A good week of tennis viewing culminating in Murray's victory over Dimitrov in an absolutely gripping match this morning.

As well as the two streams corresponding to its TV channels  Eurosport broadcasts additional streams and it has been possible on occasion (it's a bit hit and miss I don't know why) to watch a match on one of them without either commercial breaks or commentary.  That's such a bonus since much of the time the commentators contribute very little to enjoyment of the game.  I generally don't need to be told that a good shot has been played and remarks such as "..he grabs the ball with his racquet and returns it full of meaning..." simply annoy me.  I am indebted though to one commentator for sharing with me the knowledge that Sharapova never wears sweat bands and seldom calls for a towel between points.

Again more or less by accident I caught Zambia's second group match.  They played Tunisia and were all over them, mounting attack after attack, swarming around their goal, banging away but only managed to get a ball in the net after 60 minutes.  Tunisia got an excellent equaliser ten minutes later.  That seemed to put fire in their bellies and in the dying minutes they scored a winner.  Such a shame. 

Perhaps the new president will take a day off to nip up to Equatorial Guinea to encourage them, or maybe Guy Scott will since he looks likely to have time on his hands.

I enjoyed The Merry Widow very much.  Unlike the Daily Telegraph I found lots of wit and sparkle in it; the book and lyrics in particular, by Jeremy Sands, were a treat to the ear.  The sumptuous set and costumes were lovely, the can-can dancers spirited and the principals incarnated their characters well although I will agree with the Telegraph to the extent that I found some of the delivery of the text a wee bit clumsy.  I also understood the business with the fan very easily which I didn't the last time I saw the show.  Mind you that was done in Hungarian so I didn't stand much of a chance.

The Australian Open Tennis grand slam is upon us and I have purchased a month's subscription to Eurosport to watch it since neither BBC nor ITV have much coverage to offer.  It's a streaming service so I can watch on a PC or even a telephone but the device of choice will be my smart TV.

It's remarkably cheap (provided I don't rack up some excess broadband usage charge and I remember not to let it be automatically renewed).  As a bonus I got it in time to watch Zambia's first match in the African Cup of Nations.  They scored a great goal just outside of 60 seconds after the kick-off and spent the rest of the game gamely trying to get another but gave the ball away rather too often to their opponents, the Democratic Republic of Congo.  They were the better team overall but only managed to get through the Zambian defence once so the match ended in a draw.

The time difference between here and Melbourne is such that the daytime matches start at about midnight our time.  I shan't see many of them.  I did try to stay up last night to watch Murray's first match but tiredness got the better of me.  The evening matches on the other hand start at breakfast time, to be honest a bit before my usual breakfast time but I may make an effort to get up earlier for the next two weeks.  

Throughout 2014 I was sure that I was going to fit in a visit to Belgium to enjoy some of the celebrations of the 200th anniversary of the birth of Adolphe Sax, whose invention I've been learning to play for the last several years.  Dinant where he was born looks worth a visit even when it's not bedecked with saxes but I didn't make it there nor to Brussels where he was brought up, studied music and became an instrument maker in his father's business and which has been hosting a large Sax exhibition.

The French have a great claim on Adolphe since it was to Paris, a much more important musical centre than Brussels, that he moved in 1842; where he set up a workshop and over the following years developed the saxophone to a form recognisable to us today.

So it's not surprising that as part of the inaugural activities at their new concert hall, which opened on Wednesday, they are devoting Saturday afternoon to the saxophone.  I was tempted and if Easyjet had had a Saturday morning flight I might have succumbed to temptation, but I'm going to the Met instead, not actually to New York but to it's satcast manifestation in the Cameo where I'm standing in for a sick friend and accompanying his wife to The Merry Widow.

Although the sax was initially taken up by military bands and used by a number of classical composers, it has flourished in the world of jazz and nowhere more so than in the USA.  Now thanks to my favourite jazz programme I know that the Met (museum not opera) is running a sax exhibition till the end of April.  I've never been to New York and would quite like to visit so maybe......    

"You don't do the lottery surely" said the man on the train as we stood side by side in the corridor.

