Parliament, therefore, charged Uncle Charles with responsibility for educating Mary and Anne — the heirs to the British throne —  alongside his own progeny. And he took that responsibility very seriously.

Mary was well-schooled in the refined and necessary disciplines of a future queen: religion, drawing, music, dance and French — although, as it turns out, Dutch might have been handier. To ensure that her education in Protestantism was top notch, her personal tutors included two bishops and an archdeacon. I told you Uncle Charles was hard-core.

St James Palace

 Meghan’s parents divorced when she was six, and she was raised by her mother as an only child in distinctly-not-rural Los Angeles. She, too, was raised as a Protestant but Meghan went to a Catholic high school. Before she became the Duchess of Sussex, she was baptised and confirmed into the Church of England by the Archbishop of Canterbury — that’s top-shelf right there. Plus, the service took place in St James Palace. 
Say no more.

Brown is not her colour!

Stage and Screen

Meghan Markle majored in Theatre and International Studies. Ironic, yes? Mary, of course, was the wrong gender for a career as an actor in her lifetime (Shakespeare in Love hadn’t been made yet). But, fun fact, she loved to dance. So, at age 12, Mary was introduced to the court by starring in a ballet called Calista or The Chaste Nymph written especially for her and her sister.

The epilogue was written by John Dryden — a rockstar of the day, being England’s first Poet Laureate. He kind of puts the kybosh on my unlikely theories of burgeoning feminist ideals when he addresses King Charles II thusly, and foreshadows Mary’s future as a political pawn with this reference to the young sisters:

Two glorious nymphs of your own godlike line,

Whose morning rays like noontide strike and shine,

Whom you to suppliant monarchs shall dispose,

To bind your friends and to disarm your foes.

Disposable daughters?

Uncool.

Prince Not-So-Charming

At the time of her marriage, neither James nor Charles had any male heirs. If the choice had been left to Mary’s father, she would have been married off to France’s Catholic Sun King, Louis XIV — mortal enemy of the man chosen for her by Protestant Uncle Charles and the English Parliament.

Statue of Charles, Royal Albert Museum

The man they chose was known as William of Orange. And confusingly, although William, was ‘of Orange’ (which was in old Provence in southern France), he was Prince of Holland. 
Go figure. 
Both he and Mary were grandchildren of Charles I (ousted and executed as a traitor during the English Civil War). His mother (also called Mary) was our good Lady Mary’s paternal aunt, so that meant William was also the fourth in line to the English throne (1:James, 2:Mary, 3:Anne, 4:William). 

Do you think the fact that they were first cousins might have contributed to the fact that Mary and William were unable to have children? Mind you, it also needs to be noted that Mary contracted malaria while in Holland, and that her spouse was frequently absent.

At the time of her betrothal, Mary was a good-natured, intelligent, out-going attractive 15-year old. She was also extremely tall — 5 ft 11in /180 cm. William, the Prince Charming chosen for her, is said to have been a dour asthmatic with rotten teeth, a hooky nose and a hunch-back. He stood a miserable 5ft 6in / 168cm, was twelve years older than her and preferred the battlefield to the ballroom.

Every young girl’s dream.

So apparently the sculptor noticed the height disparity!

Not.

In fact, her little sister oh-so unhelpfully referred to the groom as Caliban — the monstrous ogre of Greek mythology (and Marvel comics).

Wedding Woes

Poor Mary reportedly cried for days before the wedding. And sobbed during the ceremony. As did her stepmother, which I thought sounded a little weird, until I discovered that her step-mother was a dear friend of hers, a mere four years older than Mary and heavily pregnant at the time (with James’ elusive male heir). 
Neither Mary’s sister nor her beloved governess was able to attend the blessed event —  they both had smallpox.

Forget the overflowing chapel and streets lined with waving well-wishers of midday 19 May 2018. The ceremony on 4 November 1677 took place at 9:00 pm in Mary’s bedchamber. It was not Mary’s father who gave her away to her betrothed, it was Royal Uncle Charles. Notably, Royal Father-in-law Charles played just such a critical role in getting Meghan to the altar after what the media delighted in calling ‘the Markle debacle’.

Royal Rocks

I was going to leave the comparison there, with Queen Mary II looking very much the unluckier of the two, until I stubbed my toe on one more curious rocky fact.

The Stuart Diamond

Prince Harry honoured his new wife by giving her a large aquamarine ring that had belonged to his mother, Diana, Princess of Wales. 
Soon after their return to his home in Holland, Prince William of Orange purchased an enormous diamond in the rough for his bride.

This unusual pale blue-green rock was SO big, that the jeweller advised the couple it would best be cut into two. Mary would have none of that. She wanted one giant gem. Thus, the Holland Diamond, AKA the Stuart Diamond, came to be. Pear-shaped and rose cut, it is an impressive 36+ carats. (That’s even bigger than the one James Packer gave Mariah Carey.)

