Enemies.

We went to see Enemies at the Almeida in Angel. It's by Gorky (possibly? I don't know, I think it might be, but then isn't that a band? Gorky's Zygotic Mynci?), redone by David Hare. And it starred Jack Davenport. Well, it was an ensemble, but he was in it, with a rather enormous beard. I do not think that the facial hair was a good move. It's Russian, and about class, and the Evils of Socialism. Actually it's more about the Evils of thinking that Socialism is Evil. I think. I'm not very good at meanings, but the woman who played the wife of Jack Davenport's character had some very nice dresses. We had seats in separate places, one at the edge of the stage and one more in the middle, but rather near some pillars. Cee very kindly let me/forced me to sit in the one nearer the front, and it's probably what theatre reviewers might call an intimate venue, so I was very close indeed. I spent a while watching the heaving chest of the dead body. I did enjoy the play very much, but I am really quite rubbish at getting my thoughts out of my head and onto a page in anything more than "I liked this", so instead here is what happened to me during the play.

About halfway through the first bit I choked on nothing and had a rather explosive sounding (to me) coughing fit. The elderly lady two seats down from me (who had previously been recounting "serious falls I have had" to her companion) tapped me on the arm and handed me a cough sweet which I shoved into my wheezing gob with immense gratitude, as it seemed that I would otherwise be summarily ejected. It did the trick, but tasted vile. Like poison, if you wanted to make sure that your victim knew damn sure that they were being poisoned. After what I thought was a decent interval, with the venom trickling down my subdued throat, I managed to surreptitiously push it into my hand with my tongue during an elaborate scratching manoeveur, return it to its plastic casing and stick it to the inside of my jeans pocket, in case I needed it again later. Then I spaced out for a while fondly imagining that if I hadn't stopped the coughing fit, then surely Jack Davenport would have brought me over one of the many glasses of liquid on stage and not in use for me to drink, and then we could have got to chatting afterwards, and maybe I would have got to meet Michelle Gomez. I do realise that this is even more inane and improbable than even my usual daydreams.

At the interval we reconvened and had ice cream. I had a most delicious honey and ginger one. Other people also had ice cream, notably the people sitting directly behind me (of which more later), who were scraping away at their tubs rather loudly and slowly for at least ten minutes into the second half. Quite apart from anything else, I simply don't trust people who take that long to eat a small tub of ice cream. (They had got them at the start of the interval. Twenty minutes at least.) It shows a distinct lack of occasion.

There was further drama with my row companions coming back after the interval, when one of them noticed that her programme was missing. Further investigation elicited the information (from the people in the row behind) that A Man had taken it away. There was much huffing, and a promise was made to point out said Man when he returned. He eventually came and sat at the end, and was asked in very icy tones if he was sure that was his programme. He was a little flustered, and on being pressed, admitted that he had indeed picked it up from a seat that might not have been his, and passed it over. There then commenced a great show of looking for his own programme (cynical disbelief from my neighbour), and the wronged party showing everyone that it was definitely her programme, as look she had creased it in just that way, see, it was creased on this page. I was glad that order was restored, as it meant I had time to read the names on the creased page over her shoulder before the lights went down. They meant nothing to me.