![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
Well, that was a truly bizarre evening.
hathy_col and I left the centre of Preston at 10pm. The idea was for us to take half an hour getting into Ormskirk, where rather than subject Colleen and her car to the rural roads, I'd get on a train home, which would be laborious (it goes round the houses) but warm and safe for all of us.
Cut to the M58, after dark. Picture this like a film, one of those Richard Curtis confections about being home for Christmas - you're driving along in the dim lights, listening to Amanda Palmer, or at least Colleen is driving and I'm making unhelpful cracks about how at least we haven't been hit by an iceberg yet, small blessings, etc, and then the snow comes down and suddenly we're somewhere else entirely. I've never seen snow like this in England, never. It came down in enormous blizzard flakes, driving into the windscreen, layering on the embankment and the verges, encroaching inwards until suddenly you couldn't see the hard shoulder, and then you couldn't see the right-hand lane, and then the traffic was in single file, other than the bastard four by fours who think they're not risking everyone's neck by overtaking, and the snow began to creep.
We made it into Ormskirk slooooooowly, and then I couldn't persuade my father not to come and rescue me from there. I said I'd get a taxi; he raised the very good point that there isn't a taxi firm in existence that would come out tonight; I said I'd stay the night, and then realised of course that since the bastards stole my handbag last month I don't have keys to my parents' house any more. Lord, is there anything more embarrassing then being rescued by your parents your first night at home for four months? But desperate times, etc., and actually when my father appeared he seemed to be quite enjoying the adventure. And all the way, there was the blessing of the gorgeous Christmas card look to everything. For the benefit of my American and Canadian friends who are going "snow, what of it" round about now, I was born in Liverpool, a place known for salty air and seawater and not, shall we say, rural snowy idyll. In other words, it has never snowed - properly, I mean, not dissolving-on-contact-with-tarmac snow - where I grew up since I was a very tiny person indeed. (The internet suggests that 1990 was a snowy year - I do remember it, vaguely.) And suddenly there's all these familiar places, these places which I know so well, suddenly unfamiliar - suddenly as though we're in another place altogether. Colleen and I wandered down the road and looked at perfect snowy firs and electrical wires marked out with snow against the sky and lovely virgin snow we could crunch over, and the light was reflecting over and over off it unti there was a sort of two am lividity to everything, and I was charmed.
All things considered, it could have been a lot worse; for one thing, Colleen and I got home without incident, and yesterday I made it home from Edinburgh on the main line trains without major incident - I was a little late, but nothing serious at all. I'm impressed with the train companies this week, I must say; first the East Coast line, then the western route, and the local trains are all running.
At this point one might be moved to ask why I was in Preston tonight anyway.
Look, I never said I was cool, all right? If you wanted cool, you ought not to be reading me. Go and get Vogue or season one of The West Wing or something. When Colleen and I were in London in November, we decided apropos of a very nice afternoon making fun of Gareth David-Lloyd, that given that we would be in the right place at the right time we should go and see him being Prince Charming in Cinderella. And, okay, that was part of the reason we went to it, but also, we were both deprived as children and hadn't been to a pantomime (I think I did possibly with school, but I can't really remember) and also it's two days before Christmas and we don't see each other much.
So, we went to Preston, we got hideously lost on the roads, then in the city, then in the actual theatre, impressively, and then we ran in just as it was beginning, and then. Well. Okay, the thing was, despite him being Ianto (omg; okay, I do sort of love him), David-Lloyd wasn't given top billing, that accolade being reserved for various alumni of BBC Radio Lancashire. And also a gigantic flowerpot person, which Colleen assures me is a recognised giant flowerpot person and not a deranged invention of the producers. And it was all very... well, very flamboyant, and full of oddnesses such as spangly pink dungarees, and a sudden, brand new version of The Twelve Days of Christmas. (Worth the price of admission alone: a man who was on television playing a Serious Role singing about "five tooooooooilet rolls!" to widespread hysteria.)
Also, at one point the man playing the page got up and, for no immediately apparent plot reason, sang "Nessun dorma" from Turandot. He sang it beautifully, soaringly, operatically. The audience were too stunned to clap for a moment or two. I was reminded quite a bit of the whole OULES philosophy of putting anything in that seems a good idea at the time, and there was also that general uncertainty as to whether what's going on at any given moment is scripted or not. (For one thing, there were some lovely ad libs when one of the ugly sisters accidentally walked backwards into a table, and a lot of suspiciously topical jokes.) And of course it was breathtakingly rude, not withstanding the huge amount of children in the audience. As Christmas traditions go, it's not a bad one at all; and again, I am annoyed by people who seem to think there is such a thing as a "traditional" (read: racist) pantomime. This one had songs from High School Musical in and was no less a pantomime.
In short: it was pretty fantastically awful, and we had a lovely time. (
tau_sigma: we missed you, as about the only other person in the world who would have derived so much joy from the whole affair.) On the whole, it was a very strange evening, but I think I liked it.
Tomorrow, it is Christmas Eve and there's four inches of snow in the garden. I think I may make a snowman.
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
Cut to the M58, after dark. Picture this like a film, one of those Richard Curtis confections about being home for Christmas - you're driving along in the dim lights, listening to Amanda Palmer, or at least Colleen is driving and I'm making unhelpful cracks about how at least we haven't been hit by an iceberg yet, small blessings, etc, and then the snow comes down and suddenly we're somewhere else entirely. I've never seen snow like this in England, never. It came down in enormous blizzard flakes, driving into the windscreen, layering on the embankment and the verges, encroaching inwards until suddenly you couldn't see the hard shoulder, and then you couldn't see the right-hand lane, and then the traffic was in single file, other than the bastard four by fours who think they're not risking everyone's neck by overtaking, and the snow began to creep.
