"Put on your suit and tie, put on that killer smile."

 

Life  Much better day today.  Slept in on purpose and didn't have the same anxiety as yesterday, mostly because I was going to the cinema to see Steven Soderbergh's new one, Black Bag.  Finally offering us his slow burn spy film, we're in and out of the story in 90 minutes.  I've haven't wanted to be Cate Blanchett in a film this much since Ocean's 8.  The trick each day seems to be to give myself a reason to get out of bed, and mores the point go outside, even if it's just to wander up to the local Spar shop to buy a paper.

Meanwhile, the promo for the Sugababes' Jungle is out and its a blessed chaos, Siobhan trapped in a shop front on a travellator like an extra in Jacqui Tati's Playtime, Keisha's in the demo pod of a Bose shop and Mutya's hungover outie dancing in a lift from Severance.    Watch out for the poltergeist creating chair structures and the male model making the interesting career decision of having the Sugababes logo tattooed across his shoulders.  At least it'll guarantee him some work going forward if the album's a hit.

The song itself is growing on me.  The brevity helps.  It's a tight 2m 42s that still manages to demonstrate the strengths of each of the vocalists and their sweet harmony.  The similarity to Smells Like Teen Spirit must surely be unintentional but it's there and not in a bad way.  Jungle is a bop which should work well live.  Somehow manages to feel like the Sugababes of One Touch but with some extra decades and still of now.  Roll on the album.

Welcome to the Jungle.

 

Life  Sometimes, when anxiety hits, I have days that just don't start well. I manage to get my brain working to some extent by mid-afternoon, and then I have about eight good hours before bedtime. My alarm clock is at the other end of the room, which forces me to get up and turn it off. This morning, when it rang at 7 a.m., I did just that, went to the loo, and because it was a bit chilly, jumped back into bed to listen to the news headlines. At which point, I fell asleep again.

At 9 a.m., I woke up again, and my anxiety really kicked in. My whole body felt tight, and I had the most immense pain in my stomach, which felt like it was weighing me down like a medicine ball, or if one of those cartoon hippos from a Disney cartoon were sitting on top of me. At which point, I spiralled. Sometimes anxiety happens because there's something in your subconscious which is freaking you out, and you have to work out what it is. Sometimes it's just anxiety about having anxiety and not knowing why you have anxiety.

After about half an hour, I managed to convince my body to get out of bed. I cooked some porridge and watched this slightly patronising YouTube video about Dua Lipa's capabilities as an interviewer and one of those Star Trek theme videos this time for Enterprise, Trip's reaction giving me a good giggle.   By then, I'd taken my anxiety medicine, which often makes me drowsy. So I fell asleep again, this time in an armchair for another hour and a half, waking up again at about midday. It's not until about 1 p.m., after I'd had a chat with my Dad and made a sandwich, that I felt more like myself again (whatever that is).

Why am I telling you all of this? Because something which has gone missing from me for years is writing this blog. It's been spluttering along, but actually writing something which is actually about my own life disappeared about a decade or so ago, at about the time when I had my first anxiety attack. So perhaps by putting some of that pain into words and shouting it out into the world, it'll help me come to terms with it a bit more. Why not just keep it as a personal journal? Because it'll force me to make it into something consumable by others.

This does, of course, fall under the genre of blog post "apologizing for not posting more," for which the obvious response is "no one cares, just post more." But at least I'm not starting a podcast. For one thing, I tried it once, and no one should have my speaking voice imposed on them, especially if it's unscripted, and also because it'll give me a moment to stop and think about what I'm about to write and even if I want it to go out into the world or just leave it in draft.

Also the Sugababes have a new single out.

26 National Art Library

 

Books  In Eric Rasmussen's catalogue of Shakespeare's First Folios, the 'manuscript annotations' section typically covers about half to three-quarters of a page. However, this copy features two full pages of dense text and a separate paragraph of general notes.  That’s because a previous owner took it upon themselves to correct the text in red pen, going through four history plays, changing every comma to a semicolon, underlining any artillery terms in King John, and sporadically ‘correcting’ modern English spellings to more contemporary versions (‘marlemas’ written above ‘Michaelmas’).  

Rasmussen suggests these annotations were the work of John Forster, the biographer and literary critic who was the final private owner before bequeathing his library to the National Art Library (now part of the Victoria and Albert Museum). However, the man who gifted it to him, Joseph C. King, a schoolmaster best known for educating two of Charles Dickens's sons, was the only other known owner.  Purely fantasy, probably, but it’s easy to imagine him poring over the text with the same zeal he applied to his students’ scripts, tutting and shaking his head as he proofread Henry VIII, writing ‘confessions’ above ‘commissions’.  That’s probably why these pages were chosen for display—they’re the least scarred.

Ticking this folio off the list was a happy accident.  For the past six months or so, I've been travelling down to London again thanks to Avanti Superfare, with mixed experiences.  The cheapness of the tickets has the caveat that because they're seat filling you don't know what time that will be.  Almost every month it's been the 11:45 am from Lime Street which means not arriving at Euston until 2:00 pm, with a return ticket at about 7:45 p.m., not so much a day trip as an afternoon 'rager' (if you can compare being overwhelmed by the intellectual brilliance of others in ancient buildings to drinking five Jägerbombs and chundering in a strangers garden which in my post-alcohol world you certainly can).  

What with that chronological uncertainty, this was my last trip down to London for a while (or at least until the price become low enough  for me to be able to afford an earlier journey) so I decided to return to the Theatre & Performance galleries, which were the site of my first visit.  The space has changed considerably in the past nine years.  Originally it was somewhat chronological with models of the original playhouses in the first section and sense of beginning at the beginning.  Now its much more thematic and based in crafts, with costume, set design, props and the rest given their own sections.  Fortunately Kylie's dressing room is still present and correct with its good luck lipstick greeting from Dannii on the mirror.

But still, right at the beginning, is Shakespeare's First Folio, and I surprised and delighted to find it wasn't the same edition displayed in 2016 and featured on television but the aforementioned volume last owned by Forster.  As you can see from the photo, it's displayed against a black background, mounted with a fair gap from the protective glass and for some reason parallel to a join so that it's impossible to look at it straight on, let alone get a picture of it.  You can just about make out that it's the second two pages of A Midsummer Night's Dream (146 & 147), the kids deep into the initial explanations of who loves who at that point.  If I'd known about the red "corrections" at the time I would have looked for them but they're not obvious from the photograph.

In terms of physical differences from other copies, Rasmussen notes in the First Folio catalogue that the authorship of a couple of plays is also questioned.  The title page of Cymbeline has "Not Shakespears, any part of it" written across it (don't tell Michael Blanding) and Titus Andronicus says "Not Shakespeare; scarce a word" even though Henry VI is right there.  Recent research from Brian Vickers (well, from 2002) suggests it could have been co-authored with George Peele so perhaps the statement might be partially correct.  Once it came into the National Art Library's possession they stamped it with 'Department of Science and Art 1876' in block capitals, along with 'Forester Bequest'.  It's also incomplete.  The preliminary pages (introduction and so forth) are 'poor-quality printed facsimiles'.  Every copy is different.  Next.