HAPPY THANKSGIVING
A PERFORMANCE AND A PARTY
Rehearsals for ‘War Horse, the Musical’ moved into the final furlong with Stubbins taking his part very seriously. I caught him cantering around the sunken garden, whinnying, and I knew we would get no sense from him until the wretched production was over. According to Cook he has been insisting on apples and oatmeal for breakfast instead of a fry up. If he really wants to sleep in the stables with Zim-Zam the pony I suppose it harms nobody, but in my opinion that is taking method acting a little too far. However, he returned from the dress rehearsal looking very pleased with himself and told us that every performance was a sell out. Luckily, I had bought tickets in advance and the Trehorlicks family filled the front row at the village Hall, and even Granny T came along wearing her pony club scarf.
The lights went down, and on to the stage trotted Stubbins and Mr Hobbs…not in that order, obviously.
All those rehearsals had certainly paid off.
As back end, Stubbins was in charge of the coconuts and I must say his hoof beats were very realistic.
The script, which had been adapted from the original, allowed for a certain amount of audience participation and we all booed the Germans and called out ‘It’s behind you’ when the cardboard tank drove onto the stage. What fun!
The brownies were triumphant in their guest spot. All in a line, dressed in little khaki uniforms with helmets and puttees, they sang Horsey, Horsey Don’t You Stop, while Joey was being rescued from No Man’s Land (very moving), and we all joined in with the actions. By the time Stubbins and Mr Hobbs revealed themselves at the end of the final number, Pack up your Troubles in Your Old Nosebag, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
Bravo!
Crichton Comments
What on earth was that all about?
On Thursday, Sally and Inky held another little soiree, to celebrate Thanksgiving. I have to admit that I faltered when she phoned to invite us, suspecting that we might have to endure another evening with her ghastly visitor, Walt, but no.
‘That’s the point,’ said Sally with a slightly hysterical laugh. ‘He’s gone. Inky is dropping the great lump off at Heathrow as we speak. Come and give thanks for our deliverance…we can all say nasty things about him behind his back.’
I’ve always admired her honesty.
No turkey or pumpkin pie… just canapes and cocktails, and plenty of them…by 7.30 we were all very tiddly.
I hadn’t seen poor Bunty since Guy Fawkes night and it was brave of her to come. It will be months before her hair grows back, but it seems she has forgiven Inky for the toffee apple incident. Frankly, I’d have made him sweat it out a bit longer, but I think she couldn’t resist coming to hear the gossip. She now insists on wearing my turban where ever she goes. I didn’t mind lending it, but I do worry that people will think she’s having chemo.
I sat back with my fourth cosmopolitan and a smoked salmon blini to enjoy Sally dishing the dirt.
‘Do you know, he actually asked me to do his washing by hand…you have never seen underpants so vast or so…’ she shuddered.
‘…he left one of his grey track suits behind and I’ve donated it to the Bickering players for use as a pantomime elephant…’
‘…my behind is black and blue from all the pinching…’
‘…worst of all he found my secret supply of chocolate Hobnobs and finished them off…he even had the cheek to offer me one…’
Inky roused himself.
‘This is mere trivia,’ he slurred, tossing back the last of his rusty nail and banging the glass back down on the table.
‘I caught him in my dressing room, buff naked and admiring himself in the full-length mirror… Not the way a chap needs to start the day.’
Even Bunty winced at that.
Crichton Comments
Drinks with Sally and Inky. That damn fool Walter has gone back home, thank the Lord. For some reason, Bunty came dressed as a maharajah.
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