A Woman Killed by Kindness.

To the National to see Katie Mitchell's new production of A Woman Killed by Kindness. It's a fascinating production and the best kind of theatrical experiment.

Originally set in 1603 Mitchell sets the production in 1919 - a world of huge uncertainty, regret and shame brought about by the end of the war mixed in with a new sense of purpose and possibility - women's suffrage had been granted the year before. The update not only allows us to focus on the mirrored lives of Annie, whose husband punishes her adultery by turning her out of the home and refusing her access to her children, whilst Susan, trapped and lonely in her brother Charles' house is traded into marriage in order to pay a debt of honour, but makes clear the suggestion that the plays of the Jacobean age have a domestic rigour to them that can make terrifying sense when juxtaposed with the skull beneath the skin violence and cruelty that is only a weak mistake away from us all. The men play cards whilst the women manhandled like pieces of furniture in beautifully choreographed interludes, are punished for missing perfection.

Mitchell is fascinated by the early twentieth century and as ever links links her feminist reading to one of class. Servants scurry mute mice around the set, always hurried, always unrewarded, always aware. It is a patriarchal world and we are left to wonder at the structures that enable so much unchecked destruction to be placed in the hands of monied men.

The show runs at nearly two hours without an interval, but has enough texture to support the investment. This is a recognisable world which rescues the play from the dusty shelves and reclaims it as a serious and contemporary comment on gender politics.

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A Day at the Test.

Early morning rise and off to the Test at Lords. Amazingly with the match in the balance and all three results still possible general admission tickets for the final day went on general sale at 8.30am this morning. It was too good an offer to miss.

By the time I'd got to St John's Wood the queue had already past the tube station and a real sense of excitement was in the air. England needed a further nine wickets, India needed to hold it together and if they managed to bat with a sense of purpose all day it was just possible that might overhaul England's 458 run lead. Also an opportunity, probably a final opportunity, to see the Indian middle order, who since the timely demise of the Australian superstars have grasped the mantle and propelled India into the number one test nation in the world. Dravid, Tendulkar, Laxman and Dhoni. Names already assured a revered place in the pantheon of legend.

It took two hours to get into the ground and news quickly spread that thousands had been turned away. The police had even be called to quell the disappointment of those who'd missed the cut.

England looked...well very un-English! Confident, fit, encouraging, revelling in each others success, not dwelling on misfortune or searching for blame, just getting down to work. It's a long time since I've seen a team work like this. After a few tasty overs they got the huge reward of Dravid's wicket, nicked to the ever alert Matt Prior behind the stumps. A sense of possible, despite the formidable batting line up to come, swept across the stands.

Laxman came out and settled down to making some runs. Chances came and went and he stuck around to make 56 before a loose shot swallowed by Ian Bell at mid-wicket lifted us again.

Tails up and Tendulkar in but without the score moving on the overcautious Gambhir was trapped by Graham Swann and so the little master trooped off for lunch a lonely figure.

After lunch he just couldn't get going. England looked young and were everywhere. Runs dried up and the chance of an Indian victory disappeared. Now it was just a question of whether they could block out for a draw - but the bowlers were steaming in. Tremlett like a snarling bull. Broad dangerous every time he turned and Jimmy Anderson swinging the ball in all directions.

Unbelievably to gasps of disbelief captain Strauss put down an easy catch, but it only served to fire up the team and two balls later Anderson got the prize. Tendulkar trudged back to a standing ovation form a crowd many of whom would have secretly liked him to score his hundredth test hundred here. Unlikely he'll ever return to Lords.

No such sentimentality in the middle as India began to rebuild. The rest of the session was frustrating as the new partnership of Dhoni and Raina settled in. Tea was taken with England still needing five wickets.

It didn't take long for the show to get back on the road. Tremlett getting his reward for his tireless running and Dhoni departed to make way for the lower order. Harbhajan played a shot too many and went cheaply. Broad demolished Kumar's stumps and Raina edged to Prior ending his counter of 78 to give Anderson his fifth wicket in the innings. So here we were just an hour after the nervous worry of tea with Broad steaming in to trap Sharma leg before and record a wonderful, wonderful victory against the best team in the world.

