A bonus from staying in a hotel in the South Tyrol is that you are given a free public transport pass for the duration of your stay.  If you are there for a week's skiing and are on the slopes all day it's of limited use unless you fancy spending your evenings on a bus.  Or if like me you don't mind taking some time off.

I hopped on a couple of buses to visit the nearby town of Brunico/Bruneck one morning.  Like every place in the region it has two names, Italian and German, as does every street in the town.  Those are not the only languages spoken as you can hear from this episode of From Our Own Correspondent that Siobhan alerted me to.  It's the last item and starts about 18 minutes into the programme.

Brunico is a pretty little town in a river valley amidst mountains.  It's on the far side of the mountain I was skiing on and from the hill on which sits its mildly impressive schloss you can see the Kronplatz plateau and a run that would have brought me down to somewhere not very far away but it was a bit black for my taste.

The region's linguistic complexity is due in part to it having been cut out of Austo-Hungary and given to Italy after the First World War.  There was subsequently a degree of forced Italianisation much resented by the local population.  In the thirties Mussolini and his chums got into the act.  A monument was erected in Brunico to commemorate the Italian Alpine Troops who died in the Ethiopian campaign but over the years it has been something of a focus for discontent with the Italian state and having been six metres high originally it's been blown up a number of times and replaced.  Now only a bust remains on the pedestal.

There's an article which doesn't deal specifically about this monument but which has a lot of interesting analysis of the history of South Tyrol under Italian control.  See  Fascist Legacies: The Controversy over Mussolini’s Monuments in South Tyrol

A monument I didn't see and which there probably should be is one to Nanni Moretti, the film maker, who was born in the town.

My skiing holiday got off to a good start when Austrian Airlines dished up lunch an hour or so after take-off from Edinburgh.  It was only 11 o'clock but I'd had breakfast around 6 a.m. so I was ready for it. That coupled with the spacious legroom was such a treat compared to the budget airline experience that has been the norm for my holidays in recent years.

Flying into Innsbruck with jaggy mountains on either side more or less on a level with the plane is a great experience on a nice calm sunny day but I'd hate to be coming down that valley in the dark in pelting rain with a vicious crosswind. I'd find it difficult to hold down that tasty pasta bake.

Then it was on to San Vigilio, the lovely little village where I was staying in the very pleasant and comfortable Hotel Teresa. They were not having a busy week and for a couple of nights I was the only client in the hotel. The waiting and kitchen staff who had been on when I arrived disappeared and people I took to be from the family who ran the place did the business except for one evening when they invited me to eat at a restaurant fifty yards away where the menu focussed on local specialities. The food was lovely, as it was in the hotel.

Davide, the main man in the hotel, was an avid naturalist (whether academically trained or just a keen amateur I don't know) and waxed lyrical about the wildlife in the nearby national park. If I'd been there for longer I'd have enjoyed a trip into the park, perhaps seeing the golden eagles that he said nested there. He'd been to Scotland looking for golden eagles and apparently the best book on the birds was written by someone based in Scotland.  He also reminisced about the Cannie Man's and showed me some of his whisky collection. At 15 euros a glass (twice the price in Milan I'm assured) I didn't try any of them.

They hadn't had much snow over the winter and I was there in very much the dying days of the season but there was more than enough snow for me.

You can see in this picture how the hillside is almost devoid of snow except where they have skillfully kept some pistes in goodish nick.

In the village there was no snow at all but up on the plateau where half a dozen lifts converged it was remarkably well conserved.

You can see also that it wasn't too busy and that it was beautifully sunny.  Perfect conditions to my mind provided you either don't mind trying to fight your way through slush in the afternoons or you're happy to pack it in at lunchtime.  The latter is my preference.

Apart from photos I've got a little video souvenir thanks to BMW.  It's not quite a Ski Sunday Slalom and merits a good strong shout of bend zee knees but a bit more practice and then the FIS World Cup  maybe.

Who needs foreign travel when the sun shines in Edinburgh?  The question I asked myself as I lunched al fresco in George Street on the eve of my departure for the Dolomite ski slopes.

I'd made the humdrum trip into town to buy socks to keep my skiing feet toasty but was seduced by the warm Spring sunshine into taking a table at Browns.  They served me the nicest fishcake I've eaten in years followed by some tasty lamb sausages and quite whetted my appetite for embarking on a summer project to lunch in all the pavement eateries in George Street.  I also spied a place called Veeno in Rose Street that offers a multitude of Italian wines and a few snacks that I've pencilled in for a visit sometime.

On my way along Rose Street I discovered work going on to transform the former Charlotte Baptist Chapel into a theatre.  News to me, and exciting news too but old news to Google.  Planning permission for the project was given to the Danish ballet director Peter Schaufuss a year ago.  But as the Scotsman article pointed out at the time there is a deal of difference between permission and completion.  Luckily it looks as though it's well on its way.  With the new hall to be built for the SCO at the back of St Andrew Sq. and a concert hall in the former Royal High when St Mary's Music School takes it over (assuming the overblown and unwanted hotel project for the building is quashed) there will be oodles of places for culture vultures to wallow in.

The high spot of my recent cultural wallowing was undoubtedly Northern Ballet's Casanova.   It was a tremendous show.  Staging, costumes, lighting, music, choreography were all superb and the athleticism of the dancers quite staggering.  You can see bits of it on Northen Ballet's site and read a review here.  It's on tour till May and is a must see for dance fans, but make sure you read the story line before you go to fully enjoy the work.

The story line of Le Malade Imaginaire is well known and Les Escogriffes, who it turns out are alive and kicking after all, impart it well enough but their production was less than riveting in comparison with how the Italian students had presented their Goldoni piece.  They were also a little unwise in not binning the interlude ballet bits that no doubt thrilled the 17th century theatre goer but do nothing for modern tastes.  So I could have been better entertained but it was quite a fun evening all the same and I couldn't fault the company for effort.

It was going to see Arkle's production of Da that alerted me to Le Malade Imaginaire because it was taking place in the  same building and still had a night to run. Da has been described as a bitter-sweet father and son drama.  The curtain rises on a expatriate Irish writer who has returned home for his adoptive father's funeral sitting in the old family home and on the brink of leaving. The play follows his reflections on his relationship with his parents and the events of his youth.  The twist is that his father, mother, younger self and other characters from the past all take part in the action.  It's a clever device and is neatly employed but there is not a lot in the piece that is not present in other works of reminiscence.

It was nicely staged and on the whole I thought the cast worked well.  I have to declare a personal interest in as much as I should have auditioned for the part of the father had I known about it in time.  I thought Charlie made quite a good fist of the part but... Being critical I think the production let itself down when sound effects that should have come from the back of the audience came from the back of the stage.

Family relationships of quite a different stripe are the subject matter of Noel Coward's comedy Hay Fever.  Mark Fisher's review in The Guardian is the most interesting I've seen and having read it I can certainly see the connections with Shakespeare and Albee but didn't join the dots when I was at the show.

