Friday

3 November 2017

—  And still the new calendula blooms keep coming!

Good Morning All,

Yesterday evening, Esther and I went to the Victoria Theater on the high street in Sorø to see the Danish premiere of Victoria and Abdul, with the inimitable Judy Dench as Victoria Regina.  Show time was at 6:00. The Victoria Theater is your basic small-town cinema, run partially by volunteers to sell the tickets and run the candy concession. Alas, no popcorn. There are old movie stills on the walls. The rugs are only slightly threadbare, and there is in general a time-warp back to the 1950s coziness to it all.

We, being a few minutes earlier, sat at one of the small cafe tables in the ante-room with thirty or forty other people, maybe one or two of whom were under fifty. Esther, of course, knew everyone. A few years ago, the town of Sorø had established the Citizen-of-the-Month Award just so they could honor her in some way for all her years at her day job as a psychiatric nurse in the local laughing academy, and her night job as a district nurse, driving hither and yon around to the old, the sick, the disabled, and the incapacitated patients in the county. Esther was the inaugural winner of the award. So, while we waited, she had a fine time chatting with old acquaintances, many of them the sons and daughters of the people she'd visited in the wee hours.

Just before 6:00, the manager came into the middle of the room and announced that unfortunately the movie was not working. He’d called the film institute in Copenhagen, and they would be sending out a technician in the morning. He apologised and welcomed us to come back the next day.

The reaction to all this? Somebody in the back cracked a joke in Danish, and those of us who understood the joke (i.e., everyone but me) laughed. Someone else kidded the manager, and a wave of mirth spread round the room. Everyone went back to wherever they’d been in conversation, and we all eventually got up to go and get our money back. Under the marquee outside the theater, people said good night to each other, and Esther got a lot of hugs, just as if we’d all seen the movie and been particularly pleased with it. 

Which just goes to show what a sorry lot these small-town Danes are. Where was anger and indignation? Where was at least one among us to stand up and demand the manager be fired for gross negligence of duty? Why wasn’t the manager at the very least being accused of work-place sexual harassment? Where were the stress addicts to pump up their own blood pressure by muttering nothing worked any more, especially if left in the hands of today’s youngsters.

Everyone around me was so relaxed, I could have been back in my valley in Swaziland sitting with my Swazi friend Aubrey Shongwe in my striped, canvas, Titanic-style deck chairs on my verandah, the two of listening to the far off lowing of the cattle and talking about absolutely nothing in particular.

Go Well and Stay Well,

Bhekaron

P.S. Yes, I know the November poem scheduled for yesterday was supposed to come today. But at the last minute it wanted a little tinkering. Probably tomorrow.

P.P.S. Two Holly snaps: