Jen had taken me to the Bread and Roses a lovely pub tucked away on Clapham Manor Street a year or so ago and we’ve gone a couple times since.

Today I wanted to read the paper and relax so I walked to Clapham and considered my choices of venues when I remembered B&R. Nice pub. Not too busy. Good music. Friendly staff. Was the perfect afternoon reading the paper cover to cover while nursing a pint.

Something about the name reminded me of something. . . but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

When I came home, I looked it up online and was pleased to discover that not only is it a nice pub, It is run by The Workers Beer Company which raises funds for trades union and it takes its name from the famous poem that came out of a female textile workers strike in 1912.

I think it is going to be my new local.

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“We all hope. It’s what keeps us alive.” –Bobby, Speed-the-Plow

Went to see Speed-the-Plow last night at the Old Vic.

Cast
Jeff Goldblum
Laura Michelle Kelly
Kevin Spacey

Let me say– first. Before. Before I get going. As it must. I need to say it. I do.

I’m not one of those feminists that immediately hates Mamet because he is a misogynist. I don’t hate Mamet for being a misogynist. I don’t even hate Mamet. I like Mamet. (The cocksucker) If anything I like Mamet because he is a misogynist.

My Mamet annoyance comes from his being– sometimes (often) a lazy dramatist and not letting his female characters play, finding the same rat-a-tat-ding-a-ling-zing-charge zip-bam-fuck-you-coffee-is-for-closers-boom that he gets when he is swinging his dick with the boys. And what pisses me off— What really winds me up, is I know he can write for chicks. State and Main, sister in theme to Speed-the-Plow, but is 100% funnier and better written, is a Grade A prime example. So David. I know you can do it. I know you know you don’t need a cock to be a fully rounded character.

I walked in the door last night knowing nothing about the play other than it was about the movie biz, Mamet, Silver won the Tony, Madonna and twenty years have gone by since the premiere. (I feel old).

After seeing it last night, what I really don’t understand is? Why. Why in the last twenty years Mamet didn’t smack his forehead and say, “Fuck my Mother. Act Two is a disaster. There is no way anyone will ever be on the chick’s side. I’m stacking the fucking deck. Who in the flying fuckity-fuck can do that monologue and not come off like an unlikable cunt? I’m going to rewrite this cocksucker.”

In other words, it’s a flawed play.

I still had a great time.

The set is gorgeous. Really well done.

Spacey is fantastic. This was the first time I have seen him on stage and the man is kick ass. Our seats were up at the tippy top and his voice and body filled the space. (I could kill myself for not seeing him in The Moon for the Misbegotten.)

Goldbum. Eeeehhh. Not so much. I wonder if I was sitting closer if I would have liked his performance more. Not to say he was bad. Far from it. He moves like a dancer and he has this arch manner that really works. Some of his choices I just felt were off. Act Two, when he throws the glass, he was indicating. Didn’t believe him for 2.5 seconds. That said- there were some moments that were pure gold. When he dangles his foot rather close to hers or when he is rearranging the pillows? Brilliant. He and Spacey bouncing off of each other? Fantastic. Anyway. Maybe I saw him on an off night?

Laura Michelle Kelly. I don’t envy her. This is a hard, hard part. I thought her American accent was impeccable . . . but I wonder. . . if they had her speak with her natural voice, would that have added another colour to the whole thing? Would she have been better equipped to hide an underwritten, poorly realized character? Or was her choice to play Karen as a complete innocent a huge mistake?

Dunno.

Act III is the zinger- as it should be. . . and even though I have issues with Act II there are moments where the spell almost twists you up. Maybe it’s the candlelight. Act I, my favourite moment is when Spacey and Goldblum are preening like two roosters in front of Karen, calling each other and themselves whores. There is also so much fun in seeing how Mamet handles exposition. You never see the man behind the curtain.

I just think it’s a bit of a shame that the play isn’t as well written as it could be. As it should be. I like the themes he is exploring.

I’m giving it a B-. Performances alone however a good solid B+

Anyway. I had a good time at the theatre last night even with my issues with the play. If you get a chance to see it, I’d love to hear what you think.

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Three years ago I arrived in London.

Two years ago I started my new job at my current employer that those of you that can read between my not very obscure lines know where it is.

One year ago I was getting pissed in the pub.

What am I doing this year? I’m staying away from the pub for one. I’ve had a few too many hours/days spent in one recently.

I have an idea for a play actually. I think tonight I’m going to bugger off and hide myself away and try to remember who I used to be.

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STUART: What are you doing for dinner?

NICOLE: Might run to the store. I fancy lamb. You?

STUART: Going to make my salad. Would you like some?

NICOLE: Um. I don’t know. What is your salad?

STUART: Beetroot, hard-boiled eggs, grated cheese. Mild cheddar. Cheaper the better, salad cream and crisps. Using frazzles tonight. . . Why are you looking at me like that?

NICOLE: How did you learn to make this meal? Was it passed down in your family for generations or is it something you came up on your own?

STUART: My salad is nice. Don’t knock it. What are you doing?

NICOLE: Texting Al your ‘salad’ recipe and that I think it is a good cause to divorce you.

STUART: Giving away my salad secrets!

NICOLE: Yes Stuart. I am. In fact Gordon Ramsey may very well steal it and put it on the menu at Claridges.

STUART: Where?

NICOLE: Never mind.

STUART: You know I can cook. I know you say I can’t but I can. I got an A in Home Economics I’ll have you know. I know how to make fish fingers and chips. . .What are you doing? You’re writing this down???

NICOLE: What else can you make Stuart?

STUART: I’m not going to tell you. You’ll just go around telling everybody.

NICOLE: What else can you make?

STUART: My casserole is really nice.

PAUSE

STUART: You take a dish and you cook some chicken.

