One of the good things about NaBloPoMo was that I got into the habit of posting daily, whether I was in the mood or not. [Not unlike Queen Elizabeth I, who would take a bath every six months, whether she needed it or not.] Today I am decidedly out of sorts, and definitely not in the mood.
I should be pleased that I snaffled a good seat for A Streetcar Named Desire, starring Cate (Blanche)tt, but it’s nearly a year off, so true excitement has yet to settle in. I should be pleased that I’ve reached the end of my annual publications schedule, but the next deadline is only three working weeks away, so any sense of respite is pure illusion. All in all, Thomasina is a woeful creature.
In the moments like these there is but one solution: Die Schopfling, otherwise known as the Retail Therapy Oratorio. This madeupical of mine came about as the result of 1990s optical character recognition technology trying to cope with “Die Schöpfung” in a scanned text. Umlauts were guaranteed to throw a spanner in the works, but the result has given me a decade of pleasure already.
A Schopfling doesn’t need to be extravagant, a modest gesture will do, and so today I popped into the nearest Dymocks on my way home and picked up a copy of The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga.
I have been meaning to buy this novel ever since it won the Booker Prize (sorry Man, you’ve not paid me to assign you naming rights!) earlier in the year. I don’t normally go out of my way to buy prize-winning books, but in this case I felt a combined curiosity and obligation, the author having been a student at my high school, although after my time.
I began reading it on the train. My stop arrived at page 30 along with the death of the lizard, but already I can tell I will enjoy its wicked humour and the conceit of a (one-way?) correspondence between the Indian “entrepreneur” and a Chinese politician.
I was passing Dymocks because I was on my way to Angel Place in the hope of avoiding an internet booking fee on my ticket for David and Jonathan as well as being able to select my seat properly. I was too late, but will plan better tomorrow. I really must get myself to a Pinchgut production after so many years of admiring their endeavours from afar and, embarassingly, from anear.
PS. If you haven’t already done so, cast your vote on this post.