This was in response to my doubly unlucky dose of travel trouble.  I had gone down to London on Saturday when, thanks to engineering tardiness at Kings Cross, my train spent an hour standing in Stevenage and then a second hour tantalisingly close to Finsbury Park station, then crawled in and released us.

Finsbury Park is a handy ten minute bus ride from David's flat but when I designated Kings Cross as the station at which I would activate my Oyster top-up that was in expectation of the train fulfilling its normal destiny.  So I accepted a free tube ride and added another half hour or so to my late running journey.

Returning to Kings Cross yesterday to come home I found that the 13.00 to Edinburgh was not going past Newcastle thanks to an electrical problem on the line further north.  No problem, a speedy connection with a local train to Berwick and onwards in a fleet of what were no doubt luxury coaches had been arranged said the station staff.  The fact that the train guard still thought we were going all the way to Edinburgh was a communication failure soon put right.  And anyway said she optimistically it may be fixed by the time we get to Newcastle.

It wasn't.

But only 40 minutes to wait so I had a coffee and a biscuit in the warmest corner I could find in Costa's little cafe.  For Newcastle is a drafty station.

As time grew closer to 16.30 and there was no sign of the Berwick train, confidently still declaring itself to be On Time on the departure board, some degree of doubt crept into my mind.  At this point a shortly due Aberdeen train was mentioned and rumoured to be going across country to Carlisle and then on to Edinburgh.  Could our train not have done that I thought.

At about 16.40 still claiming to be On Time the Berwick train trundled in but kept its doors shut for ten minutes or.  Before they opened passengers for points north were entreated not to board it but to wait for the Aberdeen train.  Half a dozen people got on leaving several hundred on the platform.

At about 16.59 there was much whistling, waving of arms and striding up and down by station staff but the by now admitting to not being on time 16.30 to Berwick didn't move.  Every so often over the next half hour they tried again but the train sat still like a reluctant sheepdog.  To cheer us up at some point it was announced that the Aberdeen train was outside the station waiting for a platform.  Unfortunately it seemed that the stationary Berwick train was occupying the required platform.  It was then redundantly announced that the Berwick train had a technical problem.

I judged at 17.30 that I could risk going to the gents and in the few minutes I was away the Berwick train disappeared but the Aberdeen one didn't arrive.  After a while it did but as everyone tried to pile onto a clearly already packed train we were tempted with the announcement that another Edinburgh train was due in less than half an hour.

Fearing that it might be a long half hour I got aboard as did pretty well everybody and a bit before 18.00 we were underway and it appeared that the electrical problem had been sorted for there was no further talk of Carlisle.

Half an hour or so into the journey a passenger was asked over the train intercom to return to the foodbar as the buffet car is now known.  The girl concerned heard her name but didn't catch the message.  Hard enough for anyone but doubly hard for an American as she was.

"I've just come from there."  "You must have left something."

She had of course, a passport I think.  Now this train was so crowded that she chose to wait till we got to Berwick then jump off the train and run down the platform to the foodbar rather than fight her way through the standing passengers.

The driver hurtled the train along and we got to Edinburgh about 19.20.  I got through the scrum of disembarking and embarking voyagers and up the steps happy with the thought of slipping across Princes Street and onto a 22.  The street was empty of buses and full of torchlight processors so I had to set off down Leith Walk on foot.  As I got closer to home I decided that a Tailend fish supper would just hit the spot.

The food would clearly have been fresh given the crowd waiting for it to appear from the fryer but I had had enough waiting for one day so raided my deep freeze instead.

The silver lining is that I can probably claim a free return trip to London under East Coast's delay compensation scheme.  But do I want to risk it?  Maybe I should try the lottery instead.

A nail-biting finish to the snooker last night for Ronnie O'Sullivan supporters as Judd Trump fought  back with determination and skill from 9-4 down to 9 all to force a deciding frame.  But even with a broken ankle O'Sullivan is a hard man to beat and a perfectly played snooker behind the green put paid to Trump's challenge.  It was a great match.

Something put paid to my bus pass a week or two ago.  It lasted about two years I think and would have been due for replacement sometime next year.  My new one must be made of sterner stuff.  The machine on the bus tells me that it expires on 9/11/41. It's good to know that the City of Edinburgh expects me to last that long.

