By: Hugin

We went to see Noises Off at the Old Vic for all the wrong reasons.  In actual fact, the sole reason we opted for that play in that location was because it starred an actor we all admire greatly: Robert Glenister.  The decision to travel 500 miles in the middle of winter was made before we even knew anything about the play.  It was only weeks after we had booked our travel, accommodation and (determined to “do the theatre experience properly”) tickets for the best seats in the house, that I began to wonder if maybe we hadn’t done things the wrong way around.

Our trip to London started off brilliantly, watching a film at the cinema in Inverness (a luxury at any time of the year but particularly in winter when the 215 mile round trip is not to be recommended), a beautiful train journey down the length of the country, and meeting my friend in the Royal Navy for the first time (which also doubled up as a fantastic – if speedy – tour of London!).  By the time Lydia, Ginny, Clemency and I had tucked into a delicious meal at our hotel, returned up to our eighth floor rooms, admired our sterling view of London At Night and dressed for the theatre, the play had a lot to live up to.

As anyone who has been to the Old Vic will know, the interior of the theatre is exquisite and, although our seats were hardly worth the extra £25 (each) we paid for them, we were pleased to have such a good view of the stage.  The play was immediately amusing, although the first act saw more restrained tittering than out-and-out belly laughing.  I was particularly pleased by the director’s decision to have members of the cast coming out of the audience, something that took me back to my days as an A Level drama student, although here it was done to far greater effect.

The interval came at the end of a promising first act which, although it provided a lot of entertainment, was also slightly too close to home for anyone who has been involved in amateur or small-time dramatics.  Ginny confided in me later that too many of the things in the first act reminded her of moments during her time with various amateur dramatics groups and I can’t help but agree with her.  During the interval we also sampled some extremely delicious ice-cream which can’t be faulted in any way other than that: a) it just didn’t last long enough, and; b) I was unsure as to how I was supposed to access the spoon!

It was really during the second act that the play ‘got going’ as far as I was concerned.  So many moments of pure comedy genius, delivered with fantastic timing by the cast, had me screaming with laughter, unable to stop myself breaking into spontaneous applause at the parts that appealed to me the most.  The play really went from strength to strength: the sequence with the flowers was hysterical, and Ginny had tears in her eyes from laughing so much when a cactus came in contact with Mr Glenister’s posterior.  (She’s a lovely girl.)  It really was a stroke of genius to set the second act backstage, especially as the set then reverted to its earlier layout for the third and final act, which was also so full of humour that we couldn’t stop laughing.

Every single member of the cast was superb in their roles, but I must admit to being particularly impressed by Jamie Glover.  Not only was his comic timing impeccable, but his excellent and untiring physical performance was both hilarious and inspiring.  I suppose I had previously identified him as “the son of Julian Glover” and so potentially it was for that reason that I was particularly impressed by his performance.  But I am henceforth far less cynical about his identity, having been more than convinced by his competence as an actor.

As Noises Off is still running at the Old Vic until the 10^th March, I won’t go into too much detail about exact moments in it, in case I ruin someone’s viewing experience!  However, what I will say is this: go and see this production of the play.  If you watch nothing else this year, watch Noises Off at the Old Vic.  It’s just the thing to beat off those vicious winter blues and set you thinking about just how many things in your life are actually a farce just waiting to be written!!!

By: Hugin

Marguerite looked down at the cake in front of her.  It was about six centimetres tall with a diameter of around twenty centimetres, cloaked in thick, rich butter-cream with a thin drizzle of syrupy jam across some of the top.  All of these things Marguerite loved, but here they were on a fruit and nut cake.  A number of previous experiences catapulted themselves to the front of Marguerite’s thoughts, reminding her of her nut allergy.

“Any for you, Margie?” her hostess asked, plunging a large knife into the rich flesh of the cake, causing the metal blade to thicken with butter-cream.  She knows, Marguerite thought angrily, she knows that I shouldn’t eat this.  “Any for you?”  The hostess repeated, sliding the hefty slice onto a delicate china plate.

Marguerite felt the eyes of the other three occupants settle upon her, silently disapproving of her reluctance to eat the delicious morsel that the hostess had lovingly prepared for the event.  Terrified of the turmoil she was about to cause; Marguerite put her hand out to receive the plate.  Taking a pastry fork, she scooped up her first mouthful and hoped for the best.

By: Hugin

This one follows on from number one, and not only numerically. It is important to remember that, whilst not eating is not such a good idea, not drinking could have some things to recommend itself. I say this because at that meeting I arrived really early…

Well, anyone who knows me will tell you that I don’t really like tea that much and, when I’m out, I avoid it at all costs because people never make it milky enough. So I chose to buy myself a coffee whilst sitting and waiting for my person to arrive. As I say, I was early. But he was late, so I found myself drinking more and more coffee. By the time he arrived I had drunk so much that the caffeine had managed to completely take hold. I bought two more; one for me, one for him and proceeded to talk and talk. Actually the talking was pretty amusing at times, but we’ll get there in good time!

Well I didn’t drink this cupful as, exacerbated by the empty stomach, the last two, three or four cups had completely gone to my head. Alcohol has never affected me as much. So, what do I do instead of drinking the coffee? That’s right, I decide to tip it all over me. Whoosh! and all that planning what to wear becomes void as my smart clothes act as a (very uncomfortable) coffee filter. So, of course, you act shocked and mortified and definitely don’t swear. Right? Wrong. The word was out of my mouth before I could stop it.

