I have less than half an hour left on my internet session here, but want quickly to share a story with you about last night. One of the main reasons I’m in London is to see theatre; I’d read reviews of a play called “War Horse,” by the National Theatre, done with puppets. I’m not usually one for puppets, but this sounded good, so I went last night to enjoy truly one of the best evenings of theatre ever. It was spectacular, stunning, moving, extraordinary. Based on a children’s book by Michael Morpurgo, whom I’ve never heard of and will be reading from now on, it’s the story of a horse called Joey, raised on a small English farm and sent off to WW1. A South African troupe produced the puppets – not puppets really, stunning life-sized evocations of horses – and also a goose and various birds. Joey as a colt was moved by puppeteers outside, but the full grown Joey was created by three actors inside the frame. Every movement, each turn of the horse’s head, each nicker and whinney and scream, was done perfectly, with enormous respect for the truth, the intelligence, nobility, dignity of the animal.
Summer continues, bewildered but happy Torontonians out in tank tops, shorts, flipflops. On October 1 Lynn and I swam in