Everybody knows that your latin lads and lassies are born dancers so it was no surprise to find the Festival Theatre packed for the visit of this Cuban company.  They were indeed wonderful and energetic dancers who were able to put their bodies through a couple of hours of routines that combined the suppleness of elastic bands and the strength of steel.

It is often the case with modern dance (especially if you don't have a programme) that while admiring the beauty and skill of the presentation your little mind has to work hard to make sense of what's going on. 

This show didn't seem so tricky to interpret.  The first piece screamed lust to me.  The second was life with an ipod (boring) and the third clearly military.  No doubt their revolution which still features highly in the national consciousness I opined to myself.

I am grateful to Claire, who enjoyed the show with me, for pointing me to this review which expresses far more succinctly, knowledgeably and elegantly than I could just what I thought. 

The university language students habitually put on plays round about this time of year and I saw the Italian one the other night.  It was a first class production of a Goldoni comedy about two families and their friends organising themselves for a summer holiday.  The acting was suitably over the top and the fun was fast and furious.  It was exceptionally well directed with lots of clever little ideas.

I enjoyed it so much I thought I'd seek out what the others were doing.  I couldn't find any trace of the French but the Spanish and Germans both had shows on offer.  Whether by accident or design their shows were on exactly the same three evenings as the Italians and I couldn't make it to either. Mind you the German one would have been well out of reach linguistically.

Subsequently I've discovered that an exhibition is being held in April to celebrate 50 years of Les Escogriffes, which is what the French lot call themselves, so although they seem to be dead on the internet and on social media maybe they are alive in the real world and still producing.

My clarinet class had an outing to the Usher Hall to hear Mozart's Clarinet Concerto.  Very nice it was too and now Julia has got us playing a tiny extract, just sixteen very straightforward bars but recognisable as the main theme of the slow movement.

Having enjoyed a modern production of La Traviata on stage in Genoa in December I was interested in seeing the Metropolitan Opera's version, also non traditional, when it was broadcast to cinemas at the weekend. I enjoyed it a lot and adored the staging which reminded me of a wall of death arena from the Links Market of my youth, though it was rather more tastefully clad. The vast chorus all wearing identical masks peering over the edge was just one of the beautiful and powerful pictures that abounded.  The large clock half covered with a floral cloth temporarily halting Violetta's decline to death as her and Alfredo's love was at its height was another. The Observer tells you all that I can't.

There is another production, this time from The Royal Opera House, coming to cinemas soon but I've maybe had enough tubercular tragedy for the time being.

Man made tragedy featured in Viceroy's House, the film by Gurinder Chadha of Bend It Like Beckham fame about the partition of India in 1947.  It's a large, lush and beautifully shot film in the British costume drama tradition with an inter confessional love story woven into the blood and slaughter of the movement of Hindu to India and Muslim to Pakistan.

Film critic Mark Kermode in The Guardian has warm words about the film which I echo but its political analysis blaming Churchill and exonerating Mountbatten is hotly contested in The Mail by historian Andrew Roberts.  He argues his case powerfully and I know nothing either way.

People arriving at the Assembly Rooms for the Caledonian Hunt Ball in the late 18th century as imagined in Edinburgh's Georgian Shadows event celebrating the 250th anniversary of Craig's plan for the New Town.  It makes for an interesting stroll in the early evening from Register House to Charlotte Square by way of St Andrew Square and George Street.

The Queen's Hall is another fine Georgian building though fifty years or so younger than the Assembly Rooms.  One thing I particularly like about it is its intimacy, the closeness to the action.  The SCO had a choir on stage for Mozart's Coronation Mass which brought the band another twenty feet or so further into the body of the kirk so that I was practically sitting amongst them.  Although I was very happy to hear that in a year or two they will have a new home in the hall to be built on the site of the Royal Bank offices I once worked in behind St Andrew Sq.  I fear some of that family feeling will be lost.

Family feeling of a different sort was on view at The Lyceum where The Winter's Tale has just finished its run. On fairly slim evidence King Leontes decides his wife has been having it off with his best chum (the king of Bohemia), orders the chum's murder (though he forewarned escapes), banishes his new-born daughter to be exposed to the wilderness where wild beasts roam in the firm belief that she's not his, arraigns his wife and casting aside the report of the Oracle on her chasteness as false news declares the trial must continue with a death sentence as the probable outcome when enters a messenger.

The king's son brooding on the queen his mother's fate has died.  Understandably she swoons but less understandably Leontes suddenly realises that's he's a tosser and all his jealousy has been misplaced.  The queen is taken off for medical attention but her woman is back in a jiffy to report that it's too late, she's dead.

Now this is classed as one of Shakespeare's comedies but up to this point the laughs have been few.  Luckily the atmosphere brightens.  The scene switches to Bohemia, the wee baby is rescued by a comic shepherd and his son, sixteen years pass, it's the sheep shearing festival, the baby is now a comely maid and is beloved by the Bohemian prince. We enjoy the rib-tickling comic turns that the bard provided for his groundlings, made actually comprehensible and funny in this production.  There is music and dancing and much jollity but alack and alas it doesn't last.

Polixenes (king of Bohemia and unmurdered chum of Leontes) turns up and berates his son for dallying with a shepherdess, unaware that's she's really a princess.  Everybody including herself is unaware though the old shepherd must at least suspect she's from a different social class than him given the money she had about her person in the wild woods all those years ago.

Florizel and Perdita (our young lovers) are advised to go off and introduce themselves to Leontes who rouses himself from the torpor he's been in for sixteen years and says how he wishes he could make things up to his old chum.  Said old chum is pursuing Florizel angrily but on finding him with Leontes a reconciliation takes place, Perdita is identified as the onetime cast out princess and a statue of the dead queen comes to life.  Could it be she wasn't dead but in hiding all those years?

Whatever, all is now happiness and Leontes and his queen go off arm in arm.  The young lovers have their parents' blessing and all the subsidiary characters are in a good way.  So it's a comedy after all.  But not quite.  Shakespeare has left Leontes' son still dead and the good old retainer who was charged with getting rid of the baby.  Truly a tragi-comedy then.

It all sounds a bit daft but it was an excellent production, thoroughly enjoyable and I says so who saw it twice.

Good fun was had by all at Gean House, Alloa, this weekend where a dozen saxophonists under the expert guidance of Mike and Sue from the Scottish Saxophone Academy made music.  All that energetic blowing was fuelled by excellent scoff.  The building was gifted back in the day to an organisation promoting temperance.  Fortunately times have changed and a well stocked bar helped soothe roughened throats. 

Friday's RSNO concert was intended to be a celebration of Neeme Järvi's 80th birthday but he was ill so from the other end of the age spectrum we had the diminuitive Chinese conductor 

Elim Chan.

.

This picture makes her look about fourteen (maybe she was when it was taken!) but she has actually reached the grand old age of thirty one and seemed to lack neither confidence nor control as she put the orchestra through their paces including Rachmaninov's hour long second symphony.  Great stuff.

There was a Beethoven piano concerto on the programme as well and again because of illness they had to call on a substitute soloist.  He too was a young Chinese though of the Swiss variety, Louis Schwizgebel.  He was as tall as Chan was small (indeed she completely disappeared behind the piano lid) and as nimble with his fingers as she was with her arms.

