That was yesterday.
I was pretty stressed out on Tuesday night, and then just when I was about to go bed, the police helicopter decided to park itself in the skies above my head. (Rumour has it they shot someone, a friend of Jimmy's, in the leg during a drugs raid in a house where this guy lets rooms).
I got himself to wake me when he went out at five, I eventually got up at about half past, and headed out via Victoria to arrive at Gatwick at 8. The check-in desk wasn't open, but it was by the time I'd got a coffee.
I was a bit nervous about my carry-on bag, because I figured it weighed more than the 10kg they allow, but it suddenly struck me. If you have no luggage to check in they actually aren't that bothered about the weight of carry on, as long as the size is standard.
I hate Gatwick South Terminal, and nothing will make me like it, but it is the terminal for cheap flights. If spending an hour in Chavland is the price to pay for cheap flights, Iâll live with it.
We were not waiting long at the Departure Gate, and the plane was less than full. All those who insist on sitting in the first few rows were squashed together, but where I was, still in front of the wing, one out of three seats was empty. The landing was sufficiently bumpy not to hurt my ears - I had a minor panic at the thought of having aeroplane ears in the evening; we arrived on time and disembarked quickly, I was able to withdraw money from the cash machine, and whilst I was having my cigarette I sussed out the bus situation. I got a €6* ticket that also allowed unlimited travel on Dublin Bus and Luas.
The bus to the city centre took little over half an hour, and then it was four stops on the tram to Smithfield. Now, that is a weird place. Part semi-derelict slum, part yuppie flats, part enormous building site. As I strolled in the sunshine, perhaps the first hint of Spring, I couldn't help thinking - everything has gone so smoothly so far, something horrible is bound to go wrong. I had seen one magpie in Drumcondra, and I started panicking, then I remembered that Irish superstitions are the opposite of English ones, then I remembered that that was just black cats, so I panicked again, then the bus pulled forward and I realised there were, in fact, two magpies.
I walked up to Chief O'Neill's, which looked rather new, clean, and nice. The sound of Mozart drifted from the bar/carvery, and I announced myself at Reception. In grave tones and with a sombre face, the receptionist said "You've been upgraded to a suite."
"Can life get any better?" I asked myself?
I went up to the suite and frankly, it was lovely. I took photos, but I'm pretty exhausted on the photo-editing front now, so those will have to wait. Actually, it was a bit gimmicky, and I would probably have got a bit fed up after a few nights, but what the heck. And then I saw the button labelled "Jacuzzi on/off". Oh yes! I exclaimed, excitedly.
I set off an a wild goose chase for corned beef and white pudding, but having no luck, I returned to the hotel for a late lunch, and relaxed in my room for a while, including having a much needed snooze. There was a CD player in the room. Actually, not that great a CD player, but you know, better than having my Walkman plugged into my ears. Any guesses at what CDs I played as I got ready?
I had planned on leaving at six, but by half five I was ready and raring to go. On the tram I received a call from Jimmy. He'd had a few, one or two, and one for the road, and decided to go into jealousy mode - understandable since I was due to be spending the evening with the person known as my 'other man'. He instructed me not to be having thoughts of other men. I reassured him that I would never have thoughts of other men, and "I love you." The twenty something woman opposite me had a giggling fit and the forty something man next to her said, "I bet you say that to all the boys." It must have been something in my tone...
I got to Custom House Quay and walked down the quays. And walked. And walked. And walked. And walked. And walked. For over half an hour. But there's only two ways to get to The Point. Walk or drive. So I walked, relieved to have broken in my brand new dainty Doc Martens (I kid you not...)
And then I joined the queue to get in. Which, actually moved quite quickly once the doors opened, at half six. First stop, buy a programme. (Very very nice, full of lovely photos...) Second stop, order interval drink, third stop get pre-performance drink.
Actually, I felt slightly squiffy (it only dawned on me today that my double was in fact 70ml...) and was rather relieved to be able to pass through the Smoking Exit (getting my ticket stamped to allow re-admission). That is where I was accosted by the Irish Independent journalist. I was reasonably pleased with what she wrote. Although the quote wasn't actually a quote, every word she wrote was a fair reflection of what I said, although I did say a lot more. I'm not quite sure how many times I said, "But I'm not obsessed..."
I then got chatting with a really nice woman who'd come up from Cork. Turns out she's a Manchester United fan, so we were commiserating each other on Tuesday's result (and wondering how Real Madrid were going to get on - they lost, by the way, oops). Then, it turns out, she's Roy Keane's cousin. We chatted some more and established that we were both opera fans, not just of nice singers who sing nice songs. Then she said, "All the Keanes are opera fans." So I said, "Even Roy?" To which she said yes; I suggested that that didn't really fit in with his image, and she gave an amused smile. So don't be surprised to find references in the future on this ere blog to 'Opera-Loving Roy Keane...'
I went inside and found my seat. The woman in front and the woman next but one (we were separated by her long-suffering sister) were chatting about Walküre, and the press coverage of the new production. We soon established that we were all properly opera fans, not just Plácido fans. We liked the look of the programme, all sharing a disdain for certain singers who just do crossover. We all agreed we wouldn't pay money to hear Pavarotti, let alone see him. The woman next-but-one, I think she was called Mary, explained to me a little about the venue. She wasn't the first person who had told me it's an awful venue, and I soon worked that one out for myself, but she said that the seats we were in were the best. It's like a barn, well, I suspect it's an old warehouse on the docks quays. With a capacity of 5000 on just two levels, you can imagine how far back it stretches. That's approaching Albert Hall capacity but without the tiers and tiers. But I think it's the only big venue in Ireland. Mary commented that the further back you go the more reliant you are on amplification, and we didn't want to hear Plácido amplified.
I asked her how strictly the venue applied the strictly no photography rule. We got chatting, and I saw after the interval she produced a camera actually more unwieldy and obvious even than mine. Talking of photography, I had checked on Tuesday the data for some of the better 'performance' pictures I have taken, and reminded myself - get the f number down as low as poss, opening the aperture. When I was in my hotel room, checking my camera I spotted this little sign on the screen 'ISO' and I remembered 'just in time' the other important factor - up the ISO. Mine usually sits on 'Auto' and generally comes out at 50, but from somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I remembered to put it up to 400. Sometimes I really have to believe there is a greater power, the god of photography. St Veronica is the patron saint of photographers...
After the interval somebody approached me and said "Are you Gert from madmusings?" So a big hello to Gabriella! Sorry I ended up rushing off at the end, I just wanted to get out, and get back to my hotel. I was thinking of that long walk back along the quays.
When I did eventually get back to the hotel, I went to he bar and asked if I could have a half bottle of wine to take to my room. When he asked me what I wanted I said, "White - well, it depends on what you've got..." He came back and said "I'm afraid the only white we have in a half bottle is this, which is rather expensive..." It was Chablis for €12. That didn't strike me as outrageous, so I said
"That would be the perfect end to a perfect day..."
Actually, the perfect end was lying in the jacuzzi, sipping Chablis, and listening to a Plácido Domingo CD. There is only one listening experience better than a Plácido Domingo CD...
I did run around the room and jump up and down a few times in hyper hyper hyper excitement. I'm still pretty hyper, you know...
I could moan about The Point as a venue, but I feel so good, I'm not going to...
* d'you like my HTML - I worked this one out intuitively
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