Win! Go Mary!

A Sort of Happy Ending 

From the ceiling of The Painted Hall

I really cannot leave off without saying that despite their not-so happy beginning, Mary grew to be utterly devoted to her weird-looking husband. Maybe that ginormous diamond helped. Nonetheless, they certainly led a remarkable life together, achieving much for which we still thank them, even though their union was designed “To bind … friends and to disarm … foes”.

Old cat / new tricks : Part 2

I'm pretty sure I'll never get used to not having a dog about the place. Recently, the aching absence has been amplified to 11 while the Cruft's Dog Show happens. Girlchild and I are emitting more than our usual ridiculously excessive cooing and ahhing and nawwwing sounds at the clever cute cuddly canines on the telly each night. 


Whilst Her Imperial-But-Geriatric-Fluffiness remains unimpressed.

Perhaps that's why she has stepped up her campaign to drive us all insane.

Or perhaps she's just losing, at speed, every last one of the few remaining marbles she brought with her from home.

Anyway, she has moved beyond mere random night yowling. 
Now her daily schedule includes random day-time yowling.
Plus some very specifically-timed blood-curdling screeching and mewling.

You see, apparently, at unspecified hours and minutes, an invisible but truly hideous disgusting filthy beastie spontaneously materialises in our apartment and exudates in HER litter tray. So, after her initial attempts to intimidate it by flinging granules of cat litter in as many directions and as far as her regal restrictions allow flinging at all, she is compelled to gallop throughout her domain, bewailing her consternation at the horror that has befallen. 

And the caterwauling continues until a two-legged minion rids the queendom of the invading stench monster and restores smoothness and order to the now-crunchy floor of the royal restroom.

She even seems to have taken up the once decidedly doggy duty of attempting to murder us with toxic gases. 
Of course, she'll never admit to it.
Or forgive me for telling you.
But we have recently been subject to ruthlessly unforgiving bottom purrs.
Audible ones.
Room-clearing quality.
Indeed, I have begun to feel quite guilty for all those years of dog-blaming-and-shaming. A great many attacks may well have been stealthy feline subterfuge. 
Sorry, puppies.

One further addition to the patrician daily calendar is the making of insistent, persistent, and particularly clamorous demands of whichever kitchen hand is first to rise. Clear and repeated commands are made that the door to the great beyond be opened to facilitate a morning promenade. However brief that promenade may be.

Indeed, on mornings when nobody has roused by daybreak, she makes the long trek to the servants' quarters, sounding reveille all the while, leaving no room for doubt about her needs and desires.
With summer approaching, I've began fashioning a small silken eye-mask — acceptably elegant but impenetrable to light.

But, last week, the chief-cook-and-bottle-washer had small revenge.

This happened.





It doesn't snow at home on The Rock.

Never, in her eighteen years, had she witnessed anything so distasteful.

I really shouldn't have laughed as much as I did at the indignant foot shaking.

And with her hasty U-turn, the kind thing to do would have been been to let her back in the door she'd just egressed.

But counterattack is a dish best served cold! 

525,600 minutes

So there I was listening to my new favourite radio station here in London,

 

Encore Radio plays songs from your favourite musicals,

all day, every day

blithely singing along to this song from Rent when it dawned on me. 

     


We've been here for more than a year.
More than 525,600 minutes.   
We've been here long enough to have survived all the 'firsts' away from home, those dates that are so replete with tradition and family history that they tug and pull and ache ... birthdays, anniversary days, Christmas, New Year.

Long enough that time passes more quickly.

Long enough for me to have stopped counting how long we've been here.

We've even been here long enough to have grown so familiar with life in our compact attic flat in Fitzrovia that it had become tiresome.  
No, that's not the right word. 
Not tiresome. 
Too many awe-inspiring, mind-expanding, life-affirming things surrounded us for it to be tiresome. 
What I should have said is that we had lived there long enough to have grown fed-up with ceaseless traffic and choked footpaths; exhausted by the parade of grey, airless days; jaded by brick and concrete.

Down the Thames we moved. No longer in the heart of the city, now in an airy modern North Greenwich apartment we can see the river, watch the sunset, enjoy growing plants on the expansive balcony. It's mind-opening in a whole different way. An additional way. The way that means so much to so many Australians. 
Here there is head space.
Expanse of sky.
Light.

Anyway, I began at the point when I was musing about how I would measure that first year. 
And I thought, how about in shows?
When we decided to move here, I promised myself that I would take me to every play, concert, musical or exhibition that took my fancy.
I did not let myself down.

In our first year in London, I took myself to 14 musicals, 17 plays, 5 concerts, 2 stand-up comedy performances, the Chelsea Flower Show, the Longines Global Champions showjumping, 12 museums, the taping of 3 television shows and the truly spectacular Lucha Libre masked wrestling.

And here are some of the amazing actors who have shared some of their 525,600 minutes with me.

 
So how do you measure a year?