Oops.

So, you think that’s as bad as it gets? Oh no, my humiliation continues… I did it all again five minutes later!

And the moral of this story is: don’t spill coffee in a meeting.

Well, if you do spill coffee then don’t swear.

Definitely don’t do this twice.

By: Hugin

Looking into a broken reflection and shedding a tear that seemed to fall forever but never land. Below, tumbling waves heralded the water that stretched on forever.

Water had brought him to her and had snatched him away with as little warning.

Smeared painfully across her life, he was gone now but his voice remained. He was the wailing cry of the seal, the soft song of the sea.

He was calling her through the whispering grass on the cliffs as it moved in the wind. She took a step closer to the edge, just one step closer to him.

By: Hugin

Casimir put his hand out to steady himself.  With his remaining eye he could see blurred images of the land in the distance; those hills that always seemed so far from his reach.  Away to the south, on the road that he had just left, he could hear agitated voices in a language that he did not understand, although he knew that they were looking for him and that they would not stop searching until they found him.  But he had to get to those hills and would not allow anything to stop him before he had achieved that which for so long had been his only aim.

By: Hugin

I had known him long ago.  Too long ago to think of now – in truth it was a lifetime ago.  I had laughed with him, drank with him, travelled with him… he had always been there.  But paths split and fork to form different directions that must be followed and now… Now when I look at him he is so sad.  He is an autumn tree that has watched its young leaves fade and die after the splendour of an all-too-short summer.  He is the uneasy hours of darkness, when all but the troubles of the world are sleeping.  He is still a man, but I cannot recognise him; his eyes so sad that angels would weep to look upon them, his face so lined with grief that even the laughter of a thousand memories cannot brush away the sorrow.  Once I knew him and I loved him, but now, in his pain, I find I know him not.

By: Hugin

When the second summer came
Mortimer went to sea,
The maiden bade a fond farewell,
With their daughter on her knee.

The seas were bountiful that year,
The waves were soft and mild,
But Mortimer’s heart was still relieved
To return to his wife and child.

But when he reached the emerald glade,
Where once his home had stood,
No trace of house or wife remained
In the silence of the wood.

For a quiet moment Mortimer stood
Where his family had been.
He thought of the love that he had felt
And of all the joys he had seen.

As his eyes surveyed the wood,
He saw a woman there.
Her back was bent with years of toil
And silver was her hair.

“Pray, tell me all of what you know,”
Mortimer’s voice was calm,
“Of the maid and child who once lived here.
Did they come to harm?”

“No one has lived here, good sir,”
The old woman quietly said,
“Since my mother herself was a little child
And she is now long dead.

“She told me of the old maid
Who lived in the woods back then,
Whose father went away to sea
And was never seen again.”

Mortimer could not believe her words;
They tore his soul apart.
His anger made his body shake,
His sorrow broke his heart.

He raised his head to heaven
And shouted curses there,
“Senuva, if you did this then
Descend now from your lair!”

Senuva then came down to him,
Her cheeks were damp with tears.
“What have you done?”  Mortimer snarled,
“Why did you steal those years?”

“I did not steal from any but you.
Just as you stole from me.
For the price of the life I gave to you
Was to set my children free.

“Your wife and child lived long, good lives,
Although they missed you sore.
And though they always wished you home
I needed you far more.”

Mortimer turned away from her,
Shaking his sorry head,
“I will never do your bidding now;
My life is my own.”  He said.

By: Hugin

I passed the old way
Not one week since I left the new,
With gliding wishes circling ahead,
I stretched my arms towards the moon,
With a footprint in the sky.

The new way broke behind me,
Whirring in the tongue of technology,
And I stepped ahead with faeries
To grasp, with both hands,
The footprint in the sky.

There, above the sun I saw
Old men beside the stream,
Reeling in Time with grizzled fingers:
Fishing for shadows
Beneath the footprint in the sky.

Where whistles fade in the dark,
The ground stirs with muted vibrancy:
Dancing in darkness, singing in silence,
Racing with the morning star at midnight;
Leaving footprints in the sky.

The old way crumbles,
Shatters and stalls beneath the strain
And then, above me, I see
The clouds melt and move their form:
Losing forever the footprint in the sky.

By: Hugin

Mortimer had never loved the sea,
And left his home behind;
Wandering to the Northern Woods
To see what he could find.

He came across the poverty
That he had never known,
And when he turned his face away
He saw a figure sitting alone.

Her cloak was made of Autumn leaves,
Her boots were made of bark,
Her hair shone golden as the sun,
Her eyes were rich and dark.

Mortimer walked towards her,
His heart was beating loud,
He looked upon a beautiful face
Which was sad, but fair and proud.

“Why do you sit alone here?”
Mortimer asked the maid.
“May I sit with you a while?
You look troubled and afraid.”

“I am no coward.”  She proudly said,
“It is not weak to feel fear.
The beast demands a sacrifice,
That is why I am here.”

“You cannot be a sacrifice!”
Mortimer raised his voice.
“I did not offer myself,” she smiled,
“I was not given the choice.”