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No country for old women: Old Ladies - at Finborough Theatre

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The day after seeing The Old Ladies at the Finborough Theatre , I was describing the play to someone in great detail: about three old ladies who lived in a rickety house in southern England in 1935. Based on Hugh Walpole’s novel and adapted by Rodney Ackland, it is the sort of story with enough believability, humour and mild thriller to stick in your mind. Perhaps it is the lure of this dark, forboding tale of a life without money, to be alone and to be old, that makes you feel attracted to this poverty porn. But then again, given the state of the world, the cost of living, an ageing population, or just the fact that it’s a dog-eat-dog world, it might as well be an every little old lady-for-herself, too. It’s a well-acted and staged piece that moves at a brisk pace, so there isn’t much time to think about it too much. And in the intimate (or should that be claustrophobic?) space of the Finborough, there’s nowhere to avert your eyes. Even if you wanted to.  The scene is a grim Cathe...
Conversation at the Cloakroom of the National Theatre

The day after July 7, things are a little different. I was staying overnight in Streatham so I had a larger rucksack than usual...

Security: You will have to open your bag for inspection before you can leave it at the cloakroom.
Paul: Ok I just have a change of clothes in here...
Security: You will have to open up your bag and show me what's inside.
Paul: Ok well there is a polo shirt...
Security: And what's under your shirt?
Paul: That is just my jeans and a pair of shoes...
Security: Ok now open up the front zipper section.
Paul: Ok well in there are just my toiletries...
Security (also seeing several packets of Lemsip and Syndol): ... Hmm and medications...
A (walks over to Paul after observing this dialogue from a distance): Darling just tell them its your slag bag and so we can all be done with it...

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