Wow! Small Island, by the National Theatre (on YouTube), is a mammoth of a show. It’s a long, convoluted story, magnificently told and staged. I counted forty-five actors in the curtain call (and this isn’t a musical). There must be fifty, or so, scenes. It’s a brilliant, epic and magnificent achievement. It’s up until midnight Wednesday.
The above is the opinion of a theatre zealot.
Okay: I spoke too soon about Normal People. I thought season one ended after episode six, but now I’ve seen eight episodes of Normal People and there are four more to go. It’s an amazing and intimate study of a relationship between two wounded souls.
I would not have thought I’d like it, given it’s a love story full of self-inflicted plot twists, but I do—except for the sex scenes which are garnering praise from critics. I am not a prude or anything like that. I’m just not a voyeur. I don’t want to be seen by onlookers when I’m being intimate, so zi don’t want to see others, really.
It rained mildly last night, and this morning was dark and damp, but there’s been no rain today and there’s even been bits of bright sunshine. I’m reading Ove.
I also spent some time minding a little bird who seems as yet unable to fly or stunned, perhaps, by an encounter with a window. It was in my vegetable garden all morning, so it was safe from Sheba and it was eating seeds I’d scattered. By noon, it was gone. Hurrah!
Life is good!