MARY POPPINS Musical

“I’ll stay until the chain breaks…”(Poppins M)

 

Well, for us in London and for theatre avante gardes, officionados and appreciators across the lands and oceons of our globe, the date for chains breaking has been set at Sunday 08^th January, in the year of our Lord, under the  new reign of King Charles III, two thousand and twenty three. The day my heart will break. Irreconcilably.

Whilst the villains and their henchmen of our globe rob, plunder and invade  - cause famines and wars of human sacrifice resulting in huge swathes of death and destruction, and here in blighty we attend to three new Prime Ministers in one year, a finaincial statement that sent the banks and global investment houses hurtling towards the exit gate and see house prices plumet, whilst the cost of a pint of milk and a cheese roll soar. One show has remained stead-fast in it’s unadulterated loud and proud jollity - and luckily was able to keep this show open through almost all of the tentative days of post-lock-down: MARY POPPINS has been back in London town and playing to packed out stalls for well over a year now; with at least two extensions to the run (am personally hoping to see a third and lasting extension for all eternity) – and an unashamedly bright and breezy disposition. Since October 2021 – fresh off the bounce from ANYTHING GOES over at the Barbican and in search of a new feel-good theatre experience -  who wouldn’t given the past two years of global health pandemic over-kill -  I found myself wandering along to the Prince Edwards theatre one Saturday matinee, and never wanted to leave. Am always at my most soulfully in-line when in a house of stories and storytellers. Home from home. So far been on a walk through the pearly gates of personal heaven to sit amongst the angels, the storytellers, the artists and artistes, the dancers and the singers, the all-in-ones, the inspirers, the entertainers, the dedicated lovers of entertainment for all of us for all of you, twenty three times. Hoping for many more and have already booked a seat in the gods for that fateful Sunday, the 08^th January. There will be, as there has been already, many tears and many a broken heart to have to say a final and fond farewell to this all-inspiring ensemble cast, crew, orchestra front and back of house heros! Every day come rain or shine they turn-up, for you, for us. All they ever want to do is to give us the audience the very best theatre experience of MARY POPPINS. It’s what all those unsociable hours of study, line learning, dance routine movements memorizing and playing with a cold, when it’s a partners birthday or a childs first parents evening, all to be missed and all because the dedication of such awe-inspiring tellers of stories is to give us, you, me, the audience, to sing us a song, tell us a story and make us feel good, the very best experience. The show will go on!

 

Not only does the absolute seamless synchronisity of movement astonish and amaze, but the freshness of each and every performance is like it is their opening night. Every day! Packed-full of classic theatre noir nods to and moments in time of the Yessss of a stage – sounds from a stage – thankfully not now in darkness after lockdown ended – MARY POPPINS is line after line of positive encouragement. “Anything can happen if you let it. If you need to move a mountain use a larger spade. If only we could get out of our own way . . “

With this in-mind 2022 started off on a wonderfully up-beat tempo for me. I was, at thirty eight years of life, re-born and refocused onto YOLO and to putting my personal love of stories full-stop, of all colors and shapes, into front and centre of life; rather than a secondary passion. So, by February I - middle aged balding man trying to reclaim some of his lost life in London from the early naughties when I too had danced the clubs of London town - was two musical theatre jazz dance classes in with the insanely taut, skilled and dedicated, warm and generous Christopher Tendai @chris_tendai at Pineapple dance studios –- and had luckily secured an interview to join a drama school as a Creative Producer student  - later on in life, but better late than not at all – I’m really giving life some wellie and it’s ALL, ALL, ALL, thanks to MARY POPPINS musical. Life is good. 

Well, by March 2022 I’d been injured in an accident whilst commuting to work, sufficiently enough to temporarily halt attending dance classes, and had a WiFi outage at the most crucial interview process of life to-date; mid-way through my presentation on a proposed staging of an Aesop’s fable; the Fox and the Hare - to the drama school. And could not, for the life of me, get, back, in”! Of course it would . . .I was doomed. My world ended, yet MARY POPPINS remains playing and joyfully so. 

I sit in the Gods, a lone man in a family production - which hasn’t escaped my notice – but all I see before me is the lost years of family life and simultaneously the thing in life I most want to do and am trying so hard to find a way to get involved with doing!.... as the tears fall. Am studying with a keen eye and ear every nuance, every movement and every characterisation playfully played as though observing a masterclass on physical theatre musical theatre storytelling - from up in the Gods ( have tried to attend tutoring classes at what was, once, known as the Actors Center  - and have actually rehearsed their on one occasion  - but until Spotlight credits were accrued i could not attend the majority of classes) . . 

Chatting with a front of house member at the theatre one Sunday afternoon who is absolutely gratefully supportive and reminds me not to give up. Am currently reapplying to the same drama school and very much hoping – I’ll be forty in just over a year, can see the future playing out in front of my eyes as I sit, in the gods, so, I haven’t got all day I must do it now! Whilst also hunting for a dance class to attend given the early shift work of wake-ups at 02:30 -04:00am each morning  - thus cancelling out interacting with nightlife London much and definitely halting re-joining an amateur dramatics rep company; as have done previously during life’s chapters.  Am trying to find a way, as have been doing for some years now in London to just get involved and play, learn, hone and build - to entertain , to tell, as all we just strive to do; a story and offer an audience the very best experience! 

The mind recalls the press release for a different show having to put -up its notices during those heady days of will they or won't they - call another lockdown - which read roughly:

It is with deep regret that ###@@@ has to cancel all further shows. We are are aware that the costs involved are big as audiences pay for their travel and accomodation, theatre dinner and ticket and therefore to protect the integrity of the show and to deliver you the very best possible experience we have regrettably had to cancel forthcoming shows at this time. 

The heart breaks doesn't it...and where was the suport from government?  - that's right, we were forgotten. 

Luckily, the show WILL GO ON! the lights WILL GO UP! And for theatre (story) lovers, officionados and avante guards, appreciators and practicioners alike, we now live in BRIGHT TIMES. 

Robertson Ay hastily re-stitches Berts tunic whilst Mary and Mrs Brill gently test that the flower pots do, actually, bloom on-cue..

MARY to the stage - calls the SM

Quiet on stage - calls the SM

AUTO-SPEAK over soundsystem begins

 Orchestra plays

Curtains Raise

THE SHOW GOES ON! And MARY POPPINS is an absolute Gods send to life!   

Captured In Time

Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and good night dear readers,

To be Captured In Time is to be forever young. Or so I am told. I don't believe them but hey, perhaps?!

Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in sterling health and a happiness,

Warmly Yours

@RJWardle

Out Of The Cage - An explosive NEW play by Alex McSweeney

Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight dear readers,

  Out Of The Cage is an explosive NEW play about the female munitions workers of Silvertown, London during World War One.

  Sitting warm as a sun-soaked piece of wet toast, feet soggy from underground perspiration on my commute across 'town' to Finsbury Park, I got the best view of the upstairs bar area whilst lubricating myself with a coca cola at the Park Theatre.