At a place some distance away from the RSNO on the musical spectrum lies the Dunedin Wind Band and we too were in action this weekend.

Here we are at a break in the action surveying our audience, geeks and others attending the Edinburgh Sci Fi Convention at Meadowbank.  We were perched a little uncomfortably in rows of tip up seats well above one of the large sports halls housing dozens of stalls amidst which milled the punters.  We serenaded them for an hour and a half with more or less suitably sci fi music. It was hard to know what the milling abouters thought of it.  There were sporadic bursts of applause but mostly they ignored us and went about their business.  I expect that's how it was for musicians in the minstrel gallery playing for banqueting barons.

As a reward for our labours we were given free run of the event.  I was amazed, astounded and impressed by the exhilarating variety of it all.  Lots and lots of people had dressed up as characters from the whole genre.  I can recognise Batman and Superman from days of yore and Thunderbirds and Doctor Who from the not so long ago but beyond that I dare not venture a guess.

Amongst the exhibiting organisations and individuals there were prop makers, model makers, games sellers, special effectors.  There was a Tardis, a couple of Daleks, a K9 and all sorts of other stuff that I'd need a lesson in modern popular culture to appreciate.

It was great.  I hope we are invited again next year.

Evita was not quite as wonderful as my long wait to see it had conditioned me to expect.  It covered the tricky task of melding the political and personal stories pretty well and while the staging wasn't wildly imaginative it provided appropriate settings.  The cast and orchesta did a good job but I was never on the edge of my seat, I wasn't much moved and I found the music a bit lacking in variety.

I nearly didn't see A Few Good Men, a sell-out at The Roxy but fortunately I was able to attend the dress rehearsal the night before it opened.  I've dress rehearsed in lots of shows myself and this was an extremely well managed one, more like a preview.

It's not an uninteresting play but the presentation made the show for me.  It's a courtroom drama about the killing of a marine by two fellow soldiers with what you might call sub-plots involving the relationships between the lawyers dealing with the case and between the various officers and men of the unit concerned.  So far so ordinary.  But we don't just sit watching as people shuffle on and off stage.  We are immersed in the action, sitting on swivel chairs with scenes being played all around us.  It's a smashing idea and works very well.  Thom Dibdin gives a perceptive review here.

I managed to get to only one Fife Jazz Festival gig this year but it was a bumper afternoon at the Carnegie Hall which I enjoyed immensely.  There were six groups of musicians performing ten sets spread over three performance spaces.  I got to four and although I didn't see Dave Milligan doing his solo set he played in Colin Steele's quintet so the only group I saw nothing of was Ken Mathieson and his orchestra.

American tenor player Scott Hamilton did a set with Brian Kellock on piano.  He produces a lovely warm, full sound admirably suited to his repertoire of ballads and standards.  I loved his low notes. Listen here.

A complete contrast was provided by Fergus McCreadie, the young pianist who is the talk of the steamie in Scottish jazz circles.  His trio played their own compositions some of which are as yet nameless.  He announced he'd welcome suggestions.  Here they are in Edinburgh last year.

Brass Gumbo gave it laldie as they bashed through a set of New Orleans tunes arranged to suit their lively spirit.  This was get up and dance music but nobody did.

Even in The Darkest Places is the title of a CD about to be released by Colin Steele and his Quintet.  Their set consisted of the tunes on the CD.  All are Colin's compositions and they are super. I can't find a foretaste on the web so I encourage you to pre-order the album and in the meantime listen to a previous piece.

In a little introduction Danny Boyle told us (on film) that he was delighted to welcome us to T2: Trainspotting at the Cameo since that's where its predecessor Trainspotting had its world premiere.  The question immediately arises as to why the new movie was premiered elsewhere in the city.

It was a lost opportunity for The Grads.  Our Home Street premises would have been an ideal spot for the stars to gather and get togged out, possibly choosing a nice frock from our wardrobe, prior to sashying down a red carpet the short distance to the cinema.  The assorted gofors and flunkies that no doubt attend them could have slipped out of the back door, nipped across Lochrin Place and into the Cameo via the bar.

I blame a lack of initiative on the part of the committee.

What about T2 itself?  Superb. For an Edinburgher there is the great joy of recognising so many locations for a start and for those who've seen Trainspotting there are nice little flashback moments and other references.  But leaving that aside the film has humour, excitement, emotion and a tidy plotline based on Renton's return home twenty years after having run off with the loot that should have been shared out among the four musketeers.  The performances of the principals are excellent and carry forward their characters wholly believably over the twenty year gap.

I loved it.

Thoroughly Modern Millie made for a thoroughly memorable matinee.  I seldom go to musicals despite living five minutes walk from the Playhouse which presents a touring production of a different well known show practically every week.  I went to this one as a sort of by product of my interest in seeing Evita which I saw from a casually picked up copy of their brochure is on next week.  A liking for many of the songs from that show combined with a longheld fascination with Argentina should have ensured my seeing it years ago but for one reason or another I haven't.  Next week I will.

Anyway skimming through the Playhouse brochure I thought an empty Wednesday afternoon might be brightened by Millie, and so it was.  This was a slick, colourful and entertaining show.  Millie is a 1920s girl from Hicksville who arrives in New York determined not a be a star, which is the usual premise of such tales, but to marry well.  Being thoroughly modern it is betterment and self interest not love that will guide her choice. Of course we know from the outset that things will turn out differently.  Naturally there are a few bumps on the way to the inevitable happy ending but we get there accompanied by jazzy tunes and snappy dancing.

I bumped into Sarah (who runs our band) and her husband who were there primarily to see the girl who played Millie because of her appearances on Strictly Come Dancing.  Sorry to say that meant nothing to me and I can't even now tell you her name. I can tell you that she sang, danced and acted sickeningly well.  Jealous? Who? Me?

It was all good but there was one scene I admired above all else.  Her boss, who she is determined to marry but who has fallen madly for her chum is drunk because he thinks that aforesaid chum has dumped him.  Millie and the young man who eventually....well I don't want to give the plot away...are tending to him.  The boss is wonderfully, gloriously and athletically legless.  Millie tries to help him sit down.  The effort that must have gone into choreographing and rehearsing that brief scene is hard to quantify but believe me it would have been a lot, but my was the result worth it.  Side-splittingly funny and I'm not one who is easily pleased by slapstick.

There was a degree of slapstick or at least slapstick inspired acting in The Trial, an opera based on Kafka's satire with libretto by Christopher Hampton and music by Philip Glass.  Modern opera is not to everyone's taste and it can be unlistenable to but this was in my estimation brilliant stuff and a full house at the Kings gave it an enthusiastic reception.

It's played as perhaps more of an absurdist black comedy than is warranted by the novel's bleak and surreal fantasy.  More Chaplin and the Marx Brothers than Kafka would have wished?  Who can say.  Glass's music though has a threatening and oppressive edge that maintains an air of foreboding as a counterpoint to the comedy.  Full marks to this co-production by Scottish and Welsh Opera. 