The reading material in most barber's shops around here tends to be The Sun or The Daily Record so I was pleasantly surprised when I went to get rid of my Festen grandfather beard to find The Herald, The i and the new pro independence paper, The National, to browse while I waited.

That excitement aside it has been a musical week.  First up was Judith Bingham's choral work The Christmas Truce.  Famously German and Allied troops briefly laid aside their weapons in favour of football and fraternisation at Christmas 1914 and this work deals with that.  The singers made all sorts of whooshing and whistling noises to represent the mayhem of bombardments and during the truce section the male singers split into "Germans" and "Tommies" and sang respectively Oh Tannenbaum and Still the Night, did a bit of male bonding hugging and then went back to war.  I'm told by someone I know in the choir that it's a really good sing and I have to say I thought it was a really good listen.

Following that was the SCO and Beethoven's Fourth Piano Concerto.   I first heard it in the Festival Hall in London in 1967 and it's been one of my desert island discs ever since.  Later in the week the RSNO performed Shostakovitch's Second Piano Concerto.  That's another favourite but of a totally different character, energetic and jaunty while the Beethoven is poetic and lyrical.

Earlier in the week I dashed from a DORA quarterly meeting to the final Dunedin Wind Band rehearsal before our participation in the Scottish Concert Band Festival.  That happened today in Livingston where over the weekend about 30 bands from the central belt ranging from primary 7 kids through youth bands to our category of community bands are doing their thing under the watchful ears of an adjudicating team of two who award certificates of greater or lesser excellence.

We took part for the first time last year although I wasn't able to be there and were awarded a silver certificate.  This year with my participation we won gold.  Just a coincidence no doubt.  It's not as impressive as it sounds because gold plus and platinum are obtainable so it's a bronze in Olympic terms.  However it does qualify us to play in the National Finals in Perth Concert Hall in March. I can't be there unfortunately because I'll be away ski-ing but I expect they'll struggle through.

Next up is our Christmas concert 

 Despite Festen being over and done with I didn't get away from theatre altogether. I auditioned for the Grads next production, Titus Andronicus.

Four stars for Festen http://alledinburghtheatre.com/festen/

I spent some time this morning grappling with the most recalcitrant, user unfriendly ticket selling website I've seen in my puff.

Eventually after several restarts ab initio and by giving in to the system's insistence that my date of birth was 25/11/2001 I got a ticket for each of the three days of the Davis Cup tie between GB and the USA that's to be played in Glasgow in March.

I played golf yesterday for the first time in months.  Absence has not made the game grow stronger.  On the other hand I didn't seem to play much worse and I only lost two balls.

It's difficult to measure how you are doing when you are hacking round by yourself, playing two or more balls on a hole if there are no players pressing behind.  You need the discipline of competition and a scorecard.  I expect that discipline would have made me feel more disappointed.

Tomorrow we move into the theatre for next week's production of Festen.  Part of the effort to publicise the show is to create little video trailers that are tweeted and distributed via Facebook.  These in this case consist of the characters talking about the birthday party they are about to attend and which is the context in which the play takes place.  They are being released one a day and mine hit social media this morning.  For the unsocial media savvy here it is.

A conservatoire according to Collins dictionary is "an institution or school for instruction in music", so when the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama changed its name to the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland you could have been forgiven for thinking that they had decided to get shot of their role as a drama school.  Not so. Theatre training continues and produces excellent results.

I popped over to Glasgow recently to see two productions by the final year acting students. They were both excellent.  One was The Hypochondriak, a version of Molière's Le Malade Imaginaire. His comedies always seem to work well in Scots and this was no exception.  The other was an absolutely first class production of The Country Wife.  The Herald gave it five stars and it deserved every one.  

Another great play and fine production that I saw last week was Bondagers.  It's an exploration of the lives of a group of 19th century female agricultural labourers that premièred at The Traverse a little over 20 years ago.  I was stunned by that production so the Lyceum's was inevitably a little bit of a let-down but only a little bit.  The harshness and fragility of the life people led in rural Scotland at that time has thankfully gone but the characters drawn surely still exist in different guises throughout modern society.

