( Marsyas has gone from the Tate Modern; they've replaced him with a dozen massive Henry Moores which still look lost in that concrete football pitch; but all the way upstairs (in body) there's a huge dark room showing Five Angels for the Millennium, massive projected videos of glittering colour-lit bodies falling through water with hypnotic slowness; we stayed until the attendant turned off the videos; she was booed. )
It's nice that you can still go to the theatre for fiver, though I tend to fetch up spending the money I saved on dried fruit and cups of wine. I'm not a history play fan, but the first night of Richard 2 from the Company of Men sounded fun. It was traditional dress, brocades and bonnets and big ornate ruffs on the women, who managed creditable dignity under the sceptical gaze of American and German tourists. The title role went to a bouncy, familiar face; the speeches (as ever) wandered through the titles of BBC history series and mystery novels. Yes, indeed, let's speak of graves and tombs and epitaphs! The plot was a bewildering muddle of betrayals and strong-arming and extended metaphors about gardening, but I'm here for the being and the seeing more than the story. It's just great to stand here and watch them shout and fight and pose and dance their way through a story so worn it's made its own groove in the language. There's always the danger you'll fetch up stood next to a noisy-coated jock boy who keeps swinging his bollocks and scratching his head, but that's just the chance you take. Did you see Henry's stocking fall down? asks Damian after. I didn't. I'm not tall enough. But we both spend some time talking about just how awesome Mrs De York was when she was begging for her treacherous pink-jerkined Son's life, and talking about the pointlessness of honour watching the black sillouettes of a great many people walk back across the bridge against the green-lit buildings, and the pink sky.