I have found an unfeasibly long trail of messages on Facebook messenger between me and Jilly simply to arrange for me and Janie to join Jilly and friends at Moro in Exmouth Market for Jilly’s sort-of birthday thing.
It had been quite a while since I’d last seen Jilly, for no apparent reason other than general busyness, mutual social laziness and dates/lives not coinciding.
I have always liked Moro – click here – but hadn’t eaten there for some time, life not really taking me to Clerkenwell all that much now. I think it might have been a first time for Janie. North African Spanish fusion was bound to be her taste and indeed was.
Jilly’s friends are reliably good company and this occasion was no exception.
Janie and I very much enjoyed the evening, as did Jilly, by all accounts.
My diary says I went to see this play with Jilly. Possibly someone Jilly knew/knows had something to do with it.
The performers were Tony Anthony, Denise Wong, Phil Daniels and Kate France. Materic directed the piece himself and it was a Shared Experience production; possibly the first of theirs I saw.
That was my verdict in my log and that is my recollection of this production, which I saw with Bobbie.
I also saw the Donmar production in 2003 with Janie. I preferred the 1991 version. Perhaps it was the version or perhaps I had outgrown the play a bit by 2003. Both were excellent productions. I shall write up the Donmar production in the fullness of time.
Meanwhile, in 1991, Alan Cumming played the lead and won the Best Comedy performance Olivier award that year for his trouble. Cumming was involved in the adaptation for the version performed, along with Tim Supple who directed it..
That visit to the theatre was part of a highly active weekend, by the looks of it.
I test drove a Honda in the morning before the play – this was presumably to ascertain whether it would make sense for me to take the souped-up automatic Honda Civic (which subsequently became known as “Red Noddy”) from the Binder Hamlyn car pool, in exchange for my less impressive Renault stick-shift. The answer was yes.
On the Sunday I had lunch with Jilly Black (location lost in the mists of time) and went to Pam & Michael’s place in the evening – possibly for bridge or possibly just supper.
This was a big concert with a massive cast. Two big works:
Ludwig van Beethoven – Symphony No. 3 in E flat major, ‘Eroica’
Leos Janáček – Glagolitic Mass
One heck of a lot of musicians: The Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Choir & BBC Symphony Chorus, The Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra & the (now) late, great Czech conductor Libor Pešek. Not to forget soloists John Mitchinson, Michael George, Jane Eaglen, Ameral Gunson and Ian Tracey.
Jilly accompanied me on this occasion, according to my log, which is usually pretty reliable, as long as I wrote the details down at or near the time, which on this occasion I guess I did.
However, I returned to the scene of the crime, for a different rendition of the Glagolitic Mass, a couple of years later and did not log the name of my companion, which has resulted in one of the greatest mysteries in the entire history of Ogblog postings about 1992 classical concerts – click here or below.
The prime suspect for the 1992 evening is now Bobbie, who has gone very quite on that topic.
Jilly wrote to say:
With regards to the concert in 1992, I must admit that my memory does somewhat fail me. I can hardly remember what I did yesterday, let alone 30 years ago, but all I can say is that I don’t remember ever seeing the Glagolitic Mass performed, and I’m not sure that I’ve actually ever seen Simon Rattle conducting in person, but if it’s helpful for you to put me down as having been at the concert with you I won’t object!
Well, Jilly, what do you have to say now that the log has fingered you for a different performance of the Glagolitic Mass? I’m expecting a confession. No need for an apology.
To be fair, Jilly also says:
Thank you for attaching the review at the bottom; how that choir managed to sing a Slavonic piece without the score just baffles me. Reading and pronouncing the transliterated version of Rachmaninov Vespers utterly did my head in, and that was with a good number of rehearsals.
Amazing evening – although the programme seems to be lost. Jilly had left two tickets for me at short notice. I gave away the spare ticket at the door, to Rita Frank. I drove her back to Marge’s place in Hackney via everywhere due to mega fog – I had just passed my driving test & didn’t even know where the fog lights were. Rita busied herself dancing in her seat to my hippy tape. Friendship founded.
All I can recall of the concert is that the centrepiece was a Sibelius symphony. I think Sibelius 5 but it might be 2. I’m struggling to find more details, although more details must be available somewhere if I search hard enough…
…update!
I have subscribed to a newspaper clipping service and found this:
London Symphony Orchestra with Paavo Berglund to provide authentic Finnish conducting. Barry Douglas tinkling the ivories. Thank you, Jilly!