My neighbour in the Usher Hall on Friday opined that "she fair draws them in" referring to the fullness of the house, the fullness of the Caird Hall the previous evening and doubtless the fullness to come of Glasgow's Royal Concert Hall on Saturday, brought about by the presence of Nicola Benedetti.  For it was she we had come to hear play Shostakovich's First Violin Concerto.  I'm sure there are other violinists who play it well but we all believe that our local hero is the best.

A few people seated in the organ gallery could be seen shuffling out during the piece, their loyalty to Nicola (if indeed that's what brought them) not sufficient to stand up against Shostakovich's brutally beautiful phrases wrenched from the extremes of the instrument.  I love it.

As the news of Acker Bilk's death came through I was practising his great hit Stranger on the Shore which had been dished out as homework by the clarinet evening class tutor.  I do hope that my mangling of the tune neither hastened his death nor caused any turning in the grave.  

My DVD player seemed finally to have become immune to my coaxing strategies and refused to open its drawer whatever I did so I bought a new one.  Trying it out for the first time I took the opportunity to view two discs that have remained in their shrink wrapping for some considerable time.

I'm not sure how I acquired either of them.  I think Masters of European Football IV must have been a freebie that I've been too weak willed to throw away.  It purports to be a set of profiles of a dozen famous footballers but it's really just a selection of their shots at goal.  By the time I'd watched six players my boredom threshold had been well and truly breached so the remainder will remain  a mystery.

Jeane Manson is an American singer who made it big in France.  So big that she had to sell her house and horses in Normandy and retreat to a but and ben in Spain to pay off a tax bill.  I don't think that put her too near the poverty line though.  Anyway at some time she cut a DVD singing Christmas songs with a Red Army choir and I have it.  How did I get it?  Well at Barbansais there wasn't a lot to do in the evenings. The supermarkets and FNAC often had deals on DVDs, five for a tenner and so on.  I think I must have picked up this DVD as a make-weight in some such deal.  It's not to my taste though.  I only managed to get through it by fast forwarding.

But I still haven't managed to throw either of them out.

This is a sight familiar to all visitors to Glasgow but it's not the only way in which traffic cones can be diverted from their designed use by the citizens of that fine city.

At the Argyle Street end of Buchanan Street the other day I saw a member of a busking group playing a cone rather in the manner of a didgeridoo.  At intervals he pounded the pavement with its base thus exploiting its percussive possibilities as well.  How long before the weegeehorn takes its rightful place in the concert hall at the other end of the street?

I was in Glasgow for my periodic school chum lunch after which we went to the exhibition on Mackintosh's architectural career running until January at the Hunterian.  A lot of it was fairly familiar because there are really only a handful of designs of his that turned into actual buildings.  More's the pity when you compare his three imaginative designs for a small gate lodge that were rejected in favour of a dumpy cube, no doubt practical but yawningly boring.

The new cultural and education seasons are now well underway and I have been putting my bum on the seats of various theatres, concert halls and classrooms.

The Lyceum has a very sparkling looking set of worthwhile plays this year with a brand new show for openers.  Kill Johnny Glendenning garnered a fistful of four star reviews and the audience at the performance I attended clearly loved it.  I thought it was dire.  It always pains me to see such talent, hard work, skill and money devoted to trivia.  But with those reviews it will hopefully have brought many punters in and filled the theatre's treasure chest and with any luck those happy punters will come back to see the better stuff that's on offer.

Mahler and Shostakovich are amongst my favourite composers and have featured in the concerts I've been to so far.  I'm not particularly familiar with Bruckner and thoroughly enjoyed his massive 7th Symphony.  Apart from a short burst of cymbal clashing and frenetic triangle bashing in the third movement there is almost no percussion but with seventeen brass players on hand he gets a great deal of noise out.  Perhaps the piece I've enjoyed most though and which was completely unknown to me was Christoper Rouse's Flute Concerto.  It's absolutely lovely.  There are several performances on Youtube.  Try this one.

It almost makes me want to have a go at learning to play the flute but I've already launched on a Clarinet for Beginners evening class.  I so often see saxophonists double on clarinet that I'd thought I might have a go.  So far (two lessons in) it's not been too tricky and my fingers still go to the right places on the sax so no adverse impact yet.