   I cast my eyes to the Gods to view the ceilings drooping bookshelf. No, seriously. Probably fifty-shades of rope suspended books are literally drooping down from the Gods. Introducing The Theatre by Ernest Short was the first and most prominently apt book for this occasion to capture my attentions as my eyes wandered fleetingly across the wooden countryside grotto meets Shoreditch Box Park bar area. In Finsbury Park. (Lest there be any confusions) My heart was already beginning to skip beats. My second in as many weeks (and at the time of writing this post-second affair with Out Of The Cage, approaching my thrice weekly) extra-curricular excursion  to embrace our Twenty First Century Globes'  Bard of the English written word, Mr Alex McSweeney's NEW play - Out Of The Cage.

Did I already mention the name? Out Of The Cage?

Out Of The Cage, If seen please view with a heart pump and fresh box of Kleenex.

Ps. Suspended emotions

  Alex's wanton wit and deeply psychologically inept play leaves an audience jaw dropped and flabbergasted. Dialogue driven one cannot help but become enthralled and in-tune with the characters and by progression start to look inwardly to ones self and soul for comfort and fortitude. All in one gob-stopper of a hullabaloo and what not.

 Hullabaloo not of confused dialogue or plot I hasten to amend. A hullabaloo of emotions. You understand.

   Alex's exquisite cast manage to straddle both dark and gritty drama and musical theatre - with varying degrees of musicality (not to be confused with this being a musical. It is not!), with physical theatre to an almost dance club like bassline representative of the machines these women work day after day, night after night, week after week, year after god forsaking year on. The entire all female cast (of eight) - and quite right too  - capture the gut-wrenching inequalities and hardships faced by the women of the munitions factories during World War One in an ongoing fight for Equal rights. Equal pay.

A Master Crafts-persons of their trade. The art of story telling and creation.

Now come on Annie Casteldine, we'll av none of that Hullabaloo from you dear.

  The cast capture some moments of light relief with, for one notable example, Lil' Ginny -played beautifully by Jill McAusland - as the endearing young girl of the factory who bless her kind heart spends the entire play being told to be quiet and move on, oh and scrub floors. And things. Business. Which she dutifully does " But...but . . . mum . . ."

   One further episode of joviality comes in the form of Annie Casteldine and good old Carrie Sefton played by the mesmerizingly skilled Emily Houghton and Lindsay Frazer respectively - as they become the cheeky girls of the group conducting a mini-play within a play as Carrie portrays a favourite silent movie star of hers under direction from her friend Annie Casteldine. A sisterhood is quickly established with each character assuming her position within the united arms of sisters for Equal rights and Equal pay. A whistle is harnessed as a tool to mirror the men's call to go over the top as for the women to strike and stop running the machines. Psychologically implanting the shared fight for freedoms both men and women fought.

   Interestingly Alex's in-tune mind to the era he writes in affords an audience many many moments of literary realism.  Full names used, Annie Casteldine, how dare you . . . Hullaballo . . .  what not . . . and oh so many more moments of literary magic when woven into the fabric of the play in its entirety and the consummate skill and deftly deployed art of storytelling by ALL cast members.

See, multi-skilled, multi-engaged piece of theatre. Not too dissimilar to Shakespeare himself one may posit. So I shall.

  The construction of this play has to my mind many hallmarks of a great Shakespeare script. A play by an actor for actors. Quick mood and character changes, complex characters and relationships, running scene changes, musical interludes, inopportune and wholly un-expected dollops of light relief bordering on comedy, in-fact comedy on occasion, and a chance to hark back to the silent days of cinema with physicality being the mode of storytelling in part (cinema reference plainly not applicable to Willy). . .  etcetera . . .

So, back in the bar . . .

  I sit post-performance utterly and suitably stunned. Shell-shocked one may say by the gravity of experience delivered to us by the company of Out Of The Cage. Have I mentioned the title yet? prey do tell. Have I?

  A lump in my throat and yes, a dampness to an eye forced me to silently slip away to the solitude for a cup of Yorkshire tea. In mug! To yet again be warm as a sun-soaked piece of wet toast, feet soggy from underground perspiration on my commute back across 'town'! But I would do it again everyday if I could. I felt a genuine sadness to leave these characters from a bygone era behind, on the stage, relinquished to the recess of a dark theatre until the light shines again and the show goes on in the morrow.

Well anyway's and what not, Out Of The Cage is one of the rare moments in life when a pin drop can be heard amongst a sea of silent souls. Captivated!

Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in sterling health and a happiness

I'm going out for a cup of tea
Just thee and me, and me and thee
With not wanton wit repatree
Just thee and me, and me and thee
At a quarter to three
Tootling along, no hullabaloo, along the streets of London Zoo
Just thee and me and me and thee

Warmly Yours

@RJ Wardle

The Merchant of Venice - Almeida Theatre Production

Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight dear readers,

Welcome to 2015! Here's to a fruitful and pleasurable journey.

Mhh . . .

Yes. Let's write!

   As I entered the street aptly named Almeida Street, just off the Islington - Angel connection road, clutching a steaming spiced Apple and Cinnamon tea my heart skipped a beat. So, this is what it feels like to see Shakespeare out of The Globe. The theatre itself is a sort of mixture of art deco 1920's esq reception, box office and bar area neatly situated alongside a more traditional red brick building which is the theatre proper. Seat A 22 is in my view by far the best seat in the house. My seat for the evening. Front row of the dress circle up in the gods I was centre line of focus to the array of colours and energy some ten foot below me on stage.

Opening in a Las Vegas Casino Esq stage setting I wondered what have they done to one of our bards finest comedies. Or is that comi-traj? We open to a scene initially quite disconcerting I'm sure to the Shakespeare faithful. Dressed in 1920's/30's esq attire the scene before us conjured up some mis placed inertia for an anything other than cosily furnished period traji-com. Or comi-traj. Or just plain comedy. It was to my mind though wholly enjoyable and psychologically appropriate to set-up the forthcoming gamble, turmoil and game of love about to unravel. So, a win in my book.

  Shylock was exceptional in his depictions of a Jewish money lender. Capturing the Yiddish accent, the stoop of a man weighed down by society yet still able to conduct a hilarity to his role.
Was he a convincing Shylock? Not in my view.
Was he a convincing character in its own right? Yes indeed. And hugely watchable.

As the play unfolded we were treated to a rising settee where Portia and Nerrisa sat as if gazing to a camera, taking on an 'Old wives Tale'  meets an evening in front of Cilla. Match maker Cilla Black from the 1990's Blind Date of course. You understand.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas attired as 'the boys' sat in a would-be car ready to journey to Belmont in search of love. And the humorously exuberant Vincenzo Nicoli as The Duke strutted about the stage in a dazzling array of energies and humour,matched only by his severity in the trial scene.

At the climax we saw Scott Handy as Antonio attired in a USA Orange onesie. Sorry, prisoner uniform, strung up like a sack of soggy spuds to a chain awaiting his pound of flesh to be ripped from his heart by Shylock.

Sadly not. Insurance. Oh no, apologies, its not actually in the story  is it. That shylock actually gets his pound of flesh, so Insurance can settle back down behind there clipboards.

For me, Vincenzo Nicoli(The Duke), Emily Plumtree (Nerissa) and Susanna Fielding (Portia) rip-roared my attentions into an array of exasperated exuberance. A constant desire and longing to jump down from A 22 and join in at playtime. Scott Handy as Antonio acted as a central focus point for me. When Scott was on stage my eyes followed his silent but deadly expression. Loud voice too. He is one who can most definitely be heard at the back of the room dear! Annunciate!