Jilly was working at the Barbican at that time and would occasionally hand down tickets to me. Usually with a little more notice than on this occasion. I told Jilly that I’d struggle to find a date for a Sunday evening concert at such short notice but that I’d like to see that concert (whatever it was). Her view was that it was better to place one of the tickets than neither.
When I got to the Barbican and collected my tickets, there was a queue for returns; mostly couples and small groups. I announced that I had one spare ticket and was happy to give it away.
Two middle-aged women started bickering with each other, the first trying to refuse and the second telling the first that she really should take the ticket.
Seems that I’m your date…
…said the American woman, who I learnt was named Rita Frank and lived in New York. Her friend, Marge lived in Hackney and was (I think) an academic. Marge, being a generous soul, was happy that the expedition had at least ended up with her visitor/guest getting to see the concert. Marge went home.
Rita was charming company for an evening at the concert hall. She clearly was not very familiar with London, though, so I sensed she was a little daunted by the thought of travelling back to Hackney alone.
I had my car with me, having fairly recently (that summer) passed my driving test. I offered to take Rita back to Marge’s house, handing Rita my car copy of the L0ndon A-Z map book (remember those? No sensible Londoner drove without one.)
As we emerged from the Barbican Centre, I saw that a heavy fog had descended. Really heavy fog.
“Oh, London Fog”, said Rita, “I’ve heard all about these…”
Of course, I’d heard about them too, but by 1989 they were extremely rare, such that I don’t recall ever having seen quite so much fog in London before…or since.
“Oh wow”, said Rita, grabbing one of my cassettes from a pile, “The Happy Tape…that sounds great. Can we listen to The Happy Tape?”
“Actually, it’s called The Hippy Tape”, I said.
“Even better”, said Rita.
The Hippy Tape was a superb mix tape – or in the modern parlance and in its current incarnation – is a superb playlist. It comprises these beauties:
Turn Turn Turn, The Byrds Bluebird, Buffalo Springfield Nashville Cats, Lovin’ Spoonful Rock’n’Roll Woman, Buffalo Springfield Purple Haze, Jimi Hendrix Experience Let Us In, Speedy Keen Ballad of Easy Rider, The Byrds Keep On Truckin’, Donovan White Room, Cream For What It’s Worth, Buffalo Springfield I Feel Free, Cream May You Never, John Martyn Somebody To Love, Grace Slick Meet Me On the Corner, Lindisfarne Moonshadow, Cat Stevens Alabama, Neil Young The Needle and the Damage Done, Neil Young White Rabbit, Jefferson Airplane Magical Connection, John B Sebastian The First Cut is the Deepest, P P Arnold Crazy Love, Van Morrison
I most certainly hadn’t driven in fog before. I knew that there was such a thing as fog lights, but I had no idea what they were or how to operate them on my spanking new, first ever, car. (A red Renault 19, seeing as you asked).
My inadequacies in the fog lights department were exceeded by Rita’s inadequacies in the map reading department…
…in any case Rita seemed more interested in grooving to The Hippy Tape, which is great driving music in conditions where you can see and know where you are going…
…but not so great when you are trying to navigate neighbourhoods you don’t know as a recently qualified driver in dense fog.
My “sense of direction inadequacies” are a matter of legend. The sat nav could have been invented just for me, but in 1989, in the absence of knowing where you are going and in the absence of a helpful map reader and in the presence of dense fog…
…we simply drove around and around the mean streets of the East End for ages, until a mixture of borderline adequacy and luck got us to Marge’s house in one piece. A near miracle, frankly.
Marge turned out to be charming company too. Also a fairly practical sort (compared with me and Rita), who was able to fortify me with coffee and give me some sensible, simple directions to get back to somewhere I vaguely knew and from whence I could take a straight road in the direction of West London.
Meanwhile, it transpired that Rita was not just a New Yorker, but lived on the Upper West Side, very close to the apartment I was, coincidentally, being lent for a week, just over a week hence. Rita was most insistent that I get in touch when I got to New York. Her daughter, Mara, would be off college that week (Thanksgiving week) and would be delighted to act as my informal guide to New York.
At the time, I thought Rita was simply being super polite and that I would probably just “touch base” with her when I got to New York…
…besides, I imagined that 20-year-old Mara might have other ideas about the joys (or otherwise) of showing a random Londoner around New York…
No-one said it was going to be easy, switching from freshly qualified Chartered Accountant to hot shot management consultant as soon as I qualified.
