We went to see “The Last Summer” at the Gate. Oh the disappointment. As my mother-in-law said it was like amateur dramatics. Certainly as a tale of what was happening in 70s Dublin it was infinitely inferior to “The Boys of Foley Street“. Nobody was harrowed.
We ran into a glamorous friend of Mr. Waffle’s and went for a drink after the show. We were chatting about houses. I remembered that the last time I had seen her (about a year ago) she had been talking about how she had got her drawing room painted in various shades of red and that really it looked like a womb. This was fresh in my mind as I asked, “How is your womb?” Obviously, the conversation from last year wasn’t as fresh in her mind as in mine. She looked at me as though I was slightly insane. There was a nasty lull in the conversation. “Fine, thank you,” she said, a trifle coldly, I thought as I rushed to clarify. Oh dear, oh dear. [This woman was last mentioned in this blog here – under Saturday. Great to see that my levels of embarrassment are consistent with those of June 7, 2004.]
