What wild ecstasies
A week of theatre, art, writing, friendship, and joy in London
During our week in London, I lived dangerously. I walked through Hyde Park in the dark of midnight. I trotted along Oxford Street singing at the top of my lungs. I took my weakened immune system into crowded Tubes and theatres. I ate unwashed berries at least three times. Sometimes I think Bob Dylan got it backwards – having nothing left to lose is another word for freedom.
We could not have done more, more fully, than we did. After our trip to the bridal boutique (see previous post), I saw three plays (links below), wandered an exhibit on women in the Medieval world at the British Library, met my niece/fellow author and adorable toddler cousin, saw a night of truly terrible improv comedy with friends, admired paintings of magnolias in Hampstead with a writer friend, spent an evening with a former student and her wife, watched one and a half films, wrote in a favorite café, and walked more than 21,000 steps a day. Theadora took a weeklong course on film acting at the National Youth Theatre.
We did so much it feels like we were there for a month rather than a week. There are still people I wish we had been able to see, things I wish we had been able to do, but I just have to hope I will get there again.
This isn’t to say that my body let me forget for a minute what it is fighting. I was constantly nauseated; everything except berries made me ill. My nose bled every day. My skin looked like porridge. I was exhausted most of the time. Still—I had a week without chemo! Thursday morning, I called to Theo from the shower. “Guess what I am not doing today?” My body was so grateful for the break, a chance to marshal its resources, create a few blood cells.
One of the plays I saw was Outlying Islands at the Jermyn Street Theatre, which I recommend highly. The acting was outstanding and the story fascinating. I sat next to a chatty couple who had come from a small village in Leicestershire for the weekend. They told me about caravaning around the coast of France with their dog. When the lights came up for intermission, the woman said, “Well! This is not my cup of tea.” And she and her husband left the theatre. Not even giving the second act a chance! I couldn’t even figure out what had offended them about the first act, except that there had been a death and a tiny bit of violence. But, I mean, it’s theatre. Stuff has to happen. Perhaps they were conditioned by musicals to see things that would entertain but not provoke (I say this with all love for musicals, but this couple prefers My Fair Lady, Oliver, and other old chestnuts. Trauma that is sung but not spoken).
A generous friend took us to Mean Girls, which I recommend to anyone with a teenager (I feel like I want to be a better person, was Theo’s comment when the curtain dropped), and The Lightning Thief, recommended for Percy Jackson fans. Over the last several years, I have absorbed the soundtrack for The Lightning Thief by osmosis, due to my proximity to Theo. We couldn’t get tickets to see it on the same night, so Theo saw it Thursday and I saw it Saturday and then we compared notes. We didn’t even see the same casts; we saw different Lukes and different Mr. Ds.
The only thing that marred the Lightning Thief was the family behind me. The two small boys ate from noisy bags of crisps and scrunched plastic cups in their hands for the entire first act. And then for the entire second act. As if they were incapable of watching anything without eating at the same time. With no regard whatsoever for the fact that they were disrupting the experience for everyone around them. Their mother was just as bad, eating and drinking the entire time. I had hoped they could finish their food during intermission, but no, they waited until the show started again to resume munching. I wanted to turn around and say, “this isn’t the movies! I’d like to actually hear these actors sing and talk. I didn’t pay all this money to listen to you chew.” I hate that food is allowed in theatres. It’s a sign of the decline of civilization (as if we needed more). I don’t think it’s too much to ask that people go one hour without sustenance.
At the risk of sounding like a prude, I also don’t see why people want to be drunk or even tipsy while seeing a play. I don’t want my brain numbed in any way. I want all of my senses alive and ready to be stimulated. I’m starting to feel like I’m a bit of an Outlying Island myself.
I should probably explain the half of a film. One rainy, cold morning while Theo was in class, I took myself to the Odeon to see Mad About the Boy. I just wanted to be in the dark womb of the theatre and eat popcorn, even though I had to leave an hour early to fetch Theo. I am aware that I am about to make enemies, but I strongly dislike Renée Zellweger as well as Bridgit Jones. I find her annoying and vapid. Everything about the storyline bothered me. I hated that as almost always in television it was her son who was the brainy chess player, and her daughter the silly fool (go watch Queen’s Gambit and get back to me, I wanted to say; girls can play chess!). Everything in the movie reinforced the worst, most outdated gender stereotypes. I hated every woman character. I hated how stupid and inarticulate and fucking passive Bridgit was. Why would I want to waste time watching someone who is not engaging or captivating in any way? She is not a provocative conversationalist or a reader or strong and sporty or capable. I had zero interest in what happened to her. She could fall through a hole in the earth and I would not care. It didn’t bother me at all to slip out an hour early.
But the popcorn was very good.
On our final weekend, Theo went to visit her best friend in the Cotswolds. When I took her to the train station, she insisted on staying with me on the platform until the last minute, hugging me, crying, talking. “I’m ruining my mascara,” she said.
“You’re not. T— isn’t the kind of friend who will care what you look like. You could show up in a paper bag and she would love you. She’s your best friend.”
(Caution: Undiluted sentimentality ahead)
Theo started to cry again. “You’re my best friend.” She has never said this to me before.
“You’re my best friend too,” I said.
She hugged me again. “I wish I didn’t have to go to boarding school. I want to see you every day.” Again, another first. I wish she never had to leave home. “I love you.”
“I love you more.”
“I love you morer.”
“I love you to Pluto and on into infinity.”
“I love you to infinity and back.”
“That’s not possible. Wait – is this one of those limited infinities you were talking about yesterday?” We had been discussing the infinite decimal points between one number and the next, the fact that if you keep halving the distance between two things they will never come together.
“Those really fuck with my mind.”
“Mine too. I’ll be sitting in the theatre tonight thinking about that.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“You’re going to have a great weekend. You’re seeing your best friend!”
She headed for the steps of the train. “My second-best friend.”
When she had finally boarded and settled into her window seat on the opposite side, I waited for the train to leave the station before going home.
When Theo saw me there, we started waving madly at each other. Then she started dancing and I started dancing and we passed dance moves back and forth through the train windows, like we were doing a theatre improv exercise. The other passengers turned to stare at us, but we danced and danced and played handclapping games meters apart until the train left the station.
During our trip home to France, we hardly spoke, each of us wrapped in our private dreads (chemo, school, too much solitude). Exhausted, we tumbled into Tim’s waiting arms.
As soon as I got home, I injected myself with my second dose of the haemoglobin-encouraging magic potion before curling up with my husband.
This morning, I was back at the lab, submitting blood and urine. If they ever wanted to frame me for a crime—a prolonged crime spree, even—they have so much material. My phlebotomist Laetitia hugged me. I told her about London and my fear of chemo tomorrow, and she reminded me to stay in the moment. Today I am not in chemo. Today I feel human.
The site of John-Paul Flintoff, artist, writer, Renaissance man:
https://art.flintoff.org/
Jermyn Street Theatre:
https://www.jermynstreettheatre.co.uk/?gad_source=1
The Lightning Thief:
https://percyjacksonmusical.com/
Mean Girls: https://www.thesavoytheatre.com/shows/mean-girls
Rustique Literary Café (super-friendly host, homemade glutenfree banana bread, exceptional coffee, generous portions, walls full of books, full of writers): https://www.timeout.com/london/restaurants/rustique-literary-cafe
British Library’s Medieval Women exhibit: https://www.bl.uk/whats-on/medieval-women/
Hoopla Improv (which often has hilarious as well as terrible comedy!):
https://www.hooplaimpro.com/
The Spread Eagle (porn shop Terrific Camden pub):
https://spreadeagle.pub/
Wow Jennifer! You pack in a lot--I felt exhausted reading about everything you did! So glad you got to experience so much art, love, friendship and lovely connection with your daughter.
Glorious! Doing my own dance with you all.