Perhaps the times are changing. Perhaps England can become regular world beaters. It'll be giddy at the summit, but today was very impressive, not lucky, plucky, eccentric, bull dogged or qualified, just very, very impressive. Can it be happening?

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Craven Cottage

Without a World Cup or European Championship it can be a long summer for football fans waiting nervously to see if the optimistic words of their manager's pre-season patter have any meaning in the competitive reality of Autumn.

West London is having a footie boom time just at present and any student joining us in September who wants to go and watch a match or two will find themselves spoilt for choice. Our nearest league club for as long as anybody can remember is Brentford - a short bus ride away from the campus. They've made steady progress since winning League 2 a couple of seasons ago and are now firmly established in League 1. The ground is blessed with four pubs, one on each corner. This year however the Bees status as our local team has been challenged by the miraculous rise of AFC Wimbledon, who nine years after having all their players rudely abducted to Milton Keynes are now back in Division 2 and playing at the modest Kings Meadow ground in Kingston.

From Richmond a short tube ride takes you to Hammersmith from where a twenty minute walk north or east will take you to the Premiership glories of either newly promoted QPR or punching above their weight Fulham... and then of course there's Chelsea!!!

Tonight on a balmy evening we drove to Putney, parked up, took a lovely walk through Bishops Park to the old world charms of Craven Cottage, where Fulham were playing Northern Irish club Crusaders in the second leg of a qualifier for the Europa League. Crazy to be playing competitively in July! I'd not been to the ground before and, even with it's agonizingly kitsch Michael Jackson tribute statue, its a brilliant throwback to a puritan age of meat pies, wooden stands and narrow turnstiles. The perfect place to watch football. Remarkably given the sold out oligarchy down the road, tickets were on sale for the first few Premiership games and at fairly reasonable prices as well.

Fulham played well and didn't really have to break sweat to record a 4-0 victory over the Ulster part timers. Still they played some decent stuff, certainly enough for their fans to go home happy, touching the bootlaces on Johnny Haynes' statue for luck and licking their lips in anticipation of the big kick off less than a month away.

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The Emperor and Galilean

A very busy day. Up early and off to Camden for a quick catch up with Keith at The Comedy School and a chance to see what we can do for next year. I'm hopeful we'll be able to run another freshers gig in September and perhaps help out in a more formal way at his Comedy Store fundraiser next Spring. It's hard times in the world of rehabilitative arts and Keith is increasingly looking towards the private sector to deliver his training programmes. He's stayed in touch with three of last years graduates - Steph, Danny and Kadeem and has been offering them occasional work for the company. It's a start.

Down to Westminster Cathedral for graduation. Patsy and Trevor also there in Hogwart style gowns ready for the proud procession down the aisle past beaming parents, best behaved siblings and finally the well scrubbed graduands themselves nervously gathered in the stalls. The service itself is long as each of the three hundred or so BA students come to receive their degree from the Principal - but it's always wonderful to see another batch make their way forward in the world. It was especially exciting for us as lecturers because these were the first cohort of the new degree to pass through. A full circle that's taken five years from the initial planning to fruition today.

In the evening I headed with Eleanor to the National to see a really good production of Ibsen's little known play The Emperor and Galilean. Set in 4th Century Rome, it's a complicated and intellectually challenging piece of work. Julian the Apostate rejects the oppressive Christian doctrines of his Uncle Constantine's court, only to become a tyrant in favour of his own brand of paganism once he inherits the empire. Cut back from an original script of over eight hours to a still substantial three and a half, the play wrestles from start to finish with the rights of individual belief and the parameters of tolerance, especially in an age of evangelism. Jonathon Kent's production leans heavily on contemporary parallels as a recurring film track loops silhouetted images of bombs falling on the present Middle East.

