I walked down to Millbank and realised that traffic was bad, really bad. I thought, maybe I could wait for a bus but if I walk to Whitehall I have a better choice.
Parliament Square was even more heaving with traffic and really stunk of petrol fumes. I feel terribly sorry for the people who have to work in that area. They have to endure such ghastliness and there's just nothing they can do about it. It's so pedestrian unfriendly at the best of times; tonight wasn't the best of times. I then realised Whitehall is being dug up, so had to walk to the Cenotaph for a bus stop. But there was an absence of buses going where I wanted.
Reluctantly I walked up to Trafalgar Square, every step making me hurt more and more, wondering if I would ever make it. Then at Trafalgar Square, it's like, I'm nearly there now. But I wasn't,not really. So by the time I arrived at Covent Garden, I was really set for a ghastly night. I looked in the mirror and I looked terribly hot and flustered. And felt like shit. So, if the truth be told, the idea of enduring a reportedly not very good performance of a patchy opera, whilst sitting on the somewhat uncomfortable seats of the Lower Slips, leaning over to view the action which reportedly took place all at the side. I thought,no, stick the first half, then go if it's really bad.
The next thing I knew it was the interval - Beethoven does that - and I was eagerly awaiting the second half. I shall write a more considered review when I get the time, but although it was patchy and, in places, rough around the edges, I really really enjoyed Fidelio. The Prisoners Chorus is something else, really amazing, gave me goosepimples and the most gorgeous visceral thrill.
Covent Garden Station was closed, but I managed to sail down to Leicester Square painlessly. I'm beginning to find my way around that area of London; indeed, the other week I even announced, outside Leicester Square station "I think I know where I am now..."
There are some public loos at Clapham Common but they close at night. A bloke went up to the Gents and seeing that they were closed, decided to use the space anyway, in front of about forty people at the bus stop. Finished, he turned round, half crossed the road, put himself back in again, zipped himself up and returne dto a hug from his girlfriend, standing by the phone box.
Two stops before mine, about eight people got off, to be met by two burly chaps holding up ID "We're from Scotland Yard and we'd like to ask you about an incident this time last week." I asked myself where was I this time last week. Then I remembered, lying in bed being kept awake by helicopters and sirens, in the aftermath of the murder of two Colombian brothers - a drugs thing apparently.
And, after all that, I'm still bubbling,which is proof of how brilliantBeethoven is
