The waiting game

I nearly waited too long for Godot. My cyber-alert system had been primed to let me know when Becket’s enigmatic piece was coming to Edinburgh but it had obviously decided that I was denying its existence by creating its memory and decided to be “of itself” and ignore my instructions. P erhaps it had been reading over my shoulder when I googled Becket.
Telephoning the theatre, I got what was, if not the last seat in the house, the next but one. I was seated in the top right hand corner of what is politely referred to as the Upper Circle but is generally known as “the gods”. I haven't sat so high up for years. It reminded me of school trips to pantomimes of yesteryear when gangs of nine and ten year olds were bussed up to Edinburgh for a Christmas treat and sat in jostling, unruly rows like so many pigeons on window sills, peering down from the giddy heights as Jimmy Logan or Stanley Baxter went through their routines.
Ah, the austerity of the fifties, when will we see the likes again? Gey soon, it would seem if the financial pundits are to be believed.
I hadn’t seen WFG for about thirty years and I had forgotten, or never realised, how funny it is. I suppose asides about prostatism, senior moments, incipient senility and daytime somnolence didn’t have the same relevance for me thirty years ago.
A superb production. McKellen, Stewart, Callow and Pickup were as good as all the revues said they were, The set, the lighting, even a very passable Merlot in the Upper Circle bar, all contributed to a tremendous experience. Yet after the buzz, the enjoyment of the theatrical experience, there was a bleakness that grabbed you unawares. We are all waiting for…for what ?

The swallows are back. I have seen my first of the year. 24th of April. Always the same, within 48 hours, every year! I have been waiting for them to arrive. We are always waiting for something but at least the swallows never disappoint.