It is "Among the most exciting productions of the last decade." Michael Billington, The Guardian

Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in sterling health and a happiness

Warmly yours

RJ Wardle

IS THIS THE WORLDS SHORTEST STORY?

Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,

Dear diary (blog),

'I awoke'.

On this note I bid you farewell dear friends. For now.

Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in good health and a happiness

Warmly yours

RJ Wardle

WHY? WHAT? HOW?

Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,

Dear diary (blog),

 
When in the study of science, 'the art of no definitive answers', it appears something of a repetitive strain injury to continuously ask the question why?  What does this mean/tell us? How does this enhance our understanding(s) - of the given discipline within the wider spectrum of sciences - of which there are many.

   When in the study of poetry, individual poets from our seemingly embedded cannon of English Literary magnets, novelists, playwrights and others, it again appears something of  a repetitive strain injury amongst both scholars and keenly interested parties (myself included) to ask the very same questions as scientists and other interested parties (myself included) as noted above:

• why?  
• What does this mean/tells us? 
• How does this enhance our understanding(s)

   I turn these questions over to your good selves dear readers, to ponder on for a little moment.

..............passing of time representative of your moment.................................................

   So, any thoughts?

 Good, well I shall continue in the fashion to which I hope you have by now become accustomed to from this pen, (laptop strokes on its keyboard). This is to write, in blindly oblivious to the outside worlds views thanks to not as yet having been able to gage your views - I only hope in my most passionate of humble wishes it inspires, challenges and is of some small interest and use to you - in this bold and forthright transplant operation of my thoughts to this screen.

   Fear not the blank page!

   It will be filled!

   William Shakespeare of Stratford-Upon-Avon circa. 1564. Is by all far and wide reaching postal, sorry, colossal, analysis by people such as myself, PHD students, Doctors of literature - Dr. Funny applicable term I know. Maybe they can assist my current transplantation? - as a transcending and 'universally applicable genius.

 Theatre goers and even those as yet disaffected, unaffected, by this great bards genius are aware if not also in love, with his words if not the dead man himself. (Myself included) 

'...this great bards genius.' REACTIONARY STATEMENT. Last seen being the sole view of the author and not representative of anyone other than this pen (laptop strokes on its keyboard).

• why?  
• What does this mean/tells us? 
• How does this enhance our understanding(s)

  

  In order to answer each of these three questions with the depth and breadth of research required may indeed consume this already consumed customer of Shakespeare's works, an inevitable lifetimes time. 

 I turn these questions over to your good selves dear readers, to ponder on for a little moment


...........passing of time representative of your moment........................................

  Are we all on track? No. Ok we can wait.

.......... passing of time representative of your moment (Part 2) ......................

  Ok, So perhaps Shakespeare is considered as afore mentioned - you do not of course have to agree - because his subject choices are so generic they are applicable across the ages.

 Relationships. 

Would be just one key subject choice of note. 

What do I mean?

Well, in my view (I can of course only write what I think and feel. All words unless otherwise cited are that of this pens and not representative of anyone other than this pen unless cited) whether we be viewing - as his plays are written to be played not read - a tragedy such as Macbeth, a history play such as Richard III or a comedy such as As You Like It, one key denominator is Shakespeare's complex and psychologically engaging multi-layered characters. As a result of these we are treated to an all consuming multitude of relationships, breakdowns, loves, losses, doting, rebuking, indeed all if not more of the very same relationship trials and tribulations we can all resonate with. 

All. If overused please pass by without affection.

   So if this be the case, why do we consider something so engendered and ritualistic as relationships and there applicability to us all as a starting point in the exploration in search of 'the truth' of the meaning behind the bards plays, sonnets, literary works?

What is he trying to tell us? 

I laugh out loud at this. In my minds eye Shakespeare is tutting and chortling over a manuscript as he ponders over what, in 2014, people would try to define as his art of no definitive answers. His words. Purely and deliciously inter-interpretable. 

And so he continues to chortle and laugh in my mind. 

Thanks for that!

 Whilst this is to me quite funny, in a childish sort of way, let it not detract from the sincerity of his achievements and my devoted enjoyment of this great man of words, words. 

  Could it be, that because we all have relationships, in all forms, we can, across the borders of time, geographical location in our great globe and access to Shakespeare's works, all be affected by the complexities of relationships for the better or for the worse? And by progression as a result of this resonance, we can all find an affinity with Shakespeare?

On this note I bid you farewell dear friends. For now.

Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in good health and a happiness

Warmly yours

RJ Wardle

UNIVERSALITY OF TIME

Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,

Dear diary (blog),

The universality of time is indeed cyclical and continuous. It affects us all no matter where inthis beautifully lushes globe we currently reside.This update, whilst brief will, I believe, and I hope you can see this too, encapsulate both the fragility, the beauty and the power of life.

Said in 'the bards' - William Shakespeare - own words:

Prospero:

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstancial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are sich stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

Shakespeare, W. The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148-158

On this note I bid you farewell dear friends. For now.

Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in good health and a happiness,

Warmly yours

Peace Friends X

RJ Wardle

AILEEN MAY WARDLE - 1922-2014

Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,

Dear diary (blog),

Time.

   What is time?  I mean, what is time really all about?

It cannot truly be quantified, at least not in my jaded view. By this I mean we cannot get time back. Each moment passes us by and is lost to us. So what is time?

Time to get ready for work. Time to see friends, time to visit places of interest, time to meet a partner and grow a family, and then we look back and we think. My, where did all that time go? Didn't that go quickly.

  You may sense some underlying sense of frustration in this months update. You would, dear reader, not be mistaken.

 It was this last month that we lost our dearly loved Grandma, mother to my father, wife to granddad Sidney (deceased in the latter part of the 1990's), sister to Phyllis (deceased some ten years previous) and Pam, aunty to several cousins, and life-long friend to a one Win Windybanks of Dorset. England. So, yes, I am not ashamed to write it is with some sense of frustration and longing for a time lost to us that my quil falls upon this tea-stained parchment paper. Otherwise known - in this day and age - as tapping away on this laptop. My how the times change.

   As a young boy I remember with clear twenty-twenty vision the sights, smells, ambience and adventures we all shared. Grandma's famed roast dinners, with proper, thick gravy. Her chuckle and warm smile as I would enter her living room having dressed-up and done my hair like a one Elvis Presley - she did not know, or rather, I thought she did not know, that I had also used her hair-spray - Granddad singing old war tunes to us and regaling me with tales of adventure as we all strolled out together for miles through local woods.

Sleep overs at my grandparents were a magical mystery tour all of its own. Possibly of no real interest to anyone other than myself, but still, hey, each to their own.

So, time. As much as all of my heart and mind yearns to get this time back, to revisit that age - the 1980's & 1990's specifically - their home, the home where my dad grew-up, the home where my grandparents lived most of their married life together, the home I first new as Grandma and Granddad's home, this time is lost. Gone. Vamoosh.  Sad but true. So, as I sit here, deep in thought, I have two choices as I see it. I can live for a time that is lost, and believe me readers I have spent far too much time doing this and I can wholeheartedly dissuade you from trying it. It is a lost cause. Or, I can do as I am doing, that which my Grandma would wish for me to do. And I can live. Relish each special moment of time, cherish the opportunities that present themselves and go out and create my own luck, my own opportunities and rejoice in the luxury of life. Not to be confused with the luxuries of life. I mean the luxury simply of living and breathing. A whole world is out there and as a sprightly young thirty something I can wholeheartedly write to you in my grandma and granddad's memory I shall go forth in to this world carrying the warmth of that time with me, no one can take this away, and attempt to live a life that is stimulating, helpful to the many not the few and brings me some mild sense of contentment and happiness.

   In-keeping with a previous update 'It's All A Bit of a Knot' I am not sent to depress literature, I am merely using this months update as a tool to convey to you some small semblance of what life has thrown at us these past moments of time since the last update.

  Please do not confuse the seriousness of the content in this for anything other than what it is. A literary note to oneself as a public record of the emotions associated with the loss of Aileen May Wardle at 11:30 pm GMT on Tuesday 29th July 2014 aged 92.

What will be will be.

On this note I bid you farewell dear friends. For now.

Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in good health and a happiness,

Warmly yours

Peace Friends X

RJ Wardle

A UNITY IN TIME, A HEARTACHE AND A PLEASURE ALL-IN-ONE

Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,

Dear diary (blog)

   Where or where do I begin?

  So much has happened over these last weeks.

I have attended a large family wedding somewhere not too dissimilar to Downton Abbey, passed through to a final year of study and read some amazingly insightful books, including one which has truly taken me. A unity in time, a heartache and a pleasure all-in-one. Caitlin Davies' The Ghost of Lily Painter.
         
                                          

   A story centred around the lives lived during the course of a little over a hundred years in one house in London just off the Holloway Road. During this gripping page turner of a story we the reader are treated to a lesson in  local and national history. One resident during the first part of the twentieth century kept a journal allowing the reader to feel like they are a part of this moment in time. The journal starts on January 28th 1901, right at the time our dear old Vic - Queen Victoria - died. Dear old Vic died on the 22nd January 1901 sending the country into a state in mourning. The keeper of this journal, a Police Inspector, notes :

"It is a way to record day-to-day events, in what I trust will be a manner much interesting for posterity."

   Davies utilises the literary technique of this journal and the surrounding characters related to it, namely the inspector, his wife and their lodgers, as a truly fascinating tool providing a harmony between their time and the time of 2009 when the modern-day protagonist, Annie Sweet, moves in to this house and finds herself unravelling the history within the place she has bought.

   Using a history centre Annie finds information to strengthen her knowledge of her house and to ascertain who Lily Painter was. This is achieved by her use of a microfiche  machine. In realising that perhaps the past is not so far removed from her present it was with a real sense of pleasure and also, I might add, a personal attachment to this particular thread of plot, I followed Annie's, Lily's and Molly's lives in search of a shared goal.

   What particularly took me with Davies' work is the way she interlinks with, as far as I know, a factually accurate retelling of life in this part of London at this time whilst showing and telling the reader of the developments that have come to this street and area of London in the intervening years. Told through the eyes of several rounded and engagingly presented characters relevantly characterised in each time.

   Davies introduces 'modern-day' life in this area thus:

"Holloway Road, a London Street if ever there was one, a litter blown artery into the City, a road clogged with trucks and buses where every tenth vehicle is a police car or an ambulance..."

   For me at least as the reader of this story this description coupled with that which I have shown from the journal, encapsulate the overarching unity of time this story so brilliantly captures. To be of interest to the many not the few.

   The Holloway Empire, where once a one Lily Painter, a young aspiring music hall star who used to live at this house performed at, which then becomes the Odeon Cinema, the place our protagonists of the early Twenty First Century, Annie Sweet and daughter Molly go to watch movies. Molly, like Lily, has aspirations to be on the stage, and so, in Davis' consummate adept and technically in-tune use of plot-lines and language, weaves a narrative that is not only historically accurate and revelatory, but teaches the reader, or is that guides the reader? to an understanding of the harmony between the past with the present and no doubt, the future.

   Once I had finished this book, I did in all honesty have a lump in my throat. It is something of a rarity that I can write a book has captured me to the point I feel a deep and raw sadness. To close the characters and lives they lead back into themselves within the closed pages of a book makes me truly sad!

I can think instantly of just two in the last six months that make me feel like this.

Caitlin Davies, The Ghost of Lily Painter - of course - and Sebastian Faulks Birdsong

  This written it is also with a slightly self-congratulatory nod of appreciation, I as can you, have the luxury of re-reading.

On this note I bid you farewell dear friends. For now.

Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in good health and a happiness,

Warmly yours

Peace Friends X

RJ Wardle

IT IS ALL A BIT OF A KNOT.

Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,

Whilst it never fails to humble me, this time of year, this particular year, 2014,utterly combusts me.

  Having recently commemorated the 70th anniversary of the D-Day Landings, on Normandy beaches, in France during World War Two, we are in the month of June, which marks the centenary of Archduke Franz Ferdinand's assassination. June 28th 1914, marking the beginning of World War One. Although Britain did not declare war until the 4th August of 1914.

  A book I recently fell into is Robert Harris' An Officer and a Spy. Composed as a fictional retelling of 'the most infamous miscarriage of Justice in History,' that of the conviction of Jewish officer, Alfred Dreyfus, for treason in France 1895. This acted as the precursor to the disharmony, subsequently catapulting Europe in to a World War by afore mentioned assassination of 'The Duke.'
   Now, I hesitate to linger on this as it sounds far too much like politics and religion, nothing wrong with this but there are other vehicles for it. This written it is an almighty clanger of miscarriage if ever there was a clanger. Clanger, not to be confused with hanger, you know, for coats et cetera. Or maybe shirts, skirts and jackets? I write this currently diving out of the way of yet another author sent from afar to depress literature, so said he of Blake. Written in the margins of a tattered old - 'traditional' - book. Suffice as to write An Officer and a Spy is in my view, well worth a read. Or re-read. Or re-read the read you have read. It is up to you.

  So, where do we find ourselves in this sort of vacuum between commemorations? Rejoicing and cherishing life. That's where.

  As if by some unjust rod plucked from my bleeding heart (depressing literature again are we?) I find myself feeling something other than sad. I find myself equal. In spirit and in action. I do hesitate to go further along the lines of the word spirit, so we shall simply call it a spirit-level. You know, like a builder would use to level a wall. Or a floor. Again I pause for thought over deploying the word plethora. Plethora is apparently a word used most widely by students to show their understanding of the English language. With all it's multitudes of plethoras' of possibilities. I am indeed also a student, as such I respectfully decline from using the word plethora. If seen please feel free to report the word Plethora to trading standards. Or some other such body of precision.  For more visual imagery of the word plethora read ART FOR ARTS SAKE?... please click here:  http://robertjameswardle.blogspot.co.uk/2014/05/art-for-arts-sake-surely-not-thats-no.html

   Another word I fell upon, many many summers ago, is ramifications. The complex consequences of actions. Or there about.

This word, is a continuously useful word and as such I shall deploy it now.

I hope very much the ramifications of a novel I am continuing with, and a script I am co-writing, both come to fruition bringing pleasure and stimulation of emotion to the many not the few.

On this note I bid you farewell dear friends. For now.

Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in good health and a happiness,

Warmly yours

Peace Friends X

RJ Wardle

ART FOR ARTS SAKE? SURELY NOT! THAT'S A NO VOTE FROM ME.

Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,

   Art for art's sake is not an expression I find any resonance with. For me art is, or at least can be, found pretty much anywhere I look. It is for me at least a source of constant expression and comfort. My art is my words. Quality always subjective.

   ART: The angle of a chair, displayed/hung in traditional 'art galleries,' watching a squirrel skip playfully down from a tree in nearby St James' Park -London Uk - art is then interpretation. Surely?

   Often I hear people saying beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, beauty is only skin deep, art is purely subjective. Well, I can take the points these statements make without having to agree can't I?

  We live in a very culturally diverse city, us London folk, although dear friends, please do not forget, I am a proud Yorkshire man, raised and schooled in a field near York. So traditionally I am indeed, a countryman. Although currently skipping about in London.

   Subjectivity is also applicable to most things, not just art. My reality is different to your's and your's is no doubt even slightly different to your neighbours. Does this make art?

Does reality constitute the label of art?

What's with all the questions this month dear man? I hear you sighing, whilst instantly raising your blood pressure as you have no doubt just noted I initiated this sentence with yet another question.

Damn fool.

That was you thinking not me writing by the way.

  Subjective, personal opinion and perspective only, here is the raw emotion afore mentioned with reference to art being purely subjective.
 
   Are you feeling the same as me, your neighbour, or even the same as you felt a second ago?

   Quite possibly not.

   Adding to these emotions comes the plethora of 'outside influences' upon our lives. How, or maybe this is just me, life seems circular. That is to write, history repeats itself, trends resurface, what was widely accepted as a 'shocking' piece of art or an inappropriate 'art-form,' can, by afore mentioned outside influences, resurface hundreds of years later to become widely acknowledged as 'amazing - ground-breaking - revolutionary.'

   The way in which I view the world here in London changes minute by minute, borough by borough, more often than not, from street to street, I find myself skipping through multiple arts and multiple realities.Does this mean that reality constitutes art? Well, if anyone who has taken a brief moment to read this, for which you are eternally thanked, has ever been to Shoreditch -LondonUk - you will have cause to resonate with my question. At least I hope you will.

   An eclectic haberdashery, haberdashery, is this a word? Ok enough questions, of art, multiple realities and multiple persona's. In my as yet somewhat limited experiences of life in London, Shoreditch is for me a place of relaxation, breeding creative stimulations. And no dear friends, creative stimulations are not found in a pub. Well, not always. Merely being on the east side streets of Shoreditch one encounters all walks of life, in all styles of expression, wearing all manner of era's clothing with mismatching shoes and haircuts to boot.

Art then. In my subjective perspective opinion, is everywhere, in everything, we just have to open our minds to embrace it.

This IS NOT me. Ashamedly afraid to write.

Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in good health and a happiness,

Warmly Yours

Peace Friends X

RJ Wardle

ONE BIG ADVENTURE

Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,

  Well, wow, Easter is here again.

Is it just me or does anyone else feel this year to be flying past their eyes and ears with no pause for refuelling?

Having embraced both a plethora of books, written words and thank the lord, some concerted efforts to continuously embrace theatre land here in London Uk, at last, my life - for what interest it is to you dear friends I do no know - has become something of an unusually pleasurable variety these last months since Christmas.

   As I write this to you now, I sit at mum's new breakfast bar, in her newly refitted country kitchen, see COUNTRY KITCHEN LIVING blog post Tuesday 10th Sept, 2013. Thea, my parents new puppy, has grown immeasurably to the size of a small ship in stature. She always was due to become a full sized lady of the house. My dad, in true country gentleman style that he radiates, has just brewed a lovely pot of steaming tea, from a red tea pot to a mug, and mum, bless her gentle soul, is playing chase the puppy with Thea around the coffee table in the living room.

Are you riveted by this? No, I thought not.

Am I at peace in the loving arms of my family amongst the rolling hills, babbling brooks and bails of somewhat damp hay this rainy Easter Sunday? Yes you bet I am.

 As far as I can tell life is one big adventure with a dollop of what I loosely term, admin. Admin seems to grow the older I get. You know, the finding a home, paying bills, settling down, raising a family side of life.

Am I being purposefully reactionary writing that? Yes.

Why? Well, I yearn to be a quiet family man. To share my life with another and hopefully raise children to  appreciate the beauty of beautifully peaceful English countryside.

So why write such a hard-line, admin comment then I hear your wonder? Well, I use the word admin loosely. As mentioned above.

Why? Well, as already written, as far as I can tell life is one big adventure. So, the admin growing as the years pass me by only serve to enhance what I can see is the adventure known as life.

Recently it has been with a warm smile and a positive beat in my heart that London is ever striking me as a beautiful playground of opportunities.

So, back to the admin. Perhaps I should call admin, essentials?!

Time and tide waits for no man. Except in my small world where a fear is that this staple essential desire to be a loving family man may prove never to realise itself upon me.

Whatever happens I have to write to you dear friends, life is at last becoming one big adventure. The essentials I feel will only come if I embrace the adventure.

So embrace life I shall.

Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in good health and a happiness,

Warmly Yours

Peace Friends X

RJ Wardle

TWELVE ANGRY MEN & I

Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,

Where oh where do I begin? So much has stimulated me since last I wrote to you.

Fully-embraced three plays. One of which twice, Pole Factor - BLOW-IT-UP YOUR POLE FACTOR. One of which was my very first Shakespeare in London, King Lear - SHAKING-UP THE GLOBE. And one of which was a birthday treat, my father, Twelve Angry Men and I at The Garrick Theatre in London UK's West End -Theatre land!

Somehow I managed to find myself with several beautifully passionate, dedicated, inspirational and loving new friends. I say friends, we are still in preliminary stages of 'getting to know you.' I like to believe the genuine shared passion for words, stories, will unite us for many years to come. Crumbs have I jinxed it? Probably!

  Since first I wrote I hope you by now understand if only through this page, how intrinsically important family, the countryside and good old Yorkshire down to earth, a spade is a spade'ness is to me.

Spade'ness, is this a word?  . . . spade'ness, first used by RJ Wardle  Copyright 2014.

Keep it real. Really does resonate.

I really do hope.

Entering into a life spent with words is after all, more than just a cosy dream. It is with every inch of my mind, heart and soul an all encompassing mind-mapped goal I strive continuously to build. Go out and create my own opportunities. Don't wait for them to come to me, find them!

As I believe I wittered on about three updates ago in WAKING - UP IN LONDON.

Some weeks ago my much loved father and I skipped along to embrace possibly one of the greatest dialogue driven plays we have seen together in years.

With a cast of, funnily enough, twelve men, all playing jury service members in a murder trial in an American Court during the early 1950's. We the audience were collectively gripped by the gritty, at times sporadically sparse, at times elongated monologues delivered in a noticeably calm and fluid fashion. As was the movement more akin to a flock of geese floating through a pond than twelve angry men stomping about a stage. I blinked and the centre-stage long desk had silently, unnoticeably turned from lengthways to sideways. Robert Vaugh, a face I know well from his day's as Napolean Solo (Great name) in The Man From U.N.C.L.E (a 1960's american television series) shuffled, and yes I do literally mean shuffled about the stage remaining largely silent. But my, how his presence radiated throughout the theatre. All eyes were on him. Where on the stage is he? What is he doing? Not a lot largely. Took a loo break, washed his hands - I believe this is known as 'business.' On this point: most the cast frequented the sink, toilet and water cooler quite a lot. Quite a lot of business. Business? Vaugh doesn't need business. Nor does he require a ream of monologues, he is within his very fibres, a solid time-served man of words. Remaining seated at the table, after his loo break of course, silently scribbling notes before coming out with mostly one line nuggets of gold, like, 'Maybe he wanted to be noticed?'