But there was one low point towards the end of my first consultancy assignment for Binder Hamlyn, trying to resolve a seemingly irreconcilable problem for Save The Children Fund (SCF), thus named back then, when I spread all of my hand-written notes and attempted spaghetti-looking work flow and data flow diagrams all over the living room of my little then-rented flat in Clanricarde Gardens…
…and burst into tears.
Quite a lengthy burst if I remember correctly. Four minutes, possibly, which you might choose to time by listening to the following while reading on:
Why hadn’t I listened to the recruitment agent who said that I needed a lot more work experience before I’d be ready for management consultancy?
Why didn’t I walk out of the job on day one, when I learnt that I had been recruited as part of a turf war and that the person who was now to be my boss, Michael Mainelli, had been angered by other partners recruiting me while Michael was away on a short break?
And of all the tough “sink or swim” assignments Michael might have allocated me to at the very start of this seemingly-soon-to-be-foreshortened career, why did it have to be something my heart really was in – a project that might, if successful, substantially help SCF, one of the most important charities in the world?
Of course, you realise, the story has a happy enough ending. Michael and I are still working together thirty years later (as I write in January 2019) – for most of that time in the business we founded together in 1994: Z/ Yen:
I also met Ian Theodoreson, then a young, up-and-coming Finance Director at SCF. Ian continued to be a client on and off throughout the decades and we have remained in touch even since he gave up on major charity roles – e.g. this get together last year.
Yes, somehow the project did turn out to be a success. After the tears, I realised that I needed to focus the report on the evidence-based conclusions I had reached and the single bright idea I had come up with in the several weeks I had spent with SCF.
Little did I know back then that:
having even one bright idea during a 20 day assignment is a significant success if that idea is helpful/valuable enough and finds enough favour to be implemented;
the seemingly irreconcilable problem I encountered at SCF was an example of a perennial problem in all organisations that have potentially complex relationships with their customers, members or donors. If you can even partially solve or make progress despite that “natural fault line”, you’ve done well;
this single assignment would prove to be career-defining for me in so many ways. In part because it cemented my place at Binder Hamlyn working with Michael as well as other partners. In part because I still spend much of my working time with charities and membership organisations (albeit looking at wider issues). In part because many of the things I learnt on that challenging assignment stood me in good stead for later challenges in the subsequent decades.
Ogblog is primarily a “life” retroblog, not a “work” one, so this piece is a rarity – perhaps even a one-off – being more work than life. But this period was such a major change for me, not least in shifting my work-life balance substantially towards work for several decades, that I feel bound to write it up. I also spotted some intriguing notes on the diary pages for those first few weeks of January 1989.
Compared with late 1988, this is almost all work, not much life.That meeting with Ian Theodoreson on 10 January will have been my first formal meeting with Ian and possibly even the first time I met him at all, although we might have had a “canteen chat” in Mary Datchelor House (the SCF offices back then) before we met formally. I was making a point of being visible in the canteen for informal chats throughout the project; a technique I had leaned from my Student Union sabbatical experience just a few years earlier. I also note that I had spelt Ian’s surname incorrectly back in 1989, a mistake I was to repeat (differently) on the acknowledgements page of the hard cover edition of Price of Fish. Sorry, again, Ian. Again, lots of work, not all that much life there. A second meeting with Ian, now mis-spelling his name in the same way as The Price of Fish error – at least some sort of consistency set in. Hannah and Peter on the Thursday evening are my neighbours from downstairs. Peter is still downstairs – Hannah (Peter’s mum) returned to Germany some years ago and is spending her dotage there. I cannot remember the evening of 22 January 1989 with Caroline – I’ll guess that I cooked Caroline dinner at Clanricarde given the time and lack of other information in the diary. Caroline has reciprocated – most recently at the time of writing a week or so ago!The amusing entry on this page is the morning of 25 January. Someone suggested that I visit Barnardo’s by way of comparison with SCF. I’m not sure who provided the above assistance for my journey, but it reads:
Barkingside St. [Station] Church – beside it c60s US “Prison”
Anyone who has visited the Barnardo’s campus would recognise that “1960s US Prison” description and it should make them smile. It would be ironic if it had been Ian Theodoreson who provided that helpful description for my journey, as he subsequently spent many years as Director of Corporate Services there and I did several assignments at that Barnardo’s campus, in the late 1990s and early years of this century.
Please also note “G Jenny” in small writing for 26th evening and then again on the Saturday afternoon. I know that I deferred my visit to Grandma Jenny 26th because I had a report deadline looming…
…in fact the “evening of tears” might have been 26th not 27th…
…but I also know that the report deadline was really for the Monday morning, when I needed to go into the office with the report ready for review. So I also remember postponing Grandma Jenny again on the Saturday, while dinner with Jilly I think went ahead after I finished my draft report on the Saturday.