One of my sax endeavours has just collapsed.  The guy who was running the U3A jazz improvisation group has packed it in and I don't think anyone else in the group is capable of replacing him.  I'm not too disappointed.  I got into it more or less by accident and my improvisational skills and knowledge were manifestly inadequate for the repertoire.  The improvisation work I do with my teacher is more in tune with my abilities and with the passage of time, touch wood, I'll be more up to the job of playing in a group.

But now I've got my Wednesday afternoons back and am already looking forward to devoting some of them to going to the cinema, something I've neglected for a while.  Mind you I'm not neglecting it this weekend.  I saw A Most Wanted Man yesterday, an excellent spy movie and then sat up late to re- watch Shine with its brilliant central performance by Geoffrey Rush.  David Helfgott, the subject of the film was troubled by mental illness and La Herida which I saw earlier in the evening screened within the Edinburgh Spanish Film Festival also dealt very interestingly and movingly with the topic.

Moving too was the plight that many of Edinburgh's 20,000 odd Spanish residents find themselves in as depicted in the documentary En Tierra Extraña, another of the festival films.  Unable to find work at home many thousands of young Spaniards have gone abroad, many of them to Edinburgh where despite having enough degrees to throw a stick at they knuckle down to working as cleaners, dishwashers or whatever.  And they are not all young.  The people featured included a 52 year old woman with hardly a word of English who left hearth and home to look for better things.  I recognised one face on the screen as a man who drives the airport bus.  I don't suppose having a PhD (or whatever qualification he has) hinders him but it might be seen as a waste.  It's certainly a waste of the treasure spent by the Spanish state on education. I haven't found anything in English about it on the web but if your Spanish is up to it here's an article.

On the dance floor I have not been but a touring production of Top Hat was and so was Scottish Ballet.  I enjoyed both shows very much.  Richard Burton's deep rich voice reciting poems by Dylan Thomas in Scottish Ballet's Ten Poems ran the risk of overshadowing what was happening on stage but the choreographer and dancers rose to the challenge  of interpreting the poems as we listened.  This was paired with The Crucible.  Now I've been in Miller's play and know it quite well so I understood what was going on but there was no way in which a stranger to the story could have followed all its narrative thread, partly because it wasn't all there of course.  What could you do in 40 minutes.  But it was compelling and beautiful dancing so who's complaining.  Not me and not really The Guardian.

Top Hat was an entirely different kettle of fish and the entire story such as it is fitted comfortably into the evening.  I loved it and some may accuse me of double standards because if Kill John Glendenning is trivia then surely Top Hat is too.  True it is as they say not Shakespeare; but even taking away the music, the well-known songs, the well-worn old jokes, the wonderful dancing, and the sheer glitter of it all there is a kernel of human feeling and reality that the Lyceum's play simply lacks.

In addition to celebrating Rocio's 50th with some 36 hours of what seemed like continuous eating and drinking I managed to do a little tourism.  Spanish railways do an equivalent of our Senior Railcard, only at one fifth of the price and giving discounts of up to fifty percent on fares which are to British eyes already very affordable.

Birthday party eating and drinking

A gate to Badajoz

That's the sort of roundabout I admire

Roman theatre at Merida

View from the stage

What was that line?

Ibn Marwan

A panoramic view of the 18th at Gleneagles yesterday.  Not much golf going on, just waiting for some practicers to turn up.

The end of the Festival has not brought theatrical life to the crushing halt that might have been expected.  Apart from the very exciting referendum, whose denouement I was able to follow on Radio Scotland from a bed in Badajoz thanks to the internet, there was the wonderful Blabbermouth, a 12 hour NTS marathon of words and music that passed like a 100 yard dash on the eve of said referendum.

Duart Castle - Mull

Before that and slightly less wonderful in my view was their In Time o' Strife and on the beautiful island of Mull the very entertaining  The Greatest Little Republic (In the World), which when it started I thought was going to be a comedic satire on Scottish independence but as the Herald review explains turned out to be a much darker piece.  There was comedy on Mull in the form of The Weepers  by Rachel Maclean but after I read the very detailed handout describing the film it was clear that my artistic sensibilities had not been finely enough attuned to see beyond the bleeding obvious.

