A meal to remember, at "The Ivy"
Spend a night in London before descending to the South. An emotional rollercoasting evening which I'm not prepared to share with the whole cybernetic outerspace populace. Two details only: a play by Neil La Bute called "This is how it goes", with Ben Chaplin, at the Donmar Wharehouse (with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in my hand allowed inside the stalls area! O Britain of Yesteryears Where Art Thou?!); a superb meal (Scallops, Potted schrimps, Poussin des Landes) at the near-unbookable ubber-trendy "The Ivy" ( have a look at http://www.london-eating.co.uk/19.htm ) (Bumblebee, with toff-class aplomb, posing as Private Assistant to the visiting White Russian Countess, managed to get us a table with just 24 hours notice. Well done).
La Bute's play, with a mono-female bi-coloured love triangle, depicts, according to promo literature, a "forensic look at race and infidelity". Good stuff, no time for substantial review right now. I left the performance with the usual in-awe feeling that words and interjections in theatre-writing are a totally distinct matière première from the language source of novelistic literature. Words can even be the same but the medium makes them utterly distinct. At the peril of repeating myself: Good Stuff!.
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