I put Grandma Jenny back into the book for the following Tuesday and I’m sure I will have gone that evening. She forgave me for the multiple rescheduling I’m sure, especially when she learnt that I was doing work for a charity in which she believed strongly. I also remember her imparting the following worldly advice to me several times during that era:
all work and no joy makes Jack a dull boy.
Well of course there was joy as well as work during those “hard yards” weeks and months at the start of my consultancy career. But I don’t suppose there was much joy inside my tears on that evening, when I thought it was all going horribly wrong.
Maybe I even cried for the six-and-a-half minutes it takes to listen to this Dowland-ish Stevie Wonder song.
This was at the old Hampstead Theatre – the portacabin-like place quite near the new Hampstead (i.e. also Swiss Cottage). The place had a proud tradition by 1989, not least in the matter of Mike Leigh plays.
What a fine cast – as always with Mike Leigh who seems to be a magnet for talent – including Timothy Spall, Saskia Reeves and Brid Brennan.
I do remember really liking this play/production. It was, in some ways, the sort of cheesy farce I tend not to like. But being Mike Leigh, it was sort-of an antidote to such farces, much as Noises Off by Michael Frayn is sort-of farce, sort-of antidote.
I went to see this one with Bobbie – I wonder whether or not she remembers much about it…
…or whether Bobbie remembers much about Jilly’s party at the latter’s Nether Street residence?
I think it was at this particular Jilly party that I had a long conversation with one of Jilly’s scientist friends about nuclear fusion technologies, which we reprised some 20-25 years later at a subsequent Jilly gathering.
Obviously I was better from my 48 hours of food poisoning by the Saturday. I’m pretty sure I went in to work on the Friday and then a full weekend of activities.
Now I have had written complaints from Jilly already about my handwriting, so the above page is only for artistic effect. Here is the entry for the Saturday:
Saturday 10 December: Driving lesson & Orpheus Descending With Jilly & Annalisa Party
There – that wasn’t so challenging, now, was it?
I remember really liking this play and production. What a fabulous cast.
They made a film based on that Peter Hall production with some (but not all) of the cast we saw in it. Here is the trailer for that movie – far more melodramatic looking than the stage production I remember, but still it should give you some idea:
For that particular evening, I’m sure that the original idea was that Bobbie would join me to see this play/production. But when she had to pull out for some reason, it made a great deal of sense for Jilly to act as sub, especially as we were both invited to Annalisa’s party and were given leave to be fashionably late arrivals.
In truth, I cannot remember specific details of this particular party at Annalisa’s place in Hinde Street, but her parties were always popular, always lavish in hospitality and always late nighters. At that time, just a couple of years after Annalisa had finished at Keele, I suspect it was a very Keeley crowd that night.
As the diary says, on the Sunday, I:
…went to G Jenny with Ma & Pa…
…the next day, quite probably a little tiredly and sore-headedly. But Grandma Jenny no doubt wanted to know all about my new flat and my new job, so I’ll guess that I was centre of attention that Sunday afternoon.
One factor that nearly prevented me from getting my new job with Binder Hamlyn Management Consultants was the fact that I did not drive. As part of my “deal”, I promised to take driving lessons and try to qualify as a driver as soon as possible.
So, the Monday after leaving Newman Harris, I enrolled at the Hiway Driving School in Streatham Hill and commenced my lessons. 11.15 on 21 November was the first time I ever took the wheel of a real car.
I’d love to report some tales of derring do and/or some scrapes and/or some near misses, but I’m afraid that my transformation from non-motorist to motorist was pretty much an anecdote-free affair.
That week I had a lesson every morning before going on to do something else. Most of that something else was a combination of exam marking for Financial Training and flat hunting. In the matter of flat hunting, I was advised, at that time, to study the classified ads in the London Evening Standard as soon after publication as possible, in order to track what was going on and to jump in to see a place or two if I saw anything I fancied.
Hence, I imagine, the driving lessons mid morning, enabling me to pick up the paper early lunchtime, after my lesson.
On the Tuesday evening, Jilly came over for dinner after work. 6:30ish is the only timing indication in the appointment diary. I cannot remember where she worked at that time (was it already the Barbican Centre by then?) but my diary helps me to recall that she lived in a flat in Nether Street, Finchley. I remember us finding that street name funny.