There's a lot of bleeding and other goriness in Titus Andronicus which Grads are presenting in the Spring.  It's a play I knew nothing about until we had a read-through this month.  It has a high bodycount and I spent a lot of the time wondering which of the many deaths I might be privileged to demonstrate but came to no conclusion.  In Festen, now in rehearsal for production later this year, I'm not meant to die but I am old and the vigorous conga dancing might just finish me off.

I was in Spain for a 50th birthday celebration and hoped to go to the theatre in Madrid on my way home but Monday tends to be the day of rest in continental theatres so I missed for example seeing Duet for One that I played in years ago, so would surely have followed the Spanish version easily enough.

With the Spanish birthday girl

There's a lot to admire in Ubu and the Truth Commission; the mixture of archive footage and animation, the coordination of that with the action on stage, the puppetry, the slick stage management.  And how on earth did they manage to get that vulture squawking and flapping its wings let alone the whirling microphones?

The victim and witness statements were harrowing (were they verbatim testimony?) and the distance given by hearing them delivered, as I expect they were in fact, in translation as the witness spoke in their own language heightened the feeling of amazement at how cruel human beings can be to one another. 

A white Ubu who personifies the apartheid regime and its enforcers gives us all the grossness, selfishness and evil of the original as he scurries about trying to hide his misdeeds and make up his mind about revealing all to the commission.

I've always thought of the truth commission as a really noble concept and had the impression that it had served South Africa well.  But this play seemed to me to present an altogether bleaker vision of its effect and as Ma and Pa Ubu sailed away into the sunset of a better tomorrow I had no confidence in it being better for anyone.

Wikipedia has a very long and detailed article on the play for searchers after more and undoubtedly truer analysis.  

One of the problems of having visitors at Festival time is that even the gaps between events tend to get swallowed up being sociable.  That's my excuse for not having written anything about what I've been to in the last several days and now I can't be bothered to write very much.  But I want to have a record so here are some brief notes.

Another Kronos Quartet concert in which one piece by a former Beiruti featured recordings of bombs and gunfire made during the Lebanese civil war. At this time of WWI commemoration it was a powerful reminder that the war to end all wars didn't.

Ever since I encountered Vita Sackville-West in Harold Nicolson's diaries in the 60s I've been mildly fascinated by the Sackville-West family.  I thought her goings on were on the odd side but there are other interesting skeletons in the family cupboard and Robert Sackville-West has taken some out and given them an airing in The Disinherited. It is a sad but fascinating tale of illegitimate children and family squabbles with which he entertained a packed Book Festival tent.  It's on my Christmas list.

Another author, not so well known and whose tent was not quite so tightly packed was Phil Adams who read us his entry to the City of Literature Story Shop competition.  The engaging little tale of a salmon and a bear had to fight hard to be heard above the torrential rain beating down on the spiegel tent but we all enjoyed it as we did the Prosecco downed by friends and family in celebration afterwards.

The Royal Overseas League runs an annual music competition.  This year's gold medal winner was a saxophonist and I went to hear him in a programme called Sax before Midnight.  It was a mightily varied programme that finished with the always appealing and melodic tangos of Piazzola.  He started however with a piece by Stockhausen, renowned in my mind for his Helicopter Quartet and for his general oddness.  If I heard Im Freundschaft correctly though he had a sense of humour, as did the person who dressed in a bear suit to play it on bassoon.

When it was suggested that we go to see MacAulay and Co. being recorded for BBC Radio Scotland I reflected that I could just as well have stayed in my bed to listen to it but I went along and rather enjoyed it.
 
The Pure, the Dead and the Brilliant by Alan Bissett explores the issue of Scottish independence from the point of view of  some mythical creatures of folklore, a selkie, a banshee, a bogle and a demon. It's very funny and doesn't take itself too seriously though its conclusion that independence is the way to go comes as no surprise.  The audience are caught up in the general hilarity and from where I sat I could see only one NO vote amidst a sea of YESs as we waved our programmes, folded to show the appropriate page, at the end.

