A certain slant of light

There is something about Autumn.

Writing about her native and beloved New England, Emily Dickinson mused upon the “certain slant of light” that exists in Autumn. Like her, that is what I love most about this time of year.

The morning air, as crisp and chilled as biting into a Granny Smith apple. The leaves turning shades of copper, amber and gold. This season is as blissful in olde England as it is in the New one.

I love this time year! The calm before the delightful Christmas holiday storm.

Barford is a hive of activity in Autumn, as the very serious preparations for Advent slowly get under way. My November Thanksgiving Dinners have now given way to October Harvest Suppers these days, and the main thrust of this November for me will be the annual Barford Music Hall.

The annual “Music Hall” truly launches our festive season into high spirits every year. Tickets for the “Music Hall” are hard to come by. Our first year here, we were unable to obtain tickets for neither love nor money!

‘Music Hall Ticket Day’ is no joke. Would-be punters form a lengthy, but orderly, queue outside Jane and Rod Scott’s home, with lawn chairs and coffee, at 7 a.m.! A normal enough sight for such acts as the Rolling Stones, or The Who, but perhaps a bit of a surprise for the likes of “Terry the Viking” and “The Great Baroloni” - Barford’s very own magician. (Surely, every English village has its own magician?)

To insure we have any chance of actually seeing the Music Hall this year, the DEB and I are auditioning to be in it.

The set-up is rather wacky, if I’m honest. We’ve been planning and rehearsing for about two weeks already. Music items on Tuesdays, Sketches/Acts on Thursdays. The pressure is on to get things memorized and costumes gathered. But, and here’s the kicker – auditions happen in early November.

Yes, it’s a sort of retroactive process. Essentially, one could work for weeks and weeks on an item (or items) gather the people-power, rustle up the garb and funny noses, only to find that your services, your acts, don’t make the cut and are, in fact, not needed at all, thank you very much!

Apparently, the Audition Panel is a bit fierce. It’s said they make the Simon Cowell look like the Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother! I’m not looking forward to this part of the proceedings…

The DEB and I have found a funny (well, we think it’s funny) sketch about a Dog and a Cat, that seems to have become a kind of humorous homage to our lives with Lucy and Lily.

We have also both been roped into a few musical numbers, and I have clearly lost my mind completely, and am attempting to lead a song-and-dance number from Cabaret. (Heaven help us!)

If we don’t make the grade, I shall be deeply disappointed, but there’s always next year. But who knows, it could be a case of “first time lucky”! Still, we have put so much time into already. And time always feels at a premium to me. If fact, we’ve got folks coming round this afternoon to work on a “Queen” Medley...All I can say is we’ll need to be done before Antiques Roadshow and Downton Abbey come on!

I shouldn’t complain, really, although this is a new holiday challenge for us, to be sure, it is also an incredible learning experience for me in the art of British comedy and the skills of the variety show (singing, dancing, comic sketches, &etc.). It is also a rare and intimate insight into a bygone, English art form.

In his play, The Entertainer, John Osbourne lamented to demise of the English music hall:

The music hall is dying, and with it, a significant part of England. Some of the heart of England has gone; something that once belonged to everyone, for this was truly a folk art.

- The Entertainer (1957)

Osbourne’s words were certainly prophetic, however, in my small corner of this green and pleasant land, the music hall tradition is still very much alive and well. And, it has become an integral part of what now makes this festive season so enjoyable and special to me.

Wet day in November

Thursday, 13 November 2008

Wet, November days have always been a sort of gage for me.  Whenever I’ve been faced with a major, life decision, I always stop and ask myself: “How will you feel about this on a wet day in November?” So here I am on a cold, wet day in November reflecting upon the choices I have made. Okay, not exactly reflecting, as much as sulking.

I spent the morning sulking in bed, after making the firm decision—wet day or no—to stay in bed and sleep my life away. But, I suddenly sprung to my feet at 9:00 AM, lest I risked the danger of becoming with the British call a “lay about.” Although, I think I have good cause to lay about today.  

I didn’t get “the call.” During my interview on Tuesday, I was informed that: “the successful candidate will receive a phone call within the next 24 hours, the rest of the candidates will receive a letter informing them of their status, in about 7-10 days.”  May I just say, it seems to me to be a bit of a waste time, energy and paper to send out letters to all of us losers, since we will (obviously) have a very clear indication of “our status” when we our phones remain silent.

And silent my phone remained. Except for the calls I received from the D.E.B., and the Lost and Found Office at the Stratford-upon-Avon Bus Depot. In the flurry of my interview day, I left my cute, pink, Motorola flip-phone on the X18 Stagecoach from Barford to Stratford. Apparently, there are no Good Samaritans left in all of South Warwickshire, and my phone has not be handed in. Just one of my many joys of Big Pearls & Cashmere Tuesday...

I spent all of Wednesday (yesterday) waiting. And waiting. I wanted the call to come, and I didn’t want the call to come. As the afternoon waned it became a matter of strident pride: “How dare they not call! How dare they not pick me?!”

The D.E.B. has done his best to keep my spirits up. Tuesday night, he took me up to The Granville my favourite restaurant these days, “for a meal” to congratulate me on my interview. Yesterday, when it became clear that “the call” had not, and would not come, he left work early, and phoned me from the car to find out if I needed him to collect “a bucket of chicken” from KFC on his way home. (He knows me.)

The bucket of chicken was not needed yesterday– though I think I may need it tonight. To avoid sitting, quite literally, by the phone, I busied myself by doing laundry, hoovering and cooking.  I was fine, I told myself, in the midst of my cleaning frenzy. But the minute the D.E.B. walked in, I fell to pieces. Little, tiny, broken pieces, that he gathered up, gently, and put back together.

It was a night of comfort and treats. I'd made a huge vat of Sicilian sausage pasta, enough to feed the entire village, that went down beautifully with the Chartreuse de Bonpas the D.E.B. had brought home for us. After dinner, there were “pressies” a gift set of Champney’s spa collection, my new favo(u)rite bath and beauty products. (Their ‘rose’ stuff is to die for.) And a night out on the town to see the new James Bond film! And at proper cinema! The D.E.B. booked my favourite seats (dead centre, close, but not too close, to the front), ordered luscious, Brazilian red wine in the cinema bar, and insured that I had chocolate, and the largest bucket of popcorn available. (It’s all about the popcorn.) And the movie was fabulous! Daniel Craig is growing on me, and is slowly winning me over as a convincing Bond. 

In all, a wonderfully restorative evening, topped off by the D.E.B. whispering the words: “I think you might need to be ravished,” as he led me up the stairs. The only thing better than a bucket of chicken for a sad girl on wet November day.