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
Sunday, 20 April 2014
Thursday, 20 March 2014
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
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
Tuesday, 4 March 2014
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:
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
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, 148–158As 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.
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
Thursday, 20 February 2014
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
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
Monday, 20 January 2014
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
'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
Thursday, 19 December 2013
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
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
Monday, 18 November 2013
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
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
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