Slightly bizarre situation this evening.
I arrived really quite early for Rigoletto and went to the terrace. Each table was occupied by at least one person, so I asked someone if they minded, and I strategically sat diagonally; he made polite conversation, and we got chatting, and we agreed we'd meet up in the interval.
For a while we chatted about operas we had seen, and so on, the occasional passing reference to life outside opera, nothing special, nothing heavy. We were chatting for nearly ¾ of an hour beforehand, and the best part of a half hour interval.
Towards the end of the interval, he outlined his dilemma. Basically, 'she's' given him a sort of fuck off; should he ring her again, he doesn't want to a pest, and I suggested that maybe cooling it for a while, but don't actually drop her. But she's only in London a short time, and she's 'not here alone', and he gave me this deeply significant look, and I did a fast rewind through our previous conversation, and realised who his 'friend, sort of, well', was and remembered whom she is very very very good friends with and I just thought "No! No! Give me the facts straight, and I can propose a solution" (I think Jimmy's proposed solution would be to punch the 'other man' in the face, and Jimmy's not a violent man, but I couldn't be having that).
And I expect I shall see my drinking companion on Friday, by which time I want to have come up with a solution. But if you look at a chain of connectivity I would really like to be at the far end, not the end I'm at.
I'd mention names, but the www is googlable.
In the meantime I missed the opportunity to say hello to a correspondent visiting from the US, who might have been able to assist in the solution, but it might have been difficult because his date for the evening was a quite famous singer whose voice-type I'm so not into I had to google his image.
Whilst I was watching the debauched first act, I got a trifle irritated by the couple alongide me who were talking rather, and, especially, at the chap, who seemed to be reacting a little like an overgrown schoolboy, which seemed a bit unnecessary in a man of pensionable age. At the end, he explained that their daughter was in the chorus and had been instructed by the assistant director to get all of her breasts out. For a moment I wondered if she was a Boleyn-esque freak with more than two breasts, but then realised he meant 'get them out completely' so here was this poor father watching his daughter cavorting topless in front of 2,000+ people.
I got the bus at Clapham Common, and three young Australian women got on, rather the worse for wear, one of them with a Smirnoff Ice in her hand. One of them declared she was going to sit in the Disabled Seat.
They started going on and on about cheese, and how cheese-rolling is a really stupid sport. I felt like saying "Don't you know, it's traditional, don't you come over here criticising our customs" but I couldn't be bothered. Some bloke queried what she had against cheese. One said "I don't even eat cheese". The one on the 'disabled seat' said if it were a choice between cheese and not having a broken back she'd avoid the cheese. I thought, don't people say some stupid things when they're drunk. She then unzipped her tracksuit jacket and showed off a metal contraption round her chest, saying "It's a back brace...Three Aussie girls come over here to follow their dream and instead they meet their destiny." Then, I noticed the one who doesn't even eat cheese had her arm in a cast.
By the time I got home I decided I'm surrounded by delusionists - one guy who reckons he's fucking a slightly famous singer who in turn is fucking a very famous singer, and three Australian girls who claim to have been seriously injured in a cheese-rolling competition.
I expect I shall wake up tomorrow and learnt that Paris are, in fact, to host the Olympics. (My spare room has already been spoken for...!)