   As the play climaxed, perhaps rather unsurprisingly, most the men originally . . .   no wait, that would be a spoiler. And like Agatha Christie's The MouseTrap, I personally feel I should respect the privacy of the conclusion so as it remains a luxury of those that are seated in the audience to know.

Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in good health and a happiness,

Warmly Yours

Peace Friends X

RJ Wardle

SHAKING-UP THE GLOBE

Good morning. good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,

 This specific blog is something of an elongated, at times arguably self-indulgent review of a fantastically forward-thinking engagement of Shakespeare's King Lear. Just in-case you are in any doubt.

 As a lover of stories it was with a somewhat childlike Christmas day feeling I skipped out to embrace my first Shakespeare play last Thursday evening, man-flu in-tow. Storytelling by any and all means engaging the many not the few, starting with our children, as I was once engaged by my primary school teacher, Mrs Sarah Carlisle in 1989 to the enchanting world of words. A passion deeply routed, further back in my subconscious to the bedtime stories of the mid nineteen eighties. The Famous Five, Rupert The Bear, The Far Away Tree and many other such inspirational texts up to and including my own pleasures of writing short stories at this time, Inspector Kipper. Rather, the wonderful worlds created with words. Stimulating the imagination, the almost dream like quality of theatres, It's that dressing-up-box again, why do I instantly think of Helen Mirren's acceptance speech at the BAFTA's this year (2014)? Not only did Mirren engage her audience to think of their individual inspirational teacher, that did, as Mrs Carlisle did for me, engage them to their passion for literature, for stories, worlds created with words to be enjoyed, created, read, listened to and played. Mirren also quoted with pin-drop emotion, a section from Prospero's monologue in Shakespeare's The Tempest:

 Prospero:

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158

   A new yet dear friend of mine recounted recently how he felt Shakespeare's works that have lasted five hundred or so years, will, in his view [and mine], last another five hundred. Continuing to bring pleasures and educational values as we current human infiltrators of our globe have long since been 'rounded with a sleep.' As I believe you shall see from the quote above, Shakespeare was well aware of life's false realities and time-limits.

   This same friend also informed me a play review should be concise and not name any individuals. Well, I respect your views dear friend, I truly do. I am simply a passionate man behind a page (usually safest) but in my little world, a Yorkshire man skipping about in London finally engaging oneself for I hope a long life with words, I should like to thank publicly, for any who care to read, some of the talents on offer, for any who care to embrace, in The Network Theatre's - King Lear.

   'The bards' timeless qualities transcending boundaries, he wrote to be played, it was with a shaky skip in my step I ventured out from behind a page last Thursday evening. Not, I hasten to write,to The Globe. At the initial time of conception, Shakespeare's Globe Theatre was aptly and not by chance named as such due to discoveries by adventurous explorers within our globe, it is not flat for example. All encompassing, as are his works.

   It is worth noting as we mark the 450th anniversary of the bards birth this year (2014) and the 400th anniversary of his death in 2016, London has been shaking-up with Shakespeare with no-less than three King Lear's (I know of) playing in the first months of this new year. In conjunction with a plethora of Shakespeare plays, events on and off stage in celebration of in my view, a genius of words.

  Located at a hidden 'secret gem' theatre aptly named The Network Theatre, again, like The Vaults, underneath Waterloo, a London Uk train station, it is a soul-enchantingly characterful venue. And yes, indeed, with some delightfully impassioned characters within. The curtain will go-up, the show must go on.This King Lear was an intimately cut version by the talent with words that is dear Bernie as she is affectionately known. Bernie's right-hand women in the scrupulously meticulous production we all embraced last Thursday (27th, February, 2014) informed me as something of a newcomer to theatre visits here in London, Bernie is one of those people you meet and would instantly trust and do anything [within reason] for. Well, having been captivated twice now by the genuine down-to-earth, no airs or graces, the words are the important part of this not me character she radiates, I am sure she must be from Yorkshire, I can humbly agree with you. To meet with any like-minded soul, in this case Bernie and the company/ audience of/ at King Lear, who share an unstinting commitment to and love of creating worlds with words, storytelling, it is indeed in my view, all about the worlds with words.

   Let the words speak for the man - as I say to any who care to listen. Not all that many I hasten to write in jovial whimsicality. Mum and dad perhaps.On occasion.

  This written, Bernie's almost as intimate as two naked lovers relationship with Shakespeare's words, afforded an engaging cut from the three/four hours full-length to a more modest two hour inc. interval production. Seamless, would be one word I would use. Engaging, easily accessible plot line, a running commentary more-akin to a BBC news feed commentary box running behind the actors, the comedic nuances played anything other than discreetly by Mark Johnson as Edmund served to lighten an otherwise densely pact text for this particular newcomer to Shaky. A multitude of characters all in synchronisation with each other physically, emotionally and spatially

   As the story un-folded, cast engagingly mocking Lear, played to precise engagement of the absurdities of his characters actions by Michael Mayne. Lear himself at times mocked his own demise, with that dressing-up box reappearing again and again. We enjoyed an army of soldiers, a luminous pink nightgown, many different suits and a denim jacket wearing, woolly-jumpered crutch in this story.To the untrained eye acting as tools, in conjunction with the precisely woven parchment of cut script, the running-commentary box, and two pictures of London's skyline adorning the wings stage left and stage right, to bring this particularly complex play to the many not the few. Including this one, me.  Now surely this is what we strive to achieve. To maintain and grow as widely as possible the magic of worlds within words in this case, that Shakespeare has left us.

In Shakespeare's own words - via Lear,

  'Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say'

   Until we meet again through the page, I trust this finds you in good health and a happiness,


   Peace Friends X



 

BLOW-IT-UP YOUR POLE FACTOR

 Good morning. good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,

    In search of creative stimulation I skipped along not once but twice the other week to what can only be described as a magical underground labyrinth of caves. Otherwise known as The Vaults, under Waterloo, a central London (Uk) train station, to embrace my first play of the year.

 Walking off the main thoroughfare of a cold, dark February evenings busy London high street with all the sirens, tooting car horns, shouts and general busyness of the main arena, I submerged myself down a flight of damp stone steps. Confronted with a Batman esq style, legally graffiti adorned walled, characterful creative heaven, home to several 'moody' caves, each one playing a different play as part of the Vault Festival 2014. It did not escape me this underground world was indeed a beating heart of the arts. Friendly, enticing, stimulating, frankly, a home from home full of like-minded souls with a passion for creating worlds with words.

 I entered the cave my ticket told me to go into almost as if I had stepped back in time to a modern day Dickensian London. Anyone seen old Bill Sykes?