An initiative from the Edinburgh Festival Theatres Trust is going some way to help young professionals get themselves seen.  They have established a company, the Attic Collective, of actors from 18 to 25 who will perform three shows in the course of the year, one classic, one new and one musical.  I imagine that membership of the company will be restricted to one year but it's a good crack of the whip for them.


I went to their first production.  It was a version of Lysistrata and was well done, imaginative and entertaining, if a bit shouty.  Aristophanes' play is generally described as a bawdy anti-war comedy.  This version was certainly bawdy with a profusion of giant inflatable penises adding to the fun and a fair sprinkling of Trump inspired sexual jokes.

Photo Greg Mcvean

I'm looking forward to seeing what they do later in the year with The Threepenny Opera which will be set in today's Edinburgh.

Before going to London in November I had a look to see what was on and one show that caught my eye was No Man's Land.  I've always liked Pinter and McKellen and Stewart are a powerful double act.  But tickets were both scarce and pricey so I didn't see it.  Now thanks to the streaming revolution that brings masterworks to our local cinemas I have seen it and for a very reasonable price.

It was as incomprehensible yet captivating as so many of his plays are.  Indeed the only one I can think of as having a pretty straighforward narrative is Betrayal and even then it's told backwards.  Anyway I thoroughly enjoyed the mysterious meanderings of the characters who inhabit No Man's Land.  Its Wikipedia entry covers what the critics have said about the show over the years (it premiered in 1975) and it's comforting to learn that none of them understood it either but like me had a jolly good time watching it.

In theatre in the flesh I saw Picnic at Hanging Rock performed by an Australian company at The Lyceum.  It was a very interesting production with an unusual stylistic unity and provided, as Mark Fisher said in The Guardian, a masterclass in stage management.  Like the critics my chums loved it but my admiration is less whole-hearted.  I  have a nagging feeling that I must have snatched forty winks shortly after the girls disappeared because I was somewhat lost storywise as the show progressed.  I blame that glass of Picpoul before curtain up.

I had more than one glass of a number of alcoholic beverages at Phil's house at the weekend where nearly a score of souls were gathered to celebrate Burns.  It was a great evening with great grub and great craic.  I paid for my supper by addressing the haggis and by contributing the fruits of my attendance that day on a bread making course.

There are five 2017 calendars on my walls of which this is the most recently acquired.  The title page of this lovely calendar is a view of Burano taken by my friends whose passion is the adventures of Donna Leon's Venetian detective Commissario Brunetti.

More particularly it is the tracing of all the places in Venice associated with those adventures.  They have produced a beautiful map showing many of the locations and have published several guidebooks to Brunetti's Venice with a new one coming out next year.  They are all aimed at the German market because although Donna Leon's books have a following in many countries the Germans are top fans thanks to highly popular TV adaptations.  (Sub-titled DVDs are available in the US.)

Each of the twelve months has a picture of a Brunetti related place and a brief legend which with the help of a dictionary to augment my limited German I hope to translate month by month.  I made sense of January once I realised that I had looked up verschleißen (worn out) instead of verschließen (locked).   How you arrange your "i"s and your "e"s is at least as important in German as it is in English. 

I spent the weekend with another foreign detective, one that I had heard of but never seen.  I was given a boxset of The Killing for Christmas.  That's five DVDs with four episodes of compulsive viewing on each.  So I found myself at midnight and later with Sarah Lund swearing I would just watch one more episode and then go to bed.

I've seen three operas in as many months and have two more lined up before the end of March.  For someone who declares himself only mildly appreciative of the art form that seems a bit much but I have an excuse for each of them.

Leaving aside The Marriage of Figaro which I commented on at the time, the next was La Traviata which I saw in Genoa.  Well I was there on holiday and you have to find things to do when you're on holiday and it was a lot more fun than sitting through Oedipus Rex and Oedipus at Colonus, the only theatrical offerings I found.

I enjoyed the show and the staging was lovely.  There are a number of pictures of the production on this site.  Here's one in which Violetta and Alfredo are enjoying their bucolic idyll before life caves in and we work up to that long drawn out heroine's death scene beloved of operatic writers and fans.

A free ticket as a reviewer's chum persuaded me to the cinemacast (what is the official word for these? ) of the Metropolitan Opera's Nabucco.  It's a big production with a very large chorus and a couple of massive sets mounted on their revolve.  The story concerns war between the Babylonians and the Israelites and the opera is well known in particular for one of Verdi's great numbers, the Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves.  In real life it was sung by the crowds following Verdi's coffin to his funeral.  Here are the slaves getting ready to sing it on the Metropolitan Opera's stage.

It's a beautiful and moving song and well merits its fame but for me the musical highlight of this production was one of the soprano's arias.  Alas I can't put a name to it.

Next up is a production by Scottish Opera of The Trial.  Christopher Hampton, who's a playwright I admire and Philip Glass, a composer whose music I like a lot have turned Kafka's wonderful satire into an opera.  No excuse needed for going to that.

The last of this set of shows takes me back to the cinema and The Met.  This time I'm paying for a ticket.  It's expensive enough at £25 but Nabucco tickets in the real opera house were on sale from $475 when I went onto their site to read the programme so it's a steal really.  This time it's La Traviata.   I thought it would be instructive to see two versions so close together especially since both are modern stagings.

Glasgow likes to call itself "the dear green place" and according to The Guardian's listing of the greenest cities in the UK merits the nickname since 32% of its surface area is green space.  That makes it the second greenest city in the country.  But in first place with a whopping 49% is the city pictured above, Edinburgh.

I've been back in the said green spot for ten days or so but must confess I haven't strayed far from its paved or tarmacked spaces.  More than that, apart from attendance at a convivial Hogmanay dinner and an audition for the Grads' next show I've taken my pleasures at home.

My diary is filling up with outings though so this restful period will not last much longer.  It certainly won't last long enough for me to get through my Christmas books and DVDs.  I'm only on the first one which is a ream sized volume of Vivienne Westwood's diaries from 2010 to 2016.  Unlike most published diaries it's extensively illustrated.  There are fashion pictures of course but also some more personal illustrations and a deal of stuff related to her environmental/political preoccupations.

I hadn't realised that she was such a fervent environmentalist but to say she has a bee in her bonnet about climate change goes no way towards describing her fervour.  It's a most interesting book and something of a riveting read.   

The hot sunny weather did come back and I headed off to Le Cinque Terre for the day.  This is a group of five little fishing villages that were once accessible only by boat or by mountain goat.  Nowadays the train between Genoa and La Spezia stops at all of them and they are very touristy.

At this time of year there are not too many tourists.  That's pleasant but it also means not too many eateries are open.  The best I could do for lunch was squeeze myself into a tiny bar and sit on a tiny stool at a tiny table in one of the tiniest of the five towns and have a sandwich and a glass of plonk.  Both were delicious.

Then I set off on the energetic bit of the excursion.  There are tracks between each of the villages that are popular with walkers.  Some stretches are closed at the moment because of landslides.  That gives you an idea of the terrain.  I did only one section.  It took me a couple of hours and my knees were happy when it was over and I relaxed with a freshly squeezed orange juice.

