By the 15th, that beard is basically filled out with cotton balls
Today marks the ten down countdown to our morning Air Canada flight out of Heathrow, England, to Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. We’ll be making it back to St. John’s at 5:48 pm, twelve weeks to the day since we settled into our little rooms at the Maltings and started this whole crazy thing.
I’m not going to get nostalgic or upset, not yet. Because we still have those ten days – it’s still autumn here, still warm enough to wear shorts if you go for a run in the park, with no sign of snow. But there is an air of finality – writing final papers, seeing our last few shows, running out of money, keeping my passport tucked away until December 2. As much as things are ending though, there’s so much from the last three months that’s going to carry over, wherever this world takes me next.
But now’s not the time to get pensive, either.
The last week has been subdued. Mary Walsh got her fifth honorary doctorate, this time from Mount St. Vincent, so after a rushed class on Tuesday morning, we crammed into their apartment with balloons, flowers, and chocolate cake, to welcome her back in style. I’ve almost taken it for granted that I’ve been hanging out with Mary Walsh for the last three months – when am I ever going to get the chance to do that again?
Shit, I’m not going to start thinking like that. Not now.
We had a leisurely night around Harlow, with an early morning train into London in the morning, for a matinee showing of Yes, Prime Minister at the Gielgud Theatre along the Piccadilly route in the West End. Matinee showings of political comedies haven’t brooded well with me – I’m still cringing when I think of that bleak day in Cambridge, propped up on orange juice, for The Madness of King George III – and, after some thirty stage shows, I was feeling a bit worn out from theatre. So, I wasn’t expecting a whole lot to come out of a show that takes place entirely within the Prime Minister’s cabinet chambers with his closest advisors.
This looks exhilarating
Turns out the show was great. Thirty years ago, Yes Minister debuted on British television, going on to become a hugely successful political satire. A lot has changed since then, and the new play, written by Antony Jay and Jonathan Lynn – both original writers on the television show – brings in some of those contemporary elements. You don’t have to be English to get it, either – the first few moments were a bit heavy on the political system and the bureaucracy, but the show soon glided into the region of spoof and silliness that anyone could appreciate. Even a tired, jaded Canadian student like me.
Yes, Prime Minister says a lot about a lot of things: the incompetency of the PM without his support staff, strained international relations, and the difference between doing what is good for a country and what is good for getting re-elected. These are some pretty heavy themes, and it only gets heavier when the Foreign Minister of Kumranistan wants to be paired up with an underage sex partner, but they’re treated so lightly, so ridiculously, that you can sit through it and laugh, rather than get uncomfortable.
The actors were obvious caricatures, and so overacting rather than intricate, artful direction or development was the flavour of the day. That was the point, though, and it never became distracting because you become hooked from the opening act, so that when it escalates after the intermission you can’t help but follow in wilful, suspended disbelief.
Our train tickets were no good to us until at least 6:30, which gave us some time to wander through London before hightailing it back. A few of us grabbed some fast food oriental noodles at a spot called Wok to Walk in Soho, complete with half-competent (at least, I like to think it was half-competent) manoeuvring of chopsticks. A pint later, it was back to Liverpool Street, where we would have made the next train if the tube hadn’t stopped for so long at Aldgate.
Sleeping in, ticking off a list of theatre reviews, soaking up the last of autumn in the park: that was the order of the weekend, which started on Thursday this week. Not since that first weekend had I sat down with a group in the common room and just watched a movie . . . or three, in this case. It was nice to not have to worry about speaking a different language, tipping in foreign currencies, making the last train to a hostel or, more pragmatic, having to wear shoes.
The weekend was also a chance to get to the Harlow Town Centre and do some “shopping” – which basically accounted for spending £3 on a novelty gift. I have a bad feeling most of my Christmas shopping is going to happen at the Valley Mall in Corner Brook again this year. Apologies for not buying more generic crap over here that had SOME EUROPEAN CITY plastered across it in block letters.
I didn’t though, so I’m either going to stick to my principles of not wasting money on useless touristy merch . . . or go completely overboard in London next week. Mugs with Will and Kate’s face on it for everyone and their dog. Stay tuned.
To anyone who gets this gift from me this Christmas: Yes. I actually do hate you.
Right now though, it’s another sunny morning in Harlow – time to get out of bed and make the most of it. After all, there’s only ten of these left. Somewhere in that time, we’ve still got to see War Horse, A Comedy of Errors, a special showing of Leonardo da Vinci works at the National Gallery – 15 paintings, many of which have never been in the same room together and may never again, and are worth two billion dollars – and a visit to either the Charles Dickens Museum or the newly refurbished Hogarth’s House.
Can’t stop, won’t stop.
Cheers,
rb
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