I've had two trips to London.
My first trip was built around two evenings - an evening at Covent Garden and a very rare opportunity to catch a piece of performance work by Robert.
I made sure that I was fortified before undertaking the trek out to Woolwich by eating goulash at Gaby's Deli on Charing Cross Road. Then I plunged into the London rush hour. I suppose there are some experiences which the memory deliberately suppresses - public transport in London in the early evening must be one of them. I imagine that it was much more of an immersive experience than even Julius Caesar was.
Anyhow, I had never been out beyond Greenwich to Woolwich before. And, consequently, I had never been on the site of the Royal Arsenal before. I must go back some time because it looks as though it could be worth a look around.
I joined the large group of people at Building 17 and, at the appointed hour, we were ushered into a long reception area and each given a voluminous shirt with a large hood to wear and cover our heads and faces with. The material was some sort of gauze so it was possible to see through but not possible to see who was in the other costumes.
Everyone was given some health and safety information, particularly with regard to any sense of panic and how to ask for assistance to leave the space. Then, we were guided through into the performance space and so began the premier of Robert's new work MASS.
In the room, there were already other people, presumably attached to the production. Light levels seemed to be low but not Stygian gloom. There was a low level ambient soundtrack. Initially, people simply wandered around in their costumes a bit sort of wary as to what was going on.
My sense of "child" and "play" grew as time went on and so I began approaching people just to simply introduce myself. And then I became aware that little interactions were happening all round the room. Some vignettes were more intricate and therefore likely to have involved the performers: others were more like regular social intercourse. Some people became participants: others became spectators. Some people declined to join in: others were in the thick of it.
It suddenly occurred to me that the whole experience was like being in the back room of a gay club without the sexualisation - lots of little social transactions and (dis)connections with some people enjoying themselves more than others.
And then the lights grew brighter and, presumably after being shown the way by the performers, we all took our hoods off. We all blinked a lot, gazed at each other and smiled. The performance was over.
There was an organised disrobing. Some people left immediately. Most stayed on for the after show discussion. I did.
Generally, people were very positive about their experiences. They talked about exploration, liberation, freedom. Some had felt excluded: most had felt encouraged to participate even if they didn't take up the opportunity.
One loan voice said that the whole experience was a con as it had been deliberately set up in a way so as to encourage certain things and discourage others. Robert talked very calmly with him allowing him to vent but not dominate.
I did get a brief chance to touch base with Robert but he was on professional duty and there were a lot of people in the room who he needed to network with. At least, I had the opportunity to tell him that I had enjoyed the experience.
The following afternoon, I met up with Alex. Probably for the last time.
He is moving away from his life as a paid escort. He is retaining a very few long-standing clients and even fewer other people as friendly correspondents. I fall into this latter category. So, I shall have to begin getting used to addressing him as Leo.
Anyhow, he came to visit me in my hotel room and we disrobed and laid down together on the bed. What happened thereafter was mostly very slow and gentle. Eventually, Alex simply wanked himself off while I held and stroked him. For him, it was an intense experience: I suspect that he let go of a lot more than just a load of spunk. For me, it was a bittersweet moment of communion.
I wish that I had had more time to be intimate with Alex more often but I shall enjoy communicating with and meeting up with Leo as a future comrade.
The evening was taken up with a performance at Covent Garden.
I was there to see the first ever set of performances of From the House of the Dead by the Royal Opera. From the first announcement, I had been looking forward to attending Janáček's masterpiece having seen the classic WNO production last autumn. I just hoped that Krzysztof Warlikowski would not give us a production which was as brutal as English National Opera in 1997 and would be more nuanced like Opera North in 2011.
In the event, we ended up in a modern style prison complete with basket ball hoop and constant surveillance rather than physical intimidation as the overarching method of control. Ultimately, I found the production much too over wrought. There was far too much extraneous business on the stage fringes which was distracting on a wide stage.
Roland had said to me that he was very envious: I had to let him know that he could lose the "very" and just be envious.
