She had been to a wonderful production by Birmingham Royal Ballet, but what was it? She knew it was well known and began with a P. "Prawn Lake?" said her neighbour
Finding myself in a little oasis of calm and no deadlines last week, and tiring of the excitement of the Tory leadership contest, I decided, as a friend of mine likes to put it, "to make good use of London". In his case this means helpings of High Culture: art galleries, concerts, the ballet. So, on Saturday, to Sadler's Wells theatre in London. Its new glass front makes looking in intriguing, and peering out on to the trees with their shimmering lights a delight. There I saw two performances from the brilliant Mark Morris Dance Group from New York. I defy anyone not to enjoy this company, whose dancers come in a wonderful mixture of body shapes and colours, and who leap, float, bend and even crawl across the stage with spectacular skill. My one bad moment came just before curtain up, when the darkness was suddenly alive with blue mobile phone screens. I needn't have worried. The (predominantly young) audience were simply and discreetly taking cameraphone pictures of their heroes. After that, they were all turned off - something which seldom, alas, happens in the West End.
The Frieze Art Fair in Regent's Park - my local - has just closed. My favourite exhibit was a piece of conceptual art from Paola Pivi, called One Hundred Chinese, featuring 50 real Chinese in a circle, dressed identically and staring wordlessly out. The art fair is fun, but it is part of a worrying creep of commercialism in the royal parks. Government money has dwindled and there's been pressure to make Regent's Park profitable. This has meant turning large swathes of lawn into formal sports fields, the preparing of which cut off and then removed a huge section of grass for over 18 months. The park's management now wants to build yet another sports facility to replace the present golf and tennis school, which will destroy a decent wildlife habitat. This summer a vast screen relayed the Lord's Test Match, with commentary at ear-piercing volume, over a formerly peaceful stretch of lawn. There have been food fairs, rugby schools, ballroom dancing displays and a mini Woodstock festival with bands to match. The relentless activity has turned the park into a rather exhausting neighbour.
Maturity has its benefits but getting older means forgetting things. I have been known to stumble over my own telephone number if asked unexpectedly, but usually it's names. Names of people I know extremely well slip into oblivion the moment I have to do a round of introductions. We discussed this debility at a lunch party near Stratford last week after one companion said she had been to a wonderful production by the Birmingham Royal Ballet - but what was it? She knew it was very well known and began with a P. "Prawn Lake?" suggested her neighbour helpfully. Opposite her was an actor with an instantly recognisable face who confessed that after many decades in the business he now only took on roles that didn't require him to learn page after page of lines. Somebody else said he could only find his car in his London street in the morning with the aid of one of those keys which beep and work from a distance. Long ago, on the Today programme, I once couldn't dredge up Michael Heseltine's name at the end of an interview, and he was sitting right in front of me. Radio broadcasters, unlike actors, can disguise memory slips by having research notes handy or by avoiding names altogether, which is what I did on that occasion. But I am now more tolerant than I used to be of others' name slips, having been introduced variously on public speaking platforms as Sue Lawley, Sue Cook and even, at a time when we were frequent on-air partners, as Mrs Peter Hobday.
Where have Venice's famous cats gone? For the first time, on a brief visit to the city a week ago, I saw not a single one. A friend who has lived there for years believes there's been a secret cull, and the result has been a worrying increase in the rat population. Certainly as I waited for my first vaporetto a ratty corpse floated gently past, its pink paws curled sweetly into its tummy. A disconcerting accompaniment to the early hours in the San Polo district was the sound of rats, very much alive, plopping softly into the nearby canal. In John Berendt's new book The City of Falling Angels, all about the darker side of Venice, he tells of being enlightened by his hostess, after he pointed out that the wire netting on his windows wouldn't keep out the mosquitoes. "Mosquitoes?" she laughed. "It's not for them. It's for i ratti - the rats!" Please, Venetians, bring back the cats. They're so much prettier.
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