Since I’ve been cut down to working only three days a week I find that on a Tuesday I feverishly work to tidy everything up so that all will be well until I return to finish my working week on a Friday. More and more this seems to find me working an extra hour or more on a Tuesday just to keep things under control. So by the time I reached my front door at almost seven thirty it really was quite dark. No one else was at home so the hall light wasn’t on. Just as I put my key in the door I glimpsed a puffy envelope lurking just under the brick arch of our 1930’s semi.
I’m sure you all share that feeling when your hands clasp one of these exciting packages. It’s good enough when it’s something you’ve succumbed to online and have ordered yourself, but I had no idea what this was. The only clue was a “Faber” franking mark so I knew it was likely to be good. Then out slid this exquisite volume. Oh slim, how I love you. You are precious and dark and on your front is a painting. Could you be any more wonderful? Oh yes you could because you are a play. Plays are magical. As I read I hear the voices, I plan the costumes and envisage the set. You will be a wonderful comapnion for my ancient black paperback copy of one-act plays by Chekhov.
This new object of my affection is a copy of “The Pitmen Painters” by Lee Hall kindly sent to me as a result of an advent draw over at DoveGreyReader and put inthe post by Gemma at the publishers, Faber and Faber.
The time is 1934, the place is an unassuming hall outside Newcastle, the players are a group of miners and the occasion is week one of a WEA course on art appreciation. Watch this space.