Nor do I recall what I cooked for Jilly that evening, but I’ll guess it will have been one of my Chinese and/or South-East Asian specials. I do remember that Jilly was full of useful advice for the flat hunting and that her advice was timely, as I had pretty much drawn blanks from my classified trawls those first two days.
I think her advice included “ringing up some agents in the areas I fancied and asking them to get on the case for me” – in other words, to look at agent ads as well as the classifieds. I labour this point because, I’m pretty sure, that is the method that got me to Clanricarde Gardens (and some other places) the next day.
Thanks, Jilly.
Jilly Visiting me At Keele, c1984
Update – Jilly responds:
I found [your diary entry] a little hard to read; when it talked about “dinner” with Jilly, I had to read it three times before it (dinner) stopped looking like “I am vinyl”, but eventually, I realised what I was reading about.
Gosh, that was a long time ago, and yes, I remember living in Nether Street, when, I think, I was working at Green Moon PR Agency.
I must admit, I can’t remember much about the flat hunting advice, except that I probably would have told you to be very quick about going to see something that you liked the look of, especially in those days before mobiles, email, and the like.
So, on the Wednesday, through an agency whose name has escaped me, but I recall it was located above Tootsies Restaurant on Holland Park Avenue, I saw Clanricarde Gardens for the first time and was so taken with it I thought I had probably found what I was looking for first dips. It was only the fact that I hadn’t yet seen anywhere else, combined with the fact that other agents were on my case now and leaving me messages at Woodfield Avenue, that kept me viewing for the rest of that day and the next day.
I shall write a piece about some of the strange places I saw, once I have dug out some more notes, as I am sure I have a note pad on this topic as well as my diaries.
…this was a short but much-needed break at my parent’s place for the festive season.
Not that it turned out to be all that festive.
Come on, hands up – how many of you have ever attended a funeral on Christmas Day?
Here’s my diary for those few days:
Friday, 21 December 1984 – had a lazy day indoors today. Stayed in eve – spoke to several people.
Saturday, 22 December 1984 – got up quite late. Went to Knipes and shopping in the afternoon. Met Jim [Bateman] in Rose And Crown in evening.
I have previously written up the bizarre Knipe Christmas gift experience – click here or below if you haven’t read the story before…or if you fancy it again:
In 1984 I would have refused to enter the diabolical living room, so I think Don and I would have had a relatively sort chat and tipple in their Third-Reich-free dining room.
Sunday 23 December 1984 – Rose quite late – went to Surbiton – had lunch and visited Grandma Jenny. Went on to meet Jilly for a drink and a meal – nice evening.
Monday, 24 December 1984 – Lazyish day today – stayed in – taped and watched some telly. Stayed in evening also.
I think I might have focussed on taping classical stuff from my old records that Christmas. I’ll return to that subject in a future piece.
Tuesday, 25 December 1984 – went to Ruby Casper’s funeral in morning. Went over to Benjamin’s late afternoon/evening – ate too much and watched TV there.
Wednesday 26th December 1984 – lazy day – Indian lunch – slouched around. Watched television etc – Airplane! and The Third Man
In truth I don’t really remember Ruby Casper. I think she might have been from Auntie Francis’s side of the extended family. I’m not sure why I went to the funeral, other than the obvious point that mum and dad were going and it would have seemed rude for me to absent myself on Christmas Day. What else might I have been doing that day?
“Eating too much and watching TV”, I hear you cry. Well yes, but there was still plenty of time to do that as well.
Postscript/clarification
Cousin Angela, Auntie Francis’s daughter, has set the record straight on Ruby Casper:
We were away in Brazil and Ruby Casper was in fact a man! He was married to my Aunty Sophie, my mother’s sister, who was known for her Edna Everidge glasses. How were you dragged along? Was it because it was Xmas day and they thought they wouldn’t get enough people?
Ruby Casper was a man? No wonder I didn’t remember “her”. My bad for being fast and loose with my pronouns. In truth, I don’t remember Auntie Sophie and their Edna Everidge glasses either.
As for me being dragged along just to make up the numbers, Angela…DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? 🤪
And Now, Back To the Main Story
I’m glad I also pursued that great Twixtmas tradition, which I have long since left behind, of watching movies that I had seen before. Indeed, two of them on Boxing Day.
“Surely you must be joking”, I hear you cry. I’m not joking…and don’t call me Shirley.
On the Thursday morning, I returned to a freezing and almost completely depopulated Keele, ahead of the next day of the Tribunal hearing on the Friday.