Here's a shot of the scenery.  The village in the background is where I started the walk.

Still waiting for that eating out weather to come back.

It's been a cold and miserable day in Genoa.  Not like Saturday when I lunched al fresco in Santa Margarita Ligure.

Nor like yesterday when I took this skinny selfie after a very civilized Sunday morning sing song by the Simone Molinari choir.  It was roughly equivalent to our Play, Pie and a Pint, being Music, Prosecco and Focaccia.

The concert was appropriately Christmas music from mediaeval motets to modern compositions via The Boar's Head Carol, something I'd never heard of but is apparently a traditional Oxford dining ditty.

When after tumultuous applause they dashed back on stage and launched into an encore I heard "cinque, cinque, cinque" but realised when the tune got going that it had been "jingle, jingle, jingle".

Another week another concert or two and en route a pleasant dinner with friends in Morningside marred only by too generous a hand on the whisky bottle from the host and too willing a mouth from the guest.

That led to skipping an engagement the following evening but every cloud and so on because it meant I was on hand to help sort out a ticketing problem that's too complicated to explain here.  But all is well that ended well.

And the week ended well lunching in Queen Charlotte Street with Claire newly returned from Australia. No whisky, nor even wine but super soup and capital coffee.

And the weekend started well with blue skies, sunshine and mild verging on warm air on my arrival in Milan.

In wandering around near my hotel I went into a park where there was a wee bit of a Christmas fair.  I snapped this seasonal variation on what in my youth we called the scenic railway.

A couple of days later I am lunching in the sunshine in the port of Genoa.  Who said retirement would be easy?

Peter Maxwell Davies had a long association with the SCO and they were to present the world premiere of his accordion concerto last week.  But he died earlier this year, presumably not having completed the work because they changed the programme.

That was a shame because there can't be many accordion concertos around and because the replacement work, one of his Strathclyde Concertos, was a bit of a heavy listen.  Of course the accordion piece might not have been to my taste either.

There was some lovely Sibelius and some Bartok and then the pièce de resistance by Maxwell Davies to finish the evening, An Orkney Wedding with Sunrise.  That's an entertaining quarter of an hour. Here are the SCO playing it at the 2014 Proms with an introduction by the man himself.

Verdi's Requiem which I heard the following evening is miles away in spirit from An Orkney Wedding but is very much to my taste.  It's probably because I can't sing a note that I enjoy those large choral works so much.  This one is definitely aweinspiring to boot. The final pianissimo "libera me" hits deep down in the guts.

The castle lit up in blue for St Andrew's day last night.

Their lights were working.  Not so for The Street of Light which is what I had gone up town to have a look at.  As part of Edinburgh's Christmas festivities a section of George Street has been given over to a series of arches through which you can wander gazing in awe at the pretty lights while your ears are bathed in music from the likes of the RSNO or Blazing Fiddles.

Last year it was in the High Street but I only ever caught a glimpse while going up the Bridges.  I decided to have a closer look this time.  It's a free event but the publicity advised that it was necessary to obtain a ticket on-line.  Since when you get there you can wander along the pavement beside the construction and there are no barriers to prevent you popping into the body of the kirk I can only surmise that this is an elaborate ploy to harvest email addresses and phone numbers.  I hope to have given them the slip by unticking the boxes that would have given Underbelly and its "carefully chosen partners" permission to junk bomb me.

This is what it looked like when I got there.  A brave little saltire above a part illuminated castle like trellis.  Bear with us a loudspeaker said.  We've got a wee problem and hope to get underway pretty soon.  This mantra was repeated at intervals until finally they said the show was cancelled but they'd play the music.  So I wandered along while a choir sang and lights flashed on and off in sporadic spasms.  

 

Spasms are challenging for a digital camera to cope with.  Click when the lights are on and by the time the electronics have reacted it's dark again. This is about the best camera and photographer managed to achieve.

After a while a pre-recorded message announced that things were over, enjoined us to leave carefully since exits might be crowded etc. but added that we were welcome to stick around to enjoy the lights (whose then state is shown in the photo above) since they would stay on till half past seven.  Could have done with a mind at work there.

I went on from the lights to the Grads production of Beachy Head.  There is some very fine acting in the show and its multimedia challenges are well handled but its structure cries out for it to have been a film not a stage play and it scratches at several surfaces without penetrating them deeply enough to reveal much of what lies beneath.

Ballet Rambert are celebrating their 90th year and touring amongst other pieces a revival of Ghost Dances by Christopher Bruce.  It's wonderful.

When the curtain rises we see three macabre figures standing stock still, looking into the distance, dimly lit and silhoutted against a backdrop that suggests we are in a cave looking out onto a plain interrupted by rocky peaks.  They begin to dance in a silence broken only by the susurration of an increasingly bitter wind.  Their dance is sinister, wild and fearsome.

When music does come it is the plaintive lilt of Andean pipes, the clear notes of the guitar and Spanish song accompanying the entry of a group of men and women who are perhaps come to celebrate the day of the dead.  They dance in various combinations.  The three spirits watch and from time to time join their dances. 

Ultimately they leave the stage and the three ghost dancers return to the silent contemplation with which the piece began. Lighting, costumes, music, choreography and superb physical skills had given us thirty unforgettable minutes.

Not so the other two pieces on the programme. Tomorrow starts with a single dancer in a beige coloured shift oozing herself out from a slot in the back wall and dancing jerkily downstage.  She's joined by quite a few others, dressed similarly and dancing in much the same fashion.  I had them down as mechanical toys.  Perhaps this was a new take on the Nutcracker or Coppelia.

They kept themselves to one side of the stage while on the other people dressed in black tops and trousers strode about, left the stage, returned, pointed up, pointed across, gathered in groups, raised imaginary glasses, slit throats and so on.  They were obviously telling a story but I couldn't make it out.  At one point a chap came on and removed some imaginary headgear and I thought maybe he's a king or maybe a motorcyle courier.  But frankly it was a distraction from the perfectly pleasant though unclear as to its meaning dancing going on stage left.

It wasn't till I got home and glanced at the flyer that I learnt that I'd been watching Macbeth.  Witches cavorting on one side while the play was being performed backwards on the other.

If I'd read and watched all the stuff here before seeing it I would probably have a less uncharitable opinion of the work than I do. But uncharitable I am and will remain.

No mugging up in advance was needed to understand Frames but I didn't much enjoy that either.  Dancers came on with variously sized lengths of aluminium rail and ponced about with them, as single lengths or snapped together in different combinations to make frames in and around which the dancers moved.  So?  A bit like virtuosic piano playing without any emotional content.

The lady sitting next to me had come from Glasgow to see the show and when we exchanged enthusiastic comments about Ghost Dances she said she'd probably go to see Rambert again when they hit Glasgow in February.  I think that would be a good thing to do but I'd spend the first hour and forty minutes in the bar with a good book.

The Good Book was the source of almost all of the libretto of Handel's Israel in Egypt that I saw and heard courtesy of the SCO on Thursday.  I enjoyed it thoroughly.  It reminded me a little of the saying that history is written by the victors.  Words and music throughout enthusiastically revelled in the triumph of the Israelites.  God was clearly on their side.  He smote, he plagued, he drowned those poor Egyptians giving not a toss for their first-borns.  But no frogs were harmed in the making of this epic.