Reviewing the situation:

   Originally composed several years ago, amidst a tumultuous social climate here in the Uk, Nazish Kahn's Pole Factor, the play I was here to see, is located in a fittingly 'alternative' ambience deep within these caves. Adorned with a tapestry of green, brown and yellow cloths draped nonchalantly across the back of the stage creating a mood one may assume is that found within a Bedouin tent out in a desert. Reenha Lalbihari as the alluringly feline-like Coco, would indeed look perfectly at home in such a tent as her physical skill and deftly timed alluring romance with the pole suggested. Or a circus trapeze artist. A low rumble of  trains overhead added to the everyday struggling Londoner atmosphere. Set in a living room with minimal props save of course for a battered old sofa and a towering silver pole, Pole Factor is a shattering social commentary on the struggles facing people of Islamic faith here in the Uk. Juxtaposed with our 'celebrity' 'Talent show' driven, some may say obsessed culture. I write nothing of the plethora of 'reality' television shows.I write nothing of the plethora of 'reality' television shows. In jovial humour.These two themes transposed against each other allowed the audience to resonate with this play. At least I did. We have all I imagine, at least heard of the X-Factor if indeed we have not seen it. And we have all at least caught a fleeting glimpse of the news, or a newspaper, over the last eight years or so, enough to realise racial tensions have been a recurring news piece.

   Played from the perspectives of Hanif, a young Islamic faith Londoner constantly berated and misunderstood over his desire to set up a mosque football team. The football team, to my understanding is a beautifully empowering metaphor for unity. Coco with her desire to become famous through the talent show. And Max, the archetypical stereotyped controlling boyfriend constantly struggling to be taken seriously. All tempered by fellow contestant on Pole Factor, Gina. Balancing the dramatic tensions Gina herself is engaged with whilst adding a welcomed whimsical yet always engagingly played comic aside. Actress Fiona McGee creates a heart-warming multi-faceted character . It was a stimulating educational experience for me, telling the otherwise largely untold plight of people with Islamic faith here in the Uk, so often side-lined by mainstream commentaries.

   The physicality of the characters played with consummate timing by Fiona McGee and Farhan Kahn specifically, drew me in to the at times subtle comedic undertones of what is otherwise a hard hitting, tense piece of social narrative drama mixed with doses of physical theatre. Its that circus again. There was, I noticed on my second visit to embrace Pole Factor, one audience member who spent the entire second half with his jaw dropped to the floor. The peripeteia moment comes as Coco is pushed savagely to the sofa of this would-be living room. Complemented with real life rumbles from a passing train her boyfriend Max, a lapsed Islam faith young man played eerily accurately by Ian Baksh, violently spreads her legs adopting a position we are all familiar with. Tense moments such as this, coupled with Coco's entrapment within the would-be living room served to justifiably shock this audience as we caught a glimpse of terrors facing some women in our society. The moodily atmospheric location of this cave did wonders for juxtaposing the false-realities of 'Celebrity culture,' whilst simultaneously becoming a power house of accurate dramatic social commentary. The have-nots' striving to become the have's via the talent show Pole Factor.

   Nazish Kahn writes with an intimately engaged ear to our multi-faceted society. She composes a multi- layered commentary on THE KEY ISSUES of today we can all resonate with, whilst imparting the intensive pin-drop moments a subject matter such as this deserves. Allowing the audience to be pulled along with the characters individual and joint onwards struggles as the story unfolds with moments, within this rumbling engine, of subtle humour. Kahn plainly has the wider social picture firmly in mind.

Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2014, fasten your seat-belts. Again!

Until we meet again through the page, I trust this finds you in good health and a happiness

Peace Friends X

WAKING-UP IN LONDON

Good morning. good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,

'Wake-Me-Up Before You Go-Go,' opening lines from the much sung song of the 1980's here in the Uk, 'Wake- Me-Up Before You Go-Go' London serves to encapsulate a metaphorical literary call to arms for me. London is after all, such a large dollop of creativity and opportunity all in one large dollop. Did I write dollop? Did anyone read the word dollop?

   With ears ever open to the world around me, constantly embracing/recognising little snippets of a conversation, replaying mini-scenes over and over in my mind up to and including set design with enter/exit moments upstage left or downstage right, creating from these snippets lines of dialogue, plot-lines one two three four and sometimes five. Themes, more often than not mind-mapping an entire detailed synopsis complete with back-story, locations and character descriptions complete with back-story, embracing visually any and all sights I happen across all subconsciously and indeed more-often-than-not, consciously mind-mapping them into words in my mind then at the first available opportunity, to a page.

   Then of course we have networking. Who needs to read these words to stand the best possible chance of someone reading something they enjoy, have a use for, and ultimately feel passionately enough to allow me the honour of writing for them. In itself I then start to compose my own accurate back-story, a much hoped for and soul and heart dedicated to, period of longevity thus breeding more faith in my work, in the life I strive to live within. A life spent with words.On and off script shall we say.

   As January bumbles along, most the country here in England eagerly awaiting pay day at the end of this month, personally I await the turn of a new decade of adventures. The big 3 0 looms ever closer (six more sleeps away). Introspective thought processes, a perpetual source of emotion for me, some good, some not, It is fair to write 30 looks to be the making of the man year for me. No longer 'an old boy' it will be with an unflinching nod of self-approval, self-verification in the world, I now belong somewhere, again, at last, 'crumbs you took your time didn't you.' Passing what limited experiences I have down through the generations whilst still sprightly and youthful, embracing such nuggets of wisdom from a wide-ranging network of peers. Namely mum and dad, I write jovially.

   For whatever it may or may not be worth, this seems to a technology frustrated Yorkshire man currently skipping about in London (UK) at least, a right of passage year. Having eventually mind-mapped myself to the pathway the Robert of some decades ago would have, should have, could have stepped on, that of spending life with words, it fills me with untold pleasures. For richer or poorer (richer would be nice - not to be confused with affluent, just comfortably off), in sickness and in health (In Stirling health for as long as is possible would be a god send -  best give up smoking then hadn't I), for better or worse (plainly better is my desired and much longed for option) I shall recline into the third chapter of this book of a life of mine, with words.

Oh and Ps.

Single thirty something  man of words seeking to become a family man

Is this socially acceptable? I don't know. I write in humble whimsicality, making the final piece of my life jigsaw. To become a loving family man. Again. For good. In sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse. Will my thirties afford this? Who knows. Best dust off my confidence in this sphere of life and face the world with my head held high. Oh and neatly polished shoes to boot.

Pps. I am proud not to fit in any particular box (currently carrying my winter weight boxes prove something of a mis-fit for me), under any particular label. Conformity, what's this?

Until we meet again through this page, I trust  this finds you in good health and a happiness

Peace Friends X

JOLLIES, BEWILDERMENT & SADNESS. BAH HUMBUG. NOT LIKELY.

Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight,

Tis the season to be jolly . . . Or so they tell me.

Jolly? Christmas can be something of a mixed bag of jollies, even bewilderment, dare I write even sadness?

For many of us who reside on our own (as I do) the continuous 'cheer' serves only to remind us of what we missed this last year.

Hold it right there!

Aside from the obvious lack of a loving partner to wake up and share Christmas day with, hold-fast those thoughts!

   Plainly I can only speak for myself, pardon the pun, this written, oh my goodness rather OMG as is now widely used in common everyday global language within certain circles, although first used back in 1917, or so I read.