NICOLE: You can cook chicken?

STUART: Yes, I can cook chicken!

NICOLE: How do you cook the chicken?

STUART: I don’t know! So you put the chicken in the bottom of the dish, add a bit of gravy, layer some chunky chips on top, squirt brown sauce all over the whole thing then mix it up with a wooden spoon.

NICOLE: Do you bake it all?

STUART: No. It’s already hot.

NICOLE: What else can you make?

STUART: Spaghetti.

NICOLE: And how do you—

STUART: Basically you just microwave it. What???

NICOLE: I’m intrigued. What else is in your repertoire?

STUART: Glazed chicken.

NICOLE: How did you glaze the chicken?

STUART: I. . . I glazed it with a sauce that I like.

NICOLE: Brown sauce.

STUART: I burned brown sauce on it, yes!

NICOLE: Burned?

STUART: That’s what glazed chicken is isn’t it? Listen, this is food that I like. I know it isn’t what you would do. You should try my potatoes with breadcrumbs.

NICOLE: Potatoes with—

STUART: You take potatoes and—

NICOLE: –cover them in breadcrumbs. Yeah. I got it.

STUART: You can cover chicken or fish in breadcrumbs. Why not potatoes?

NICOLE: You should go on masterchief.

STUART: My favorite thing I ever made was a candle burger.

NICOLE: I’m sorry. A. . . what?

STUART: Candle burger.

NICOLE: I don’t get it.

STUART: You make a burger. Then take a candle and put it in the bun.

PAUSE

NICOLE: Like a birthday cake?

STUART: No, not like a birthday cake! It’s a hamburger.

NICOLE: Sorry. How silly of me.

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Last few months I’ve been feeling pain in my left foot on the side by the big toe when I walk to work. I suspected what it was, but I’m not sure why I didn’t pull off my shoe when I got to work. I think because I knew what it was.

Looked at my foot this morning. Yep. You guessed it. I have a bunion. Some thoughts as I examine the boney lump on the side of my foot:

1. Why is it always the left side of my body for the most part that I injure? Bad left shoulder. Bad left knee. Now I have a bunion on my left foot? Is the left side of my body attempting to suced?

2. Only old people have bunions. Ergo, I’m old.

3. This sucks. I hardly ever wear high heals because of my bad knee but the shoes I wear are actually good shoes for walking. Does this mean that I will be shuffling along in trainers for the rest of my life?

4. I wonder how long I can put this off before I see the doctor.

Anyway. I’m off. Stuart and I are going to Rome for a couple of days I need to go buy myself a zimmer frame.

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I’m minding my own business, wading through my e-mail, thinking about where I want to go for lunch even though it’s only 10:30. Take a swig of coffee and look at the IM that Al just sent me:

AL: just so you know, I’ve just discovered that abortion jokes don’t go down too well.

I nearly spewed. And then I laughed.

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“Stuart? What time do we get back Sunday?”

We are going to Rome this weekend. I’d planned on staying in London for the long four-day Easter weekend, but a few weeks ago I came home to find that Stuart had done a drunken Expedia purchase.

“Five.”

“So I won’t have time to make Easter dinner then. Okay. Maybe I’ll do it Monday.”

“Easter dinner?”

“Easter dinner.”

“What do you mean Easter dinner?”

“You know. A meal. On Easter. Where Christians and those that are no longer Christian but still carry on the trappings of Christian celebration get together and eat some form of roast beast.”

“What do you have?”

“I usually make lamb.”

“I’ve never heard of this.”

“You’re kidding. You must be.”

“No.”

“This is a fairly common thing Stuart. A lot of people go home to spend time being tortured by their families.”

“Yeah. No. Never heard of it. Is Al going home?”

“Trying to get out of it. He’s debating between telling them he stepped on a land mine and blew off his leg or food poisoning. I pointed out that the land mine route might not be the best as it would require cutting off his leg at least by Christmas, but he said it was worth it. . . How can you have never heard of Easter dinner? Did you never go home for it?”

“Well, yeah. But just to get my Easter candy.”

* Kinder Surprise is like Cracker Jack. Except different.

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Please note the following is an amalgam of IM, spoken conversation and my imagination.

Nicole: For the Day 2 class I had three Spaniards and three Germans.
Al: That sounds like the start of a joke.
Nicole: It was all really good. Laughed a lot. They were all really funny.
Al: Even the Germans??
Nicole: Especially the Germans.
Al: DON’T MENTION THE WAR
Nicole: I didn’t notice this, but the last woman who did her presentation did. She speaks English with a North American accent because of one her parents. All the people from Spain used PowerPoint and did fun topics like ‘How to make Sangria’. All the Germans used the flip paper and did really dry work topics.
Al: Ah.
Nicole: But the really funny part was when I invited them to give me feedback about the two days, one of the German women said—
AL: ZHIS IS NOT VERY EFFICIENT!
Nicole: Well, actually. Yes.
AL: You’re kidding.
Nicole: No, I had ended the first day at 2 and she thought it would have been a better use of her time if I gone on until 5.
Al: It’s just too easy.
Nicole: The Spaniards weren’t fussed.

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My boss is visiting from the US and we went to dinner tonight at The Lowlander, a Belgian café that has as any good Belgian café would, excellent Moules Frites and an extensive beer selection.

I always order Westmalle Dubbel because I like the taste. The fact that it is 7% alcohol content is a pleasant side effect.

Our waiter was Japanese and kept saying cheers in that knee jerk way that all expats including myself do.

When we were leaving, after I had consumed my Moules Fritte and three Westmalle Dubbels, he suggested that I be sure to drink some water so that I wouldn’t be dehydrated.

I controlled myself from patting his cheek and saying, “Oh sweetie. You have NO idea. . .”

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