I met a singer friend in the interval who was there to suss it out because his choir are doing it next year sometime.  He loved it but declared that it was quite a sing and thought he might not have the stamina for it.  At 91 and still performing I can forgive him that thought and only hope to match the stamina he's already shown.

A weekend in London provided many pleasures, not least blowing up imaginary balloons for the amusement of my grand nieces.  Or should that be great? The answer may be here.

Another grand pleasure was a visit to the great Cutty Sark at Greenwich.

The intention had been to go to an exhibition about Emma Hamilton in the Maritime Museum checking out the Cutty Sark en route but time spent on board meant it wasn't really worth going to the museum so we pottered about Greenwich before heading to our next port of call, the Merchant Navy Memorial on Tower Hill.  But the part of that we wanted to see was behind locked gates.

We had lingered too long at 0° 0′ 0″ East and West.

So time for a bus to Dalston for Turkish nosh and a bottle of Kavaklidere Yakut before an hour or two of music from Idris Ackamoor and The Pyramids.  Described as west coast jazz mavericks they were very entertaining and on the whole I enjoyed their music though I'd have enjoyed it a lot more had there been any place to sit down in Cafe Oto.

The trip to London was originally decided upon so that I could attend the Zambia Society Trust AGM and meet my chum David Powell who I hadn't seen for a few years.  In addition to the standard review of activities and finance at the meeting there was a very interesting talk by a professor of African history who tried to pin down the reasons why Zambia has been, relatively speaking, a haven of peace and tranquility amidst a sea of warring countries both pre and post independence.

Unsurprisingly he didn't find one single reason but an amalgam of several that he felt had predisposed Zambians at all levels of society to value peaceful development over conflict.  Long may it continue and hopefully spread well beyond their borders.

As well as David another old friend was there and his arrival put me in a tricky position.  He was accompanied and greeted me with the question "Do you recognise this young lady?"  I ask you.  It took a moment or two but then the name popped into my head which I thought wasn't bad considering I had last seen her 31 years ago and hadn't heard much about her since.  Mind you it would have been a poor show to have forgotten the leading lady of my final directorial outing in Kitwe.

After the meeting David, Graham, Lynn and myself repaired to a handy tavern and had a good chat about times both old and new until I had to drag myself away for my next engagement.

This was a serendipitously arrived at opportunity to meet another friend I hadn't seen for a few years, a much younger one this time.  Ben did a show with the Grads about ten years ago although he's a professional these days.  Our paths have crossed from time to time and I was delighted to find that he was playing not a hundred miles from my brother's flat while I was visiting.

So on Saturday night we went to see The Worst Was This. It was a great little show played with gusto and skill.  The company hope to tour it next year so we may see it in Edinburgh.  It would be perfect Fringe fare.

A previous winter trip to London was bedevilled by severe train problems that resulted in a bonanzo of ticket vouchers.  This time I was only 75 minutes late going down and 45 coming back so my compensation package is likely to be more modest but handy for the next foray south.

I don't know about you but I was somewhat underwhelmed by the so-called super moon.

Every so often I go to see an opera.  I'm not sure whether that's in order to reinforce my gut feeling that I don't particularly like opera or in the hope of a Damascene conversion.  Scottish Opera's The Marriage of Figaro leant towards support of a take it or leave it attitude.  It was very nice but very long, too long.  The Lyceum despatched the story much more expeditiously when they did Beaumarchais' play a few years ago with the inimitable Jimmy Chisholm as Cherubino.  But then in a play the characters say a line once and move on whereas in opera they have a habit of singing a line half a dozem times before the lights come up on the surtitles again with a fresh bit of text.

Charlie Parker was renowned for the number of notes he could get into a short space of time.  He'd have had no bother getting through Mozart's entire score before the first interval.  The SNJO players at their concert of Parker pieces were up to the challenge.  It was a super gig.  I enjoyed it all but tops was Tommy Smith's solo on My Little Suede Shoes.

Parker was also famous for the amount of time and effort he put into his practice.  That clearly contributed to his success but according to a note in the programme he wasn't always successful in his early years.  At one jam session he had to leave the stage because he lost track of the chord changes while improvising.  It's reassuring to know I have such an illustrious forerunner.  Must point that out to my teacher.

The second play in the Lyceum's season is Jumpy, a woman centred comedy contrasting nicely with their opening woman centred play, The Suppliant Women.  The play revolves around the relationship between fiftyish mother and fifteenish daughter with a supporting cast of man hungry female friend, dull but dependable husband, daughter's boyfriend of few words, his on the brink of separating parents and daughter's teenage pregnant chum plus a full frontal twenty something chap.

Like all the best comedies it's both hilarious and moving. An evening spent watching people stumbling through life and reflecting between laughs on how close to one's own experiences it is is never wasted. 

This is public enemy number one in Leith Walk at the moment, a piledriver beating remorselessly from 8 to 6 six days a week.  Despite its being on the other side of the road with houses and carparks between us and my windows and doors being shut tight its thump is an ever present accompaniment to my saxophone practice. 

We're never short of roadworks and building sites have proliferated in the last couple of years.  The student housing complexes at Shrubhill, by the library and in the former Gateway Theatre seem all to be up and running.  Starbucks and Sainsbury have established themselves in one.  Costa and Morrisons are said to be coming to another.  Local independent traders are not delighted.

We sorely miss that tram with all those young people clogging up the bus-stops in the morning.  Not that I'm often out early enough to be personally inconvenienced.

The piledriver is working on a non-student housing development at Shrubhill and Cala's flats on the old sorting office site look to be more than halfway done.  People are living in them and now that Brunswick Road is open again, the gas main project that closed it having romped to completion in twelve weeks against the forecast of six, the residents won't have to go all around the houses to get home.

Despite having given the road a good going over in preparation for not laying tram lines and thus causing a fair degree of nuisance for a fair stretch of time reasons are constantly being found to tear it up again.  The very useful bus-stops at the top of the Walk have just gone out of commission thanks to the St James Centre redevelopment.  I do hope they are not out of service till that work finishes in 2020 (or 2025 if their forecast is as poor as the gas men's).

The critics were divided over the Branagh Theate Company's version of The Entertainer.  The Guardian wasn't too keen but The Telegraph gave it four stars.  I enjoyed it quite a lot but had I paid £95 for a seat in the Garrick rather than £13.50 for a seat in the Cameo I might have been less generous because my engagement with the production tailed off a smidgeon or three in its final half-hour.

I thought Kenneth Branagh gave us a very good piece of work, as did the rest of the cast though I share The Guardian's reservations about Sophie McShera's high-pitched delivery.  Michael Billington writes enthusiastically about Olivier's definitive performance as Archie Rice.  I didn't see him play the part on the stage but I do remember admiring his screen portrayal.