Orchestrally, it was fabulous. Mark Wigglesworth used a new edition which clears out even more fuzz from the score and the sound world was utterly luminous.
The evening too was an object lesson in why some works grip far more in the vernacular. We hung on every English word in Llandudno as the prisoners told their stories. Not so here even with surtitles.
As befits an international house, we heard a cast which was equally balanced between a strong British contingent including Willard White, Nicky Spence, Graham Clark and Jeffrey Lloyd-Roberts and a contingent of performers with Eastern European sounding names.
I have to confess that, during the course of the opera and over the distance between the Amphitheatre and the stage, I fell deeply in lust with Pascal Charbonneau who played the role of Aljeja, the young Tartar who is normally sung by a mezzo-soprano. He was both the vulnerable, youngest member of the prisoners and also through a tattoo, the symbolic eagle. See the Opera North production for a similar idea.
I love the British Museum. So, after Sunday breakfast in the café in Russell Square, I made my way through Bloomsbury to the magnificent front entrance.
I mingled with the Sunday afternoon crowds and attended the Living with Gods exhibition which showed the wide varieties of practice and expression which different communities have adopted around the globe over many millennia. As with A History of the World in 100 Objects, Neil MacGregor collaborated with the British Museum, the BBC and Penguin Books to produce a stimulating intellectual summary of how it means to be human.
The exhibition provided a very satisfying conclusion to my first trip to London.
My second trip to London was both a pleasant addition to my social calendar and a sadness.
I was accompanying Roland on a trip that had been planned for him and Colin. I'm not sure that, personally, I would have grouped two visits so close together or that I would have made the effort to go and see Verdi's Macbeth at Covent Garden.
However, Colin is quite seriously ill. He has cancer in the lymph nodes in his neck. This is treatable but Colin's relationships with alcohol and nicotine do not help his body with the task of recovery. He was in no state to venture out to London. So, I went on the trip in his stead mostly because it was a fun idea but also to accompany Roland and support him simply with my presence.
It was a wet afternoon and so, with the excuse that there is no better place to keep warm and dry than a pub, Roland took me to The Ship and Shovell on Craven Passage near to Charing Cross Station.
Apart from serving quite excellent draft ale (good Badger bitter from Dorset) in surroundings that have retained many feature of earlier times, the main point of interest for this particular pub is that it exists on both sides of the street. We sat inside the larger bar on the left hand side of the passage in this photograph. The right hand side is much smaller and looks more like it is used as an overspill area these days. Nevertheless, we note and celebrate novelty as and when we see it.
I was also advised that it is not a good idea to try and say the pub's name too quickly after a few pints.
Another fine feature of the bar was the toothsomeness of both the staff and members of the clientele.
And so to Covent Garden where we met up with Roland's friend Michael who lives in London.
The Royal Opera's Macbeth is a known quantity to me from TV, video and a cinecast back in 2011. Phyllida Lloyd's production is handsome, clear and gripping from beginning to end. It really does fall into that category of production that you can return to after a reasonable period of time.
With Antonio Pappano at the helm, the orchestra whipped up a suitably electric storm around the main action and characters. The ladies of the chorus who presented the witches were fabulous.
I loved Željko Lucic's Macbeth, snarling, cavernous and baleful with a great sense of line through the musical delineation of his collapse. Ildebrando D’Arcangelo was a much better Banquo than I had expected.
After a stonkingly good performance overall, the three of us retired to the Lamb and Flag to chew over the evening's entertainment. I raised eyebrows by saying that I didn't think that Anna Netrebko was a proper Verdi soprano but that she had made a valiant attempt. I caused further upset by saying that I felt that pouting and petulance did not add up to a convincing portrayal of Lady Macbeth however expansive her décolletage was.
I was told that her voice had sounded very beautiful and that her characterisation was by turns haughty, menacing and wrathful. I countered by saying that Verdi had specifically said that the role did not require a beautiful voice but a mezzo able to achieve the darkest of colourings to her voice.
We all agreed to differ but I know that I am right.
Ha!