National Day

National Day for Belgium; another Feestdag  when shops are closed, buses and trains run Sunday services and restaurants and bars are crowded with an increased number of tourists and locals out to enjoy themselves. So, a Day of Celebration which, by happenstance, became a day of despondency
for me, and I write as an incurable optimist whose persistent high spirits can irritate some!

After my lovely, exuberant few days in Britain last week, I came home with a super birthday present from my son and his wife. A slender black Fitbit which really appealed to my slightly obsessive nature.

For any unaware of the nature of a Fitbit, it is a glorified pedometer with added electronic wizardry to tell not only the number of steps walked, but the heart rate at any given moment, calories burned, kilometres walked etc. I think it is something of a craze among young professionals [though not octogenarians] and I have been proudly wearing it all week, absolutely delighted to find that every day, doing everyday things, I seem to walk around 11000-12000 steps, or around 9/10 kilometres. I try to keep healthy with a daily swim and some walking so the new gadget greatly appealed.

I have worn it every morning to and from the Crowne Plaza [worth at least 1000 steps!] when I go for my morning swim, leaving it in my jeans pocket, with my key and Crowne Plaza card, and the rest of my ‘stuff’ [underclothes, case for goggles etc] adjacent to my bag in the changing cubicle. I have never considered putting it all safely away in the lockers available. It all feels so safe in the Crowne Plaza! This morning when I entered the normally sedate and silent swimming area, I could hear two male voices shouting and laughing from the sauna round the corner, and smiled indulgently at two young men ‘having fun!’ I ignored the vast amount of water and sustained water fight I guessed] and entered the pool.

After showering, when I entered my cubicle nearby, I could see that someone had tipped my bag upside down then stuffed everything back in; my shirt was on the floor, the jeans were still hanging in place but the Fitbit was missing. The men had gone; I had seen one briefly when he had dived in, swum two lengths then left and had noticed, mid-water as he turned, near me, that he was perhaps in his twenties, Indian, with a beginning beard. I was stunned that someone who could afford to stay in a decent hotel in Brugge was also a determined thief.



 Grand Café Craenenburg, Markt

A further surprise awaited. The manager informed me, basically, that it was my problem and I could inform the police if I wished. He would not. Eventually after a phone conversation, the police came [lovely men!]. The two predators, towels around waists signalling a hasty exit, had been caught on camera leaving the Fitness area but this was not enough to try to find them. The hotel was full and busy, the images weren't great … etc! There were issues of privacy to prevent my seeing the images on the reception camera etc. At least, I am now bang up-to-date on procedures after theft in a hotel; where responsibilities lie; the ease of disclaimers and the perils of ignoring the safety of lockers in Fitness areas. I have fleeting daydreams featuring a chance encounter [I did, in fact, sit for nearly an hour scanning guests bound for breakfast!], superhuman strength and agility on my part, [totally unreal given that I am 83 next week!] resulting in capture of the two thieves followed perhaps, [this is the Ultimate Fantasy] by cojones on toast to celebrate!

 Terrace, normally used for leisure; occasionally
for consolation!

After a desultory morning with much consolation from enjoying the terrace while reading The New York Times, I made myself go out into the throng; walked to the Groeninge Museum to see the Flemish Primitives, the Surrealists and the Flemish Impressionists which did, in fact, distract and nurture. Afterwards I had a look en passant at the bric-a-brac stalls on the Dijver, and wandered to the Markt where a stage had been erected and an Oompah band was beginning to encourage some crowd-singing. I noticed a spare table at the Craenenburg, next to the pavement in the Markt itself, so cheered myself up with a Leffe Blond, enjoying the music and the pageantry of passing tourists.  Suddenly I saw a friend from the Thursday group, hailed him and he joined me, succeeding pretty quickly in Cheering Me Up with interesting talk. So a reasonably upbeat end to a trying day!


The Call of The Night
Paul Delvaux; Surrealist.

To Town With Harry Potter

Temple of Worship, West End style

Just surfing exhaustion today brought upon by only two and a bit days in Bucks and London. I definitely needed to limp home after great fun with my son and some of his family, specifically, with one grandson celebrating his 21^st today [June 16] A whole year ago, he had bought tickets for Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, currently staged at the Palace Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue, for three people including me, an H.Potter non-follower. His real kindness and generosity to me are SO appreciated however; his boundless love for H.P. is infectious!

 J.K.Rowling

I neglect to mention a further refinement: either through theatrical design or financial expediency, the entire production stretched over TWO evenings so the mountaineering to what my generation used to fondly refer to as ‘the Gods’, entailed climbing what felt like a hundred stairs [healthy!] to the steeply-stepped seats with leg-room for dwarves, on two consecutive evenings. As grandson’s perceptive friend, an actor and the third member of our group, remarked, the theatre audience demographic was unusual; families, young women, non-theatre-goers normally, brought with them a remarkable, collective disinhibition. Cheers, groans, noisy elation or despair, that curious ‘Whoooooo’ of appreciation that young people make and ‘on-your-feet’ cheering, waving and jumping about in total body worship, at the finale, were there in abundance. It all demonstrated a real encompassing involvement in the narrative and a huge appreciation of both performance and production. J.K.Rowling is a magician herself; years ago with her first Harry Potter book she single-handedly converted thousands of young boys to voluntary, nay enthusiastic, reading. And now, with this theatre venture such an enduring and total success, she is bringing in astonishing numbers of fans to experience theatre too. I am in awe.

In fact, The Cursed Child was amazing: fabulous production values; extraordinary creativity; magical choreography [HOW could one character, mid-stage, metamorphose before audience eyes, into another, completely different person?]; first-rate casting and acting; a gripping narrative that almost made sense eventually, even to an agnostic like me. A real spectacle indeed.

I DID enjoy strolling, post-theatre, through the crowded, multi-lingual, multi-cultural streets of London, pushing through others leaving theatres, with tourists by the thousand so pleased to be there; excited families on special occasion trips up to Town,

NOT the West End Theatre land but Oxford Street.
Similar crowds however.

and on the roads, among the buses and cars, motor bikes and bicycles; rickshaw drivers working hard for the enjoyment of their passengers, dodging pedestrians, many half-transfixed by the lights and personalities on show. Beggars were still, heart-breakingly, at work among passers-by who had other sights on their minds and other priorities pressing. But the feelings of surrounding vitality and fun and excitement were irrepressible.

 The splendid Gauthier.
The boys enjoyed the locked front door with the attendant
necessity to ring for admittance.

On our second day in London for H.P. worship, we went to a super restaurant, Gauthier on Romilly Street, for a celebratory lunch for the Birthday Boy. Quite simply, it was the best. We chose the Taster Menu and were rewarded by a succession of exquisitely-presented tiny courses, each with a different, complementary wine. For me, the fact that two twenty one year old young men adored it too, was great. Later, after a visit to the R.A. [a first for the boys I think] we were walking along Piccadilly when my grandson stopped, almost quivering with excitement before humbly approaching an undistinguished boy propping up a doorway. Apparently he was Jack Gleeson who plays King Joffrey in Game of Thrones and, to his credit, he was delightful with the boys’ adoration. I was bemused but glad that they were glad!! Much later I was shown a tiny clip of King Joffrey behaving really badly in character and his odd face looked just perfect for the part! I think that this brief encounter was probably the icing on the birthday cake for The Boy!!



 King Joffrey from Game of Thrones
insisting on a selfie with the boys.