The real star of the show is the wonderful Andrew Scott in the lead role. He is an actor of such quick turn and fleet thought. Nothing is spelt out and nothing is missed. Although this show is probably not starry enough to go down as anything but a solid and timely revival - his high octane intelligence must surely mark him as one of the leading players in London.

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Meeting Myself Going Backwards.

A day of reunion and a chance to say goodbye to the European School, which after over thirty years of operation is closing. About 400 former students and teachers gathered to chat, reminisce and show their own children and partners around.

When it opened in 1978, the school was a bit of an experiment - over twenty different nationalities were organised into five different language sections, working within a curriculum focused on European integration. We were taught to be European citizens first, nationals second. We worked together in a spirit of diplomacy, without many rules beyond the pragmatism of respect. It led to a very lenient, open and generous culture where the only thing not tolerated was intolerance itself. We had no uniforms, were worked very hard, encouraged to run things, listened to seriously, laughed a lot, travelled quite a bit and knew no better. It's a form of progressive education that in the days of league tables, and outcome focused syllabus seems as arcane as the Rubik cube or the Berlin Wall.

Visits to the past are by definition evocative, but in true Proustian style it was the smell of the old rooms that conjured up memories, feelings and reactions long submerged in the intervening years. I walked into the boys changing room and immediately the goose bumps appeared as the excitement and anticipation of the football match to come took over. The dusty hall took me back to final year exams and the secure knowledge that how I performed over a few hours, under conditions, would dictate a large part of the future that I'm currently enjoying and the Chapel; home of assemblies and the site of so many instructions and groundbreaking announcements, which seemed at the time epic in scale.

A handful of my year group were there; Lucy, bringing her three children, came over from Denmark. Jayne brought her husband Steve, stepson Liam and her Mum, who in her day was a formidable chair of the parent's association. John, with his partner Phillipa, expecting their first child in the Autumn an Boris who brought his wife Ruth and their clan of children down from Chester. Alongside these familiar faces, a clutch of siblings brought news of other old friends who for one reason or another couldn't attend - April, Maria, Mehdi, Laurence and Giovanni. It was lovely to have the chance to send them good wishes and remembrances.

More amazing still was the chance to catch up with old teachers. There was my English teacher Mr Campbell, who convinced me that I could write critically if only I stayed attentive to my feelings and honoured them honestly. Mr Hannaford, who somehow managed to keep smiling as I struggled to understand logarithms. PE teacher Mr Wickes, who turned my enthusiastic amateurism into a loyal commitment towards my classmates. Historian Mr Pearce, who gently encouraged us find links and parallels between the past, present and future and finally Miss Lloyd-Jones, whose Philosophy lessons unfolded hundreds of possibilities for looking at the world. She also had a wonderful way of overlooking bad behaviour.

It makes me aware of how subtle great teachers are. What gifts they give - sowing ideas and promoting attitudes that blossom ten, twenty, thirty years later. For all the merry making, there was a sense that our was a golden time of privilege and light. Our world is in retreat now and a more cautious age of accountability has appeared on the horizon. The School may close, but nobody can take away the knowledge that we really were very lucky to have been a part of it all.

Back in London I found a short passage from C.S Lewis' The Four Loves on friendship.

Those are the golden sessions... when our slippers are on, our feet spread out towards the blaze and our drinks at our elbows; when the whole world, and something beyond the world, opens itself to our minds as we talk; and no one has any claim or any responsibility for another, but all are freemen and equals as if we had first met an hour ago, while at the same time an Affection mellowed by the years enfolds us. Life - natural life - has no better gift to give. Who could have deserved it?

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The Power of the Play.

We went over to Heathside School in Weybridge this evening to see their school play. It's been directed by former Drama St Mary's student Danielle - who only two years after graduating is acting head of Drama there - and was created using the methods we explored when putting together the site specific quest play The Shrinking Land of Kalku for Chiswick Park in 2009.