These live broadcasts to cinemas are excellent.  I saw the National Theatre's Threepenny Opera recently and will see No Man's Land in January.  You may not get quite the same buzz as you would were you in the theatre but it's similar in that respect to watching sports on the telly.  One's interest and excitement is only marginally lessened.  I like them, and the seats in Screen 1 at the Cameo are a lot more comfortable than the seats I can afford to pay for in London's West End.

I got quite a buzz from El Clan.  This is the true story of kidnap and murder in the murky shifting tides of power and influence in Argentina in the 1980s by a pater familias and his sons.  I suppose it's fictionalised to some extent but certainly not romanticised.  The film has the pace and dynamism of a thriller, great performances and kept me gripped to the end. 

If you are keen on mounting site specific productions and the specific site you have in mind is an oil rig in the North Sea you might well feel that the idea's a bit impractical.  But, thought Gridiron, what could we do instead?  It's obvious really.  Build a wee rig in a big shed.

And that's what they did.  In shed 36 in the port of Dundee to be precise.  And that's where I went one dark and miserable Sunday night in the least comfortable bus I've ever been in, fortunately only from the city centre to the port.

The shed was big, very big with a very high roof.  The rig, dinky in comparison with the real live stuff parked in the water outside, was in a corner.  It had a derrick and a helipad and actors in orange suits and hard hats did manly things with pipes and chains and things as we took our seats in a semicircle facing them and wrapped the thoughtfully supplied blanket around our nether regions.

It looked and sounded great and I was full of excited anticipation.  But as we know it is often better to travel hopefully than to arrive.  The show was called Crude.  There was something of a narrative thread throughout centred on a oilworker; his trials and tribulations, the impact of his work pattern on his marriage and family life, the dangers he faced and so on. He even dreams about an oil selkie, an excellent bit of circus work here by an actress. Every now and then a jolly American jumped up to remind us how dependent we are on oil and for how long we've needed it.  His native forebears daubed it on their cheeks as warpaint and now we use it in making lipstick for much the same purpose.  And what about all those plastic bags.

Everything they did was well done and all the little scenes well thought out and woven together into a decent enough show but I didn't find it very gripping nor was I sure what its aim was.  Was it meant to entertain or to provoke despair at the rape of the planet or what.  That wasn't clear to me perhaps because of the very variable audibility of the actors.  Despite being miked up as soon as they turned their heads away from a straight line to my ears it was hard to hear.  Tricky to control sound in such a cavernous setting (with rain pelting down on the tin roof from time to time) but the non spoken sound worked well so I don't understand why handling speech didn't. 

Here's a professional review or two.

Oh for the self-discipline of a Tony Benn and his like who wrote up or dictated their diaries nightly before bed, not to mention Pepys with his quill pen in candlight or Cicero with one of those dinky  little oil lamps.  With every modern tool at my disposal I can't keep my blog up to date.  Must do better.

So a whirlwind tour of the last month.

It kicked off with Jo Butt's funeral.  A longtime member of the Grads he was in the first full length show I directed for them and we appeared together in a couple of shows, once as an old cogers drunken double-act which was much fun to do.

One of the periodic dinners with former colleagues at FI where I am the token man, and very happy to be him, took place in a restaurant new to me.  Badgers in Castle St. is so named because Kenneth Grahame once lived in the building.  I played Mr Badger in Toad of Toad Hall so I await a plaque on the wall recording my having dined there.  The food was excellent by the way.

More eating out the following week with lunch in the National Gallery restaurant with another former colleague who hadn't made it to the dinner and with one who had.  Again the food was excellent.

A local councillor has been helpful to us on a couple of occasions so when she organised a litter pick in the streets around here I felt obliged to turn out.  I also publicised the event on the Dicksonfield website, via my Dicksonfield mailing list and by posters on all the noticeboards in Dicksonfield.  This effort brought forth zero residents.

They missed a pleasant stroll in the Saturday morning sunshine, convivial chat with the small crowd that took part and cold drinks and doughnuts at the end.  They might  also to have earned some brownie points that may stand us in good stead with the aforesaid councillor when we need her.

Over the doughnuts I had an interesting and informative chat with a man from the council's waste department about their collection experiment with bin sensors and collection methods.  Our bins are now being emptied on some apparently random cycle and only full bins are actually tipped into the bin lorry .  I guess this is part of the experiment.

There's been a Spanish film festival.  I saw an absolutely fascinating documentary about a Catalan bandleader who enjoyed a rags to riches life in the States.  His life was extraordinary and the film did it justice with wonderful archive footage and personal reminiscence. Here's Wikipedia's biog and you can catch his music on Youtube.

I also enjoyed  An Autumn Without Berlin and a session of eight short films but while I found The Bride (a version of Lorca's Bodas de Sangre) lovely to look at, those phallic termite mounds were a bit unsubtle as was a rearing black stallion tearing across the desert.  The playing too was rather over melodramatic for a phlegmatic Fifer like me but on the whole it's a film worth seeing.

As is The World Goes On as a Spanish cinema period piece and The King of Havana as an example of what's called" dirty realism".  I enjoyed the former but not the latter.

Before heading off to Pitlochry to enjoy the final week of the Festival Theatre's summer season I went to the Lyceum for the opening show of their season.  It was The Suppliant Women by Aeschylus in a version by David Greig, the theatre's new artistic director.  Claire has written an exceptionally fine appraisal of the production, much better than some of the professional reviews I've read (which is quite appropriate).

In Pitlochry I stayed in a very comfortable and well appointed hotel frequented in overwhelming measure by old people, as I'm afraid was the theatre.  Still, absence of sniveling brats and moody teens is no bad thing I suppose.

I throughly enjoyed all but one of the productions which is a pretty good score.  Thark, a 1920s farce by Ben Travers was to my mind a terminally feeble script although for most of the audience that seemed be offset by the company's excellent set, costumes and performances.  Or maybe, heaven forfend, they thought it was good material.

Carousel, a lovely musical despite its rather twee toying with the hereafter.  Then three good Ayckbourns under the umbrella title Damsels in Distress, This Happy Breed by Coward and a dramatisation of Hard Times by Dickens.

In between shows I toured around in the rain, played a round of golf, visited the Museum of Country Life in Blair Atholl (highly recommended but you'll have to wait till it reopens in the Spring), visited the Atholl Palace Hotel museum (also recommended and open all year round) and bought some bargain price breeks and bunnets.

Scotland's other Nicola justifiably packed the Usher Hall for the first Edinburgh RSNO concert of the season but its a shame that not so many of those eager punters turned out a couple of weeks later to hear Janine Jansen play Sibelious's violin concerto.  I confess that I was there only because I've had to swap dates because of a clash with a trip to London but I'm very glad to have heard her and the piece.

Scotland's other orchestra, the SCO, gave a brilliant performance of L'enfance du Christ by Berlioz in the same hall.  To my knowledge I've never heard this before.  I loved its delicacy, the ethereal off-stage choir and their re-incarnation back on-stage.  I was close to the front which made me feel practically alongside the soloists. I could feel every breath they took and see every quiver of their lips.  The bass was magnificently strong as Herod and in the closing moments you could feel rather than hear the tenor as he exhaled the closing words.

