Great Scott im Himmel, it's Monday again...already.
I had a funny weekend - a real bag of mix. I spent all day Saturday in the hoose, doing good domestic deeds. This was followed on Saturday evening by a trip to The Barbican Theartre to see Henry IV Part II. It's a bit of an Elizabethan dog's breakfast if I'm honest. It retreads ground already comprehensively, and much more entertainingly, dealt with in H4 Part I.
To compensate for the absence of anything to say, Shakie reverts to a string of comic (sic) scenes in act two, which are excruciating frankly. And this is the RSC, mind you, with Antony Sher as Falstaff. If they can't make it work, it's fcuked. The upside was that we had better seats this time, not like the cruel perches we were subjected to last week. But you know a play is failing when you start praising the furniture.
Yesterday, I awoke in a bit of a shabby mood. I felt restless and twitchy. The missus and I went for a longish walk, and popped to a museum we know slightly, to see if that would cure matters. I then went off a-wandering alone around some of the places I used to work. When I worked there, this area was an absolutely hovel. It's currently undergoing an economic regeneration at the mo, and it's vee pleasing to see the old bag with a bit of lippy on for a change.
That event seemed to kick start my optimism, and the rest of the evening evaporated in a pleasing social whirl.
Voltarie was wary of too much philosophising, as it's sounds the death knell for action and therefore happiness. When at eh end of Candide, Pangloss starts holding forth on his metaphysical nostrums, Candide replies "That is very well put . . . but we must cultivate our garden."
Quite so - let us cultivate our gardens.
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