 So, back to ME.

  "OMG here he goes again"

 I faintly hear you sigh with an increasing level of foreboding. What will this man witter on about this time?

Well dear friends across the ponds, alleyways, vast expansive oceans of the page, sorry globe, it comes to me as if like an un-repentant tidal-wave of good fortune, a cheeky yet jovial flush of well, look, you have your red jumper on whilst penning this, so "all is not lost"

"Yep"

 I hear you sigh,

"init again"

Hold-fast those thoughts!

So maybe the year at this time is a mixed bag of jollies, even bewilderment dare I write sadness?

 Take bewilderment. I personally live in a constant bewilderment as to the markedly improved opportunities and quality of life 2013 has afforded. In self-imposed isolation for the large part of the last few years, to step out from behind the page in to life again has and continues to take me a little by surprise. I rejoice!

From writing to you as I do now, and within the pages of the beautifully empowering Women Scorned website, to playing twice this year in central London with fellow like-minded souls off the page to the stage. From which I have had the utter delight in meeting some of the worlds truly kind-hearted souls. Jointly and separately. Penning and celebrating with a globally acknowledged revolutionary full-service events management company within which I have found equally kind-hearted, dedicated and loving souls. To watching through a page, two of my closet friends embark on becoming a Mrs something or other and a mum whilst simultaneously combusting, sorry, moving with her soon to be husband to a leafy coastal village here in blighty, sorry England. Family life commences for them. Rejoice? Absolutely!

For you will indeed have your own unique to you moments of rejoice, I am certain of this if nothing else.

   Writing is always my solace, my friend and yes on occasion, my severest critic (one is ones own worst enemy) some wise young thing once wrote. And how right they are in my case at least.

My parents have and continue to rejoice in their new-look downstairs rooms including fully-refitted kitchen complete with the utterly adorable cheeky young thing ' Lady Thea' - the new puppy, although by the sounds of things soon to be the fully grown women of the house, next to mum of course.

Jollies, under any other name. Surely?

Sadness, yes, but in all accurate appraisal of the previous two emotions, joy (jollies) and bewilderment, sadness is along way off being at the forefront of this bag. Unless I let it. I have choice. So do YOU!

 Now, far be it for me to pertain to be any authority whatsoever on your good self, on your emotions, on frankly anything other than me. Even on my self I battle.

Well, you by natural progression are the sole authority on YOU!

So there!

 He writes whimsically whilst ducking out the way of a swift and stern glance as you recline yet further into your 'OMG what is he wittering on about chair'.

"I mean really. What is he . . .?"

If 2013 has taught me anything, the biggest and most far reaching lesson to be drawn is that lesser known term 'balance'.

To someone like me, a creative soul through and through,(quality always a judgement of any who care to read my words) for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, balance and I have a somewhat fragile relationship.

Therein lies the biggest lesson to be drawn from 2013 for me. As the big 30 looms in January - age is only a number -  I am in full support of this statement. This written, after soul searching for the most part of each day since what, September 2009, I can conclude to myself that it is balance that shall be embraced with somewhat more vigour in 2014.

Me , myself and I . . .  and you of course, live 24/7 together, and I am happy with the me leaving 2013. What will come will come, what will be will be, me, myself and I are at one! Almost!

For now though my red jumper and I stroll out on a crisp, blue-skies, December afternoon in search of that coffee shop which engaged me in Westminster,with my book, with a mind full of stories, in search of any and all ways to breath through the page for another year.

All around I see that mixed bag of jollies, bewilderment and dare I write sadness? And yet within my red jumper I am in control of what opportunities I choose to embrace, and so dear friends are YOU!

As you now groan,  "is he finished yet?'

In your 'OMG what is her wittering on about this time chair'

My answer is YES.

Until we meet again through the page, I trust this finds you in good health and a happiness

Peace Friends X

A NEW ARRIVAL MARKS A NEW CHAPTER OF OPPORTUNITIES

Good morning, good afternoon, good evening, goodnight,

Talk about soul-enhancing fun.

 Remember mum, you know the lady from chapter two in this by any other name, diary? Country Kitchen Living mum. Well, crumbs . . . what a stunning new-look kitchen, come dining room, come space and place conducive to clean countryside living it has become. One may be forgiven for hearing the theme tune to the The Archers skipping along past one's ears. For those of you who are now scratching your heads, The Archers was originally described as 'an everyday story of country-folk' although more recently described as ' contemporary drama in a rural setting' here in blighty. Sorry, Merry England. As of May 29th 2013 it celebrated sixty three years on our and indeed the globes airwaves, making it the globes longest running radio soap opera, bringing a moments retreat from our otherwise busy city lives. (For those that are now saying: "Well we don't live in the city", I offer a passionate nod of respect). Mind you, know I have written this I also offer an equally passionate nod of respect to those that live shall we say, elsewhere.

 You know, am minded to state, in my humble yet passionate view, someone-somewhere, probably tucked underneath a pile of research papers, is purposefully constructing a  heart-felt opportunity for transportation away from 'the hum' of city life so as to bring if only for fifteen minutes five times each week, every week,dreams of countryside living. In amongst the rolling hills, babbling brooks and bails of hay, at the corner of a glen there is a little village, filled with people very much like those depicted in this radio soap opera, all just waiting, patiently, to welcome with warm hearts those city folk who seek to recline into a more peaceful place. Good old blighties countryside.

 Well, back to mum, from chapter two.

 Having embraced her new-look kitchen in all its deliciousness, my peaceful countryside dwelling parents were greeted Monday last, by the adorable, cuddly, playful and head-strong little lady, Thea. It may well be an appropriate moment to divulge Thea is a puppy, as in a dog that is a baby. To those reading this that are now saying; "well it's obvious what a puppy is", I offer an equally passionate nod of respect as I have already offered to those I said lived in city's, that don't. And to those I said lived elsewhere, that don't.

 Welcome to your new home Thea. Beautiful, loving and did I say head-strong? Little lady that you are, at least for now. Rumour has it the Thea's of this world do grow to be a somewhat noticeable size and stature.

"A proper dog" chirped-up my dad as he stood sawing wood for their open fire Saturday morning last.

I'll leave that comment where it is. Floating along the slip-stream of time, out in the wilderness of the rolling hills.

As she skips through her new home, her ears are merrily flopping about in a jovial sort-of fashion as her little legs pat softly along the new-look kitchen flooring. Beaming at us as if she hasn't seen us in years. I haven't the heart to remind her she is only eight weeks old and we have only known each other five days. Bless her.

Oh, yes, it may also be worth noting I skipped along myself this weekend last, to pay a visit to the countryside nest that is mum, dad and indeed Thea's home.

Despite all the trials and tribulations, adventures many wide-ranging and fun this city of London Uk has in abundance, indeed the globe in its entirety has on offer, one truly cannot beat the arrival  of a new puppy into the bosom of a loving home to rejuvenate and rekindle ones passion for life.

 Someone always pleased to see you, be with you and love you, someone always on your side even if we ourselves are aware we might, on this obviously very rare occasion, have got something slightly wrong.

In a loving nod of deeply heartfelt appreciation to Thea's all over the globe, I thank you, for being by our sides.

 Until we meet again through the page,I trust this finds you in good health and a happiness,

Warmly yours

RJ Wardle X