It was terrific. At one point and most unusually the conductor turned to the audience after what I believe is known as the shepherds' farewell and said "I suggest we play that again" and they did.

Music of an entirely different sort was provided by Allegro's production of Sunshine on Leith.  I was there in support of a young man who was in our Fringe show and enjoyed it quite a lot.  No wonder groups like Allegro do only one show a year when you consider what's involved.

I've just come back from Shed 36 in the Port of Dundee but more about that later and perhaps a word or two on the twice yearly Play, Pie and Pint season which is with us again.  I'll leave Claire to describe the supremely talented Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater.

Because I was at a rather unexciting dance show on Friday I had to pop over to Glasgow to catch the SNJO's concert of music by Charles Mingus.  It was well worth the effort.  It's hard for me to keep a bit of music in my head for a few minutes never mind long enough to compare concerts that take place months apart but this was surely one of their best.

The music was lovely for a start.  Arild Andersen guesting as Mingus was super as were the band and the quality of solos was terrific, especially Tom McNiven on trumpet, Allon Beauvoisin on baritone and Martin Kershaw on soprano.

That was my second trip to Glasgow this week.  It poured with rain both times, surprise, surprise.  Not a big deal when nipping up to the Conservatoire from Queen Street but queuing outside the Hydro for ages was less pleasant.  I was there to see Andy Murray Live, a charity event that was good fun.  A semi-serious singles in which Murray beat Dimitrov was followed by a not at all serious doubles.

It started off with the Murray brothers playing against Dimitrov (in a kilt) and Henman.  All four were miked up so there was entertaining backchat to listen to as well as extraordinary play to watch.  Their lightning reactions as the ball whizzed back and forth with all four at the net was simply amazing.  Substitutes were called for and Jamie went off to be replaced as Andy Murray's partner by Gordon Reid the wheelchair tennis gold medallist in what I thought was a stroke of PR genius. 

Other weel-kent faces appeared later but I was off through the rain in the hope of getting home by midnight which I achieved - just.

The weather at other times recently has been much better, at least in Edinburgh.  I spent a couple of hours pleasantly sipping coffee and reading on my balcony which I never managed to do during the so called summer and people were dancing in the open air at the foot of the Mound a week ago.  Here are pictures to prove it.

Mound Precinct Dancers

Dancers and Band

The incomparable Dick Lee on soprano sax

On the morning of the dancing day I took part in a local litter clean-up.  Not many took part and none other than me from Dicksonfield.  Neither my emails, the notice on our website nor the posters which I put up on all our noticeboards roused a soul.  They would claim to deplore litter I'm sure but put up with it nonetheless.

Is that some form of Sour Grapes on my part?  A highly entertaing form of Sour Grapes was a documentary of that name about a wine scam in the States.  A very personable young chap with what appears to have been an encyclopedic knowledge of wine and brilliant tastebuds made millions in the rarefied world of $20,000 bottles before being rumbled.  He's now in clink where I don't suppose he gets many tasting opportunities while his victims are pouring his plonk down the drain.  Silly them I say.

I swallowed a few glassfuls myself at a twentieth wedding anniversary celebration last weekend.  There wasn't any twenty grand stuff on offer as far as I know but everyone seemed very happy with £9.99 prosecco.      

We had the Dicksonfield Owners and Residents Association AGM last week and my position as secretary was unfortunately not contested so I'm in for another year not having the heart to leave them in the lurch.  The Grads have just entered the lurch secretary wise but I have been able to harden my heart against being sucked into that one.

I'm a bit of a Woody Allen fan and his latest film,  Cafe Society,  appealed to me greatly.  The costumes, settings and cinematography are super.  Performances and direction are excellent and the romance at the heart of it provides a very moving ending. I'd have given it four stars against The Guardian's three but that's fans for you.

I have to give plenty stars to Tickled, a documentary that delves behind the public face of the niche sport of competitive endurance tickling.  A New Zealand journalist came across some videos of young men tickling a strapped down fellow apparently in some bizarre competition and thought it would make a good subject for the cookie documentaries that he makes his living by creating.

Well as soon as he started digging lawyers letters and threats started arriving warning him off.  Three men flew in from Los Angeles first class to persuade him to drop the project.  Of course he didn't and has made a very enjoyable and interesting film of his search.  It would be a shame to reveal the end but have a look at the trailer and catch it if you can.

The windband term has been underway for a few weeks but other commitments had kept me away until the playaway day on Saturday.  I was the only alto sax there so was a bit exposed but survived and thankfully at Monday's regular practice there was another alto to share the load.

On a different musical note entirely I was with Claire and Siobhan at Lennoxlove on Sunday morning to hear a delightful concert by the Marian Consort under the title of Secret Singing.  The secret referred to was the continued practice of Roman Catholicism in post reformation England and it was the music associated with that by Byrd and others that they sang.  Such singing happened mostly in the stately homes of the Catholic aristocracy so the barrel-vaulted great hall of Lennoxlove was the perfect setting and our proximity to the singers added greatly to my enjoyment.  

Claire treated us to a lunch afterwards that featured scrumptious roast potatoes and delicious homemade apple pie.  The lunch stretched through the afternoon at which point my legs were stretched dog-walking in the Figgate Park which I must say was looking splendid and well cared for.  Indeed better cared for than it was when I lived on its edge.  

The end of the festivals has not heralded the end of cultural activities on my part.  For a start I've got back to the cinema where I had not been for ages.  I saw a reasonably interesting Latin American film called Desde Alla.  It told the story of a middle-aged guy who sought out the company of younger men in Caracas.  There was a homosexual element to it but it seemed mostly to be about his need for friendship, perhaps related to a difficult relationship (unexplained) with his father.

At one point in the film Armando (the older guy) tells Elder (the younger guy) that his father is alive but he wishes that he were dead.  As the friendship develops Elder declares that he will kill the father.  Armando makes no protest and Elder kills the father.  Subsequently Armando betrays him to the cops.  That didn't seem terribly fair to me.

But perhaps I missed a few nuances.  Elder asks at one point why Armando talks funny.  He explains that he was brought up elsewhere.  To me they both talked funny so it was a relief later the same day to see Julieta in which everyone spoke a vey clear and understandable Castilian.

Almodovar is a lauded film-maker and I've generally enjoyed his movies while at the same time feeling they were a bit odd.  This one is so straightforward I loved it.

Unlike The Shepherd Beguiled.   This was Theatre Alba's Fringe show presented at The Brunton for those who had been unable to or chose not to brave their open air performances.  I thought it might have been a production of theirs which I had seen and enjoyed years ago.  I don't think it was. At least I hope it wasn't because I thought it was pretty dire stuff unredeemed by the quality of performance.

Fringe shows apocryphally garner audiences of one or two.  The Jazz Romantics gig, while not a Fringe show, fitted this stereotype well.  The promised guest saxophonist hadn't made it so we had a band of four and an audience that for the most part consisted of the bass  player's wife or girlfriend and me.  Some others drifted in and out as the evening progressed but at its peak the audience consisted of no more than five.  Nonetheless it was an excellent gig and I hope to be there at their next outing on September 30th.