I’m not quite sure how to evaluate the film
version of The Magic Flute that Suzanne and I saw recently in the Comedia
Cinema in Barcelona. It was a La Scala
production directed by William Kentridge which set the action in some
nineteenth century milieu with a welter of line drawings projected here there
an everywhere.
My overriding impression from the
experience was just how uncomfortable the seats were. Considering how plush they actually looked,
deep and high backed they were extraordinarily inefficient in their sole
function.
The singing was wonderful with The Aria
positively otherworldly in its shining melodic clarity. All the singers major and minor were much
more than acceptable with the sole exception of Sarastro who seemed to me to be
woefully under sung. Somewhere or other
I have a scrap of paper with information about the production but that seems to
have gone the way of all flesh.
We had tapas afterwards in a
dishearteningly touristic place but they turned out to be tasty and fairly good
value for money – but as they were eaten some time after one in the morning I
do not have any information about the name of the café. It was a late night and I still had to drive
back to Castelldefels after paying an extraordinarily fabulous amount of money
to get my car out of an underground car park near the cinema.
Throughout the days since I was told about
Stewart’s death, little flashes of anecdotal pleasure have informed my memory
of him. That’s immortality, living in
the loving memory of those who care.
My swimming continues apace – to the
astonishment of the swimming pool attendants who now seem to regard me as
someone who needs to be protected – hence the shooing away of children in My
Swimming Lane. I find it difficult to
believe that I am one of a very few people who actually swim in straight lines
rather than lounge around lazing about in the water. Though, come to think of it I have seen
precious few actual swimmers in the pool.
In Cardiff there were well-established lane
swimmers, and I was never alone (except in terms of speed up and down the pool)
when I was swimming.
I want to get back into the habit of having
an early morning swim and having another one “at the end of work” time –
whatever time I decide that to be!
I enjoy my twenty minutes, though to do
more bores me. I have great respect and
not a little wonder at those professional swimmers who only get that good by
doing thousands and thousands of lengths in a 50-metre pool at unsocial
hours. How do they keep their sanity!
Meanwhile tomorrow sees the arrival of The
Pauls.
Their first meal in Spain is traditionally
an indulgently raucous affair but this time it will have to be without the
presence of Toni who is having to stick to a rigorously uninteresting diet in
advance of his intrusive medical examination on Monday. He can only drink orange juice and
water. And even the water has to be
without the excitement of gas!
The Olympics continue to fascinate with our
even getting a gold to start the morning off, though it has to be said that the
rest of the day has not been quite so golden – but we do have racing and diving
this evening.
Twenty-six golds is surely more than we
expected and, in spite of the fact that the Pauls were not able to find the FDC
cover albums that I wanted (and special attention must be paid to the amazingly
unhelpful 0845 number of the Post Office which is there, ostensibly, to help
and which did anything but) but I will get them from the Internet.
Meantime there is some tidying and cleaning
to be done!
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