The by-product is sometimes more valuable than the product.

Stairs to the stars. Fire escape from the Theatre Royal, Hobart. November 2010.

This one is a (slightly different) look at the Theatre Royal, right at the heart of Hobart. It is a versatile location, staging all kinds of events including ballet, opera, drama and musicals. When the theatre opened in 1837, it was located among the pubs, brothels, gambling dens, factories and tiny workers’ cottages of Wapping. As such, it is the oldest continually operating theatre in Australia.

This nearly wasn’t the case though! No less a figure than Sir Laurence Olivier himself spoke passionately to Tasmanians, urging them to resist the urge to demolish it an start again in the 1940s, telling us to "never let it go"!

Obviously, someone was listening.

Countless ~~lesbians~~ [ahem] thespians have trod the boards of the Royal. Indeed, reading through a simple list is like gazing up at the sky in the dead of night!

Laurence Olivier!

Noël Coward!

Vivien Leigh!

Lillian Gish!

Peter Ustinov!

Hell, we’ve even had little Ronnie Corbett strut his stuff!

Of course, I’ve only even taken on show at the Royal myself. No, it wasn’t Olivier as Hamlet or Noël Coward doing Mad Dogs and Englishmen unaccompanied on a harpsichord.

It was the one and only (well, the fourth iteration anyway), Hi-5!

Comments

Kris McCracken said…

We all need love.

17 December 2010 at 15:03

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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