Many schools see the annual play as a promotional opportunity. A big musical that entertains the parents, gets some photos in the local press and brings a large section of the school's community together. Danielle's work facilitating a fantasy written by the students and weaved into the landscape of the school goes one stage further in allowing them to re imagine the function of different spaces and produce an escapist metaphor that allows the cast to express safely some of their hopes, fears and concerns for the future. There were over 300 in the cast.

As in so many of these stories - Alice in Wonderland, His Dark Materials, The Wizard of Oz - a teenage girl took the role of the protagonist and we followed her as she tackled and resolved a series of tasks and problems that strange and fabulous characters presented her with. Each encounter a step on the way towards developing knowledge, insight and maturity.

The work is particularly poignant at Heathside because it's the school Milly Dowler attended and where her Mum taught maths for a number of years. The last few weeks, with the allegations of phone tapping coming hot on the heels of Levi Belfield's trial and conviction, have brought back some painful reminders of Milly's disappearance and murder, which have had to be sensitively contextualised by the staff here.

Whilst the play itself didn't deal directly with those events - it was almost impossible not to acknowledge the tribute it played. Particularly in the scene set in Milly's garden where the protagonist, looked into a mirror and asked the reflection what she hoped for from the future. At the end of the conversation the reflection was invited to accompany us. She sadly explained that she'd have to stay where she was, but asked that we carry her dreams with us. Once again the girl vowed not to leave the reflection and promised to stay looking in the mirror, frozen for ever in the moment. Once again the reflection shook her head and told the girl politely but firmly that the time had now come to let go. The cast released red balloons and we were led to the next scene.

The value of drama and ritual in creating a space where we can poetically confront the dark, acknowledge our terror and yet still galvanise the strength needed to carry on living can, with brave teaching, work as well in a secondary school as in any of the world's great playhouses.

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Mad Cows and Englishmen.

Back in the UK the big local news concerns the cows on Petersham Meadow who are now under the management of our National Trust friends at Ham House. Earlier in the year the herd were attacked by a pit bull and although none were killed it put them under a great deal of unnecessary stress and prompted a fair amount of erratic behaviour. Based on the advice of the herdsman Gary and his team decided to remove the cows from the meadow until they calmed down a little and it's this act of apparent cultural sabotage has caused an uproar amongst the locals. In the end a compromise electric fence has been temporarily erected and the cows have stayed put.

This evening a public meeting in Petersham village hall, packed to the rafters with righteous indignation from the political correctness gone mad brigade. Fearing the worst for Gary, we went along to try and offer some support. The meeting was chaired by local councilors who've been quick to jump on the bandwagon and demand the fence be removed.

What we saw was an incredible display of arrogant localism as a string of villagers stood up to remind us of the history of the cows - painted by Turner no less - the nanny state, the insufficient signage, the value of common sense, the threat of health and safety legislation, the take over of the National Trust by woolly do gooding liberals and the collapse of civilisation itself.
Poor Gary battled in vain with a rather limp PowerPoint - including pictures of people who've been gored by stampeding cattle - and a refuted offer that we all brainstorm alternative ideas on large sheets of sugar paper around the room. A suggestion which was met with:-

'I don't want to make this personal but by God you're pushing me damn close!' by one enraged and ruddy resident.

In the end the mauling achieved little. Although the locals did go home with, what I presume for them is, the satisfying taste of blood in the mouths. The smug councillors were applauded for their public service and we took Gary and head gardener Sandra off to The New Inn to lick their wounds.

I wonder if this is the Big Society in action. The hall was filled mostly with elderly professionals, none of whom work in heritage or conservation, but all of whom seemed to want to tell the Trust how to do their job. I was struck that nobody with a young family - who might be grateful that the meadow remains a safe place for children - was in attendance nor was anybody really interested in Gary's strategy to reintroduce the cows and remove the fence. The politicians skillfully wound up the mob and let them loose. Of course any decision that affects a community deserves scrutiny but it's a big worry that as we de professionalise public service work more and more it'll be the easily outraged with time on their hands who set the agenda and force decisions.

It was very ugly.
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