People who flooded along the streets, packed as close to one another that you could count the eyelashes of each of their neighbours. The viral decimator does not exist to them in their minds. Threats don’t matter when they want to celebrate the end of a war the overwhelming majority of them never knew.
There is a party on my street celebrating VE-Day that I’m deliberately avoiding by sitting on a deckchair, here in my back garden, with a cool Corona beside me. I can hear the polite cacophony of middle-class jubilation well enough from here. Laughter, the occasional calls for ‘cheers!’, and an endless loop of music from generations before mine. Vera Lynn has sung The White Cliffs of Dover around nine times during this afternoon, and doubtless many more times elsewhere.
The day that Boris Johnson was announced as Prime Minister had all the ingredients of apocalyptic foreboding that any political commentator could ever ask for. A heatwave scorched up and down the country, reaching 32C in London, and promising hotter conditions still later in the week. The almighty heat brought with it swarms of insects, with places like Leeds rife with the likes of flying ants. Finally, to cap off the day of sweat raddled defences against creepy crawlies, when the sun came down, storm clouds swallowed the land, bringing terrible rain showers and great claps of booming thunder. Anyone watching the day with the slightest bit of superstition probably has developed an anxiety disorder just from thinking about the days to come.
The European Elections were the second democratic check over the state of the country and Brexit after the council elections, and while the council elections proclaimed the simple message that the Labour and (especially) Conservative parties were becoming as popular as rotten meat in a picnic in regards to their handling of Brexit, the results of the European Elections have declared everyone a winner, apparently.
The sky is blue, and there is barely a breeze worth mentioning; Perfect weather for a good voting turnout, though I suspect that even in lashing rainfall we would still smash records for these elections.
After more than a couple of decades of constant performances in a quaint town in Warwickshire, the Atherstone Theatre Workshop was closing down, and all of its past members were being invited for one final goodbye party. The old building where we met up on a weekly basis, a former girls school converted into a small theatre, that seated possibly 50 people at the most, was the venue for this wake.
To even suggest such a thing calls into question of even seeing the same film as other people.