Reflections on a curate's egg

My mother and I have come to the conclusion that the French don't do subtle when it comes to theatre - a little odd when you consider what wonders their cinema industry comes up with. The production of Private lives we saw was incredibly overblown, the wit sacrificed for the sake of farce. To anyone who didn't know the original (the woman sitting directly in front of me among them), this was tremendous stuff, but it left those of us familiar with the wryness of Noel Coward distinctly underwhelmed.

That said, I should be glad that I got to France at all, having overslept on Saturday morning and woken up a mere hour before the departure of my flight - all praise to the taxi driver who got me to the airport in twenty minutes!

Putting to one side the disappointment at the theatre, I would be hard-pushed to speak more positively of my stay. Never mind how enjoyable the recitals we went to were: even though Cédric Tiberghien and Hervé Billaut's piano duets and Felicity Lott's high spirits were a joy to behold, it was spending time with my mother, brother and Pluto (the dog) which really made it. True, taking Father's place at the theatre was the impetus for the trip, but the lack of a holiday or commemoration made all the difference - which means July to October, which encompass most of our family anniversaries, will be another matter.

We're all enjoying the greater sense of family unity. How much better it would be if it hadn't been at such expense ...

(My train of thought, when writing about my family, is by its very nature repetitive, so if you're expecting me to avoid the subject of my father and the continuing effect of his death on my family, tough luck. While I am apt to spend some time on the language I use in these entries, I will not censor my thoughts.)