One wet evening we set off to find some folk music.  The Royal Oak was our first port of call.  We couldn't find a gap in the crowd listening to free music in the main bar so dived downstairs and parted with a very modest sum to be entertained for an hour or so by a trio of young and accomplished players.  I've forgotten their name but I'd go again.  We spent an unsatisfactory time in Sandy Bell's afterwards where I doubt if even the musicians could hear themselves then went through various musicless pubs and ended up at the tailend of a free, funny and filthy comedy gig.
 
Crammed onto the tiny stage in the Jazz Bar were eight musicians who gave us a terrific version of The Rite of Spring.  If it sounds discordant said the leader Dave Patrick talking about their work on the piece just think what it sounds like when it's not played properly.  Of course in this case it's the dissonance that gives it character and according to this piece in The Telegraph was probably a major cause of the riot at its premier.

The first play I went to at The Fringe this year was by Marivaux and I was delighted to find that another of his plays was being performed.  I was even more delighted when I saw Games of Love and Chance.  This 18th century romantic comedy in which mistress swaps place with her maid to observe the man destined to be her husband and he does likewise with his valet had been transported to the 1920s and its comedy stretched to farce.  It was terrifically well acted and I look forward to seeing another TwoSquared Productions show next year.

In a bare basement corner of Summerhall an audience of a dozen or so stood for an hour around a long low narrow table.  At one end a nurse, at the other a soldier, each only inches away from us. The play consisted of periods of action simulating men rushing forward under fire followed by periods in which letters full of love, hope and longing were exchanged.  The horror of the war was simply but powerfully shown.  At a whistle blast from the nurse the soldier began an attack.  He rocked back and forward with ever increasing urgency, willing himself to get to the wire and focussing his mind on the future he hoped for while she created the noise of war. The attack culminated in the actor throwing pieces of liver at the wall.  The attack over, the nurse collected the pieces of liver and sorted them into "dead", "blighty" and "fixed, back you go".  Eventually after one attack a letter comes from the War Office, "killed in action".  When The Flood was over there was rightly no curtain call and no applause. 

Fortunately liver wasn't on the menu of the excellent meal we had afterwards in The Royal Dick.

The last play of my Fringe going (one EIF play to go) was definitely the oddest and rivalled the cosmonaut play in its ability to fail to communicate anything to me.  Lippy started with a very nicely observed and humorous after show discussion about a play we are supposed to have just seen.  Then we see a play in which four women variously ferret about in bin bags full of shredded paper, hang over tables, squat on buckets and ultimately I believe die from starvation.  They don't say very much in the course of the action.  It seemed to me the sort of play Salvador Dali might have written.  Proper theatre critics have made some sense of it and I much appreciate Lyn Gardner's review in The Guardian for articulating much of what I felt about the show.  

A late night session at the Jazz Bar featuring the Russian trumpeter Valery Ponomarev backed by a galaxy of local jazzmen was excellent entertainment although I found Mr Ponomarev's insistence that we all applaud and clap along a degree less amusing than he did.

Eager to get the lowdown on collateral debt obligations and the like I went to hear John Lanchester on his book Money Talk: Nonsense Versus Bullshit.  It was very amusing but a serious and cautionary tale nonetheless.  What a balls-up it's all been since the smart money men started selling mortgages to people with no hope of being able to keep up the payments.

I confess to never having read anything by the great Thomas Mann although I have seen his work in the form of the opera Werther and the film Death in Venice.  His son Klaus was also a writer and according to Alan Massie while Thomas was interesting as a writer Klaus was much more interesting as a man.

So much more interesting to Massie that he has written a novella called Klaus which is a fictionalised version of his life.  So interesting was his talk on the subject that I have bought the book and placed it on my pile of unread masterpieces for later consumption.

Eagerly looked forward to have been the James plays, a trilogy by Rona Munro about James I, James II and James III who were kings of Scotland in the 15th century.  This is a joint production by the EIF, the National Theatre and the National Theatre of Scotland and all three are directed by Laurie Sansom who took over artistic direction of  the NTS quite recently.

I saw them in a oner yesterday and thought they were stunning.  Check out the broadsheets for reviews, most of which are very favourable.  My favourite of the three was James II which the critics favoured least.  So much for the critics is what I say.