Orlando

I’m woken by a call from Richard. Him and George are on their way and are about an hour away. Mum and I get to the appointed lay-by by the motorway just in time. I move my bags between cars, make my farewells, and we’re off.

Richard drives us to Slough station. We have an animated discussion covering many topics. Richard is very engaged, which frighteningly leads to occasional vetting, which is never enjoyable on the M4. We make it to the station unscathed.

After the technological challenge of paying for parking on yet-another-parking-app, we jump the fast train to Paddington, followed by the tube to Great Portland Street. We quickly find the clinic they’re going to, spend fifteen glorious minutes inspecting the waters at The Whisky Exchange, and then head to Drunch Fitzrovia for some food.

I leave George and Richard when they go for their appointment and walk down Regent Street to the Garrick for a matinee of Orlando. I’ve got a really obstructed bite of the stage, but when the play begins move to an empty seat with a much better sight line.

It’s an enjoyable play. Not having read the book, I can’t tell how much it has been adapted, but it clearly has been modernised. Also, it features seven identically dressed actors all playing the original author, Virginia Woolf. I guess I’ll now have to read the book and watch an earlier film adaptation with Tilda Swinton.

Then I discover that my train is later than I had thought. I’ve got four hours to kill, two of which I spend in the cinema watching the latest Ishiguro, Living. He’s such a deft film maker, toying with emotions, aided by some powerful acting from Bill Nighy.

A forced march to King’s Cross, a falafel wrap, a crowded Lumo train to Edinburgh, where we arrive, ahead of schedule, at 1:50. I walk the empty streets of the city to Lochend, collect my car, and get myself home. Straight to bed.