We made it into Ormskirk slooooooowly, and then I couldn't persuade my father not to come and rescue me from there. I said I'd get a taxi; he raised the very good point that there isn't a taxi firm in existence that would come out tonight; I said I'd stay the night, and then realised of course that since the bastards stole my handbag last month I don't have keys to my parents' house any more. Lord, is there anything more embarrassing then being rescued by your parents your first night at home for four months? But desperate times, etc., and actually when my father appeared he seemed to be quite enjoying the adventure. And all the way, there was the blessing of the gorgeous Christmas card look to everything. For the benefit of my American and Canadian friends who are going "snow, what of it" round about now, I was born in Liverpool, a place known for salty air and seawater and not, shall we say, rural snowy idyll. In other words, it has never snowed - properly, I mean, not dissolving-on-contact-with-tarmac snow - where I grew up since I was a very tiny person indeed. (The internet suggests that 1990 was a snowy year - I do remember it, vaguely.) And suddenly there's all these familiar places, these places which I know so well, suddenly unfamiliar - suddenly as though we're in another place altogether. Colleen and I wandered down the road and looked at perfect snowy firs and electrical wires marked out with snow against the sky and lovely virgin snow we could crunch over, and the light was reflecting over and over off it unti there was a sort of two am lividity to everything, and I was charmed.
All things considered, it could have been a lot worse; for one thing, Colleen and I got home without incident, and yesterday I made it home from Edinburgh on the main line trains without major incident - I was a little late, but nothing serious at all. I'm impressed with the train companies this week, I must say; first the East Coast line, then the western route, and the local trains are all running.
At this point one might be moved to ask why I was in Preston tonight anyway.
Look, I never said I was cool, all right? If you wanted cool, you ought not to be reading me. Go and get Vogue or season one of The West Wing or something. When Colleen and I were in London in November, we decided apropos of a very nice afternoon making fun of Gareth David-Lloyd, that given that we would be in the right place at the right time we should go and see him being Prince Charming in Cinderella. And, okay, that was part of the reason we went to it, but also, we were both deprived as children and hadn't been to a pantomime (I think I did possibly with school, but I can't really remember) and also it's two days before Christmas and we don't see each other much.
So, we went to Preston, we got hideously lost on the roads, then in the city, then in the actual theatre, impressively, and then we ran in just as it was beginning, and then. Well. Okay, the thing was, despite him being Ianto (omg; okay, I do sort of love him), David-Lloyd wasn't given top billing, that accolade being reserved for various alumni of BBC Radio Lancashire. And also a gigantic flowerpot person, which Colleen assures me is a recognised giant flowerpot person and not a deranged invention of the producers. And it was all very... well, very flamboyant, and full of oddnesses such as spangly pink dungarees, and a sudden, brand new version of The Twelve Days of Christmas. (Worth the price of admission alone: a man who was on television playing a Serious Role singing about "five tooooooooilet rolls!" to widespread hysteria.)
Also, at one point the man playing the page got up and, for no immediately apparent plot reason, sang "Nessun dorma" from Turandot. He sang it beautifully, soaringly, operatically. The audience were too stunned to clap for a moment or two. I was reminded quite a bit of the whole OULES philosophy of putting anything in that seems a good idea at the time, and there was also that general uncertainty as to whether what's going on at any given moment is scripted or not. (For one thing, there were some lovely ad libs when one of the ugly sisters accidentally walked backwards into a table, and a lot of suspiciously topical jokes.) And of course it was breathtakingly rude, not withstanding the huge amount of children in the audience. As Christmas traditions go, it's not a bad one at all; and again, I am annoyed by people who seem to think there is such a thing as a "traditional" (read: racist) pantomime. This one had songs from High School Musical in and was no less a pantomime.
In short: it was pretty fantastically awful, and we had a lovely time. (
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
Tomorrow, it is Christmas Eve and there's four inches of snow in the garden. I think I may make a snowman.
no subject
on 2009-12-24 05:04 am (UTC)& you could be right about 1990, that might be the year I remember looking out my parents window at the snow.
There was a year during senior school that we tried to go sledging on the sand dunes and we built a giant snowman.
But this year, to me, there seems hardly any snow here right now. I was watching it come down last night as I decided not to drive to work today & am instead going to try for the first train in the hopes that it'll be running. I can't get out of work unless the trains are off, & even if they are I have to go and work in Crosby store instead. We shall see.
no subject
on 2009-12-24 05:26 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-12-24 07:53 pm (UTC)Also, I imagine that a beach in the snow is a very beautiful thing. I hope you enjoy it. *g*
(The flowerpot person looks terrifyingly bizarre. I should probably be more tolerant of flowerpot people, but. Huge, and pastel colours. Eek.)
no subject
on 2009-12-24 10:52 pm (UTC)(that was supposed to be just a spammy non sequitur but came out sounding oddly sexual)
(oh well)
no subject
on 2009-12-29 10:35 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2010-01-01 12:21 am (UTC)Also, cbining snow and Olmskirk, I kept reading as a Russian name Omkirsk or something. A little far from Preston.