I have made a few new friends, different in so much as they are not human. Outside the kitchen window in our new rented flat, I have been privy to some extraordinary visits. One morning at breakfast, a bright luminous green parakeet hung about in a huge copper beech, lunging from branch to branch like a creature from an early Disney cartoon.
On another day, early twilight had set in, during which moments various black birds ran manically after some elusive food, their two feet carrying them as fast as possible. They looked like acrobats who were learning to walk on stilts, as if their bodies were only just able to catch-up with their legs. The next part of the show were three foxes, the eyes glittering in the mid-gloom, trotting in that Wiley Coyote way that they have, sniffing here, urinating there, defaecating everywhere.
On one particular morning, on the wall that divides our downstair’s neighbour’s garden from the actual graveyard, a huge raven came to pay a call. He walked along the length of it, at my eye level while I ate my breakfast. His gait was that of a policeman on the beat who valued his uniform and therefore his importance a little too highly. He glanced at me quite rapidly, his glossy black left eye seeming in vain to make an attempt at indicating his possession of both wisdom and knowledge. He would follow this dramatic gesture with his hands, sorry, I mean his wings behind his back, with a violent stare in the direction of the graveyard. I almost imagined his running dialogue, I , the wrong-doer, he the accuser, as follows:
“Dja see that, Missus, eh? Dja see that? That, Madam, is a GRAVEYARD. Seen one of those before, ‘ave you, ‘ave you, Madam? Do you know what’s in that GRAVEYARD? Dead people, Madam. That’s what. Yep, as I told people before, you live, and no matter ‘ow careful you are, eventually you DIE, so watch yourself, Madam. That’s all I’m saying. WATCH YOURSELF.”
Obviously I reply, but not out loud. I mean, I’m may be bonkers, but I am not mad.
” Exactly how do you propose that I “WATCH MYSELF” , Sir, when, to quote you, ohhhhh, intelligent one, no matter how careful you are, you die. I think, my dear Sir, you have, without knowing it, taught me a supreme lesson. And by the way, I’m not sure I buy your cockney, it’s just a little too stagey.”
“Cor, blimey, Guv’nor, ‘ow deeeaaare yeeeew? Anyway, eh? wha’ ‘ave I tortcha then?” Raven glares at me. I glare at Raven.
“That I shall live life just as I and my loved ones please, since to die is inevitable, might as well enjoy it while I can. Now bugger off.” No, I did not shoot the bird. I clapped my hands, and off he went.
Other adventures have been to take a walk down the river on last Sunday which resulted in a glass of Pimms on the outside terrace upstairs of the Dove Pub, looking out on to that ancient old Thames, imagining all the people who had looked at it the centuries before. I also went to see the glorious St James Theatre in its nearly ready state, thanks to the brilliant James Albrecht, the Associate Director, who took me on the tour of it. It’s season will be announced soon, so hold on to your hats.
I will be going to see two mates in Be Good Revolutionaries at the Oval House on thursday evening, which sounds exciting and fresh. I have also been invited on an extra ticket from another good mate to see The Druid Theatre Company at Hampstead Theatre, which will be an all day extravanganza on Saturday. The plan is to see all of the three plays and catch up with the mate in- between each show. I don’t know who should be applauded the actors in the show or me and my mate for what will be our Herculeaen effort to be both cultural and social at the same time.
I will also be catching up with another old mate who I have not seen because she lives in Fulham, but since I have now joined those rarified poshies, I only have to stroll up the road to see her, so that’s also excellent. I shall also be meeting an old mate from the film Tortoise in Love, (yes it is yet another plug of the sweet rom/com in which I played Liz Collington), at the club that goes by the name of the Hospital (owned by none other than Mr Dave Stewart of that band with Annie Lennox in it). So there we have it, Raven: nil points. Moi, million points.
Kate Terence's Letters from London 