So I reckon that means that I can quite legitimately complain about how hot it is. After all, everyone else is, so I’ll fit right in. Actually I think it would be bearable if the evenings were cool, but they ain’t. (Maybe that’s a measure of my cold white British blood starting to tolerate it more). So if you fall asleep when it gets slightly less stifling at 4, that’s not a lot of sleep when you start work at 8. I don’t mind warm clothes, a warmed bed even. Just that I like it when the temperature is below freezing outside.
But there are consolations. It’s quick showering in the morning as you don’t have to bother letting the water warm up. Washing dries as soon as you put it on the line. And you just don’t need an excuse to eat ice cream.
Anyway, I’ve spent most of the week cocooned in the relatively air-conditioned ED. Obviously it’s busy – lot’s of little old people just don’t tolerate it. And it’s been the last week of the festival.
I sat down on Monday (which was the Bank Holiday) and booked up things for every night this week. In a variety of venues, some cooler than others. Actually it’s been a good chance to see inside some buildings I wouldn’t have done otherwise.
Tuesday I had an office day so I took the chance to walk down to see if there was any daytime arts stuff at the Festival Centre. Despite the name, there was v little. Just a very bizarre white booth that contained a computer generated kaleidoscope that apparently “responds by producing improvised sounds that have not been composed by the artist”. Wish I’d known that before, I’d have listened out for them! As far as I was concerned, it was just a bit... pink. In fact a lot pink. Fluorescently pink. Anyway, for a bit of culture I walked back via the museum which was displaying a painting done by a group of Aborigines in 1997 to support a land claim. That was worth it – it was a composite of birds eye, brilliant coloured landscape with figurative legends and stories illustrated. Then, in one corner, was a tiny sliver of a painting done with perspective that was almost real.
In the evening, I stuck to my roots and went to see Mark Watson (as seen on Mock the Week and other BBC staples), playing to half a cinema-full of people.
On Wednesday, despite being on call, I went to La Clique, which is a cabaret show. I was intending to go to the last night last night, but as t’Internet crashed as I was booking tickets, this was the only night I could do. Anyway. I saw the man in the bath, which is a source of much jealousy amongst those who went the Sunday before. Oh, and there were some other acts too, notably a Freddie-Mercury-a-like, a woman with hula hoops and a bloke who was double jointed enough to fit his body through a 10” diameter tennis racket. Oh, and a pleasing amount of bod.
Thursday I thought I’d be all adult and go to some of the Festival (as opposed to fringe). I went to play written by the guy who wrote Lantana (which is a film I’m recommend – I’m sure Channel 4 must be playing it again sometime soon). It was just over 2 hours, with no interval but that was because all the scenes merged and characters flowed into other people’s scenes, listening. There was a minimal set, so your imagination did a lot of the work (not all), and many motifs and recurrent sentences that repeated themselves throughout the scenes and the generations. It was heavy, but just enough black humour to leaven it. Actually it was a beautiful piece, although I’m not sure how well it would translate out of Australia (or SA even). The fact it was called When the Rain Stops Falling was ultimately just co-incidental, and extremely ironic.
I was working in between all this, by the way. On Friday I decided that I should see some local music. I managed to find the closest thing that Adelaide has to a folk club in a very warm church hall. (that’s because they don’t have folk as we know it, but call it “Roots”, and there is a v heavy Country influence. Hmm). The fans were on, but all they do is move the hot air around and exchange it with more hot air. Anyway, it was interesting. It was a singer who’d lived her life mostly in the outback, much with Aboriginal communities, who had an incredible voice that worked what ever style she was singing. A couple of songs grabbed me, many weren’t great, but worth the experience.
Saturday I was on call, so didn’t book anything. Sunday (yesterday) I ended up leaving work saying that if they needed someone, they’d better call, even though I was going out. (Actually does that mean I can claim an on-call on my time sheet? Reckon it does.) Work was busy, with a Dr down (there’s a suspicious lot of sickness at the weekends) although you wouldn’t have believed it by the time I handed over.
I thought the Brits were bad for sitting in car parks. When I got home, there were 3 neighbours (nos 2, 4 and 8) sitting on chairs in the car park, drinking beer. I thought that being at no6 I had to join them really. So we sat for about an hour talking, watching 2 of the kids having water fights with atomiser bottles and getting caught in the crossfire (obviously that was very unpleasant, given that it was still about 38º).
The venue for the play was pretty cool. Built in around 1842, it was Australia’s earliest mainland theatre. In any other city, it would be a cowshed. Whitewashed and peeling walls, concrete floor and corrugated iron roof held together by thin rusting girders. I reckon when it was built the stage was where we sat, as we faced the main doors. In front of them was another, internal façade that looked as though it was the original entrance with a large doorway and window holes, jagged holes in the glass with the cicadas in the roof sawing away.
Why am I bothering to describe it? Because it fitted the play perfectly, The play (or more of a storytelling, actually) was an adaptation of a short story by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. A girl’s car breaks down in the desert, and the only help she can get is a ride on a bus to a very strange convent... And after all, she only came to use the phone. It was one of those where the impact hits you as you walk out. Scary.
It was played by a company of 6, despite there being dozens of characters; each player taking up the narrative and acting it out as they told the story. And by the time it was over, everyone peeled themselves from the plastic chairs, soaked through with sweat.
So the festivals are all over and Adelaide settles down into being a sleepy little town, where you have to search for entertainment. Actually probably not that bad, just there aren’t any bands coming that I want to see, no opera until the day I leave, and very little on at the theatre.
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