An open letter to our new Parish Council…

Dear Councillors –

Since I moved to Tysoe, four years ago – after falling in love with the place at first sight – I have not attended as many Parish Council meetings as I would have liked. Broadly, there are four reasons for this:

1. Like many other villagers, I was unaware of the important rôle the Council plays in governing the village; in caring for it (with hearts, minds, and actions); and ensuring that, pragmatically, it continues to develop in a way that respects its past, whilst incorporating the most appropriate of modern instruments and technologies. It is also the last formal bastion we have in defending the erosion of true localism against both large corporations and the extremely remote forces of national and international government – in other words, it is the nearest thing we have, in our small corner of rural England, to realpolitik and direct involvement.
2. Having said that, much of what occurs during the meetings I have attended has not felt relevant to me – and it took an outsider, Keith Risk (publically raising the threat that Gladman Developments posed to the village, and calling both residents and Councillors to arms), to make me realize how wrong I had been: and that it is each resident’s duty to play their part in continually supporting the Parish Council, however small that part may be.
3. Information on the Council’s meetings was not always easy to come by; and the procedures are somewhat arcane.
4. I am badly disabled – meaning that I struggle to sit down, without great pain, for long periods of time. I also struggle to navigate the narrow and labyrinthine entrance to the Reading Rooms, with walking stick in hand. In parallel, I am extremely hard of hearing (even with the latest digital hearing aids): and, therefore, when I do attend, I often miss large chunks of the proceedings; and then fail to understand the context of the bits I do hear.

I would therefore like to address each of these points in turn: with the joint aims of increasing residents’ comprehension and appreciation of the Parish Council (PC); and, thereby, increasing residents’ participation in the Council’s monthly meetings.

¶

Realpolitik

Having read the Parish Plan (PP), I was impressed by its cogent understanding of the place where we live, and its vision for our future. However, it has become increasingly obvious that the PC had neither the resources to implement it fully (and answer the questions that many residents had posed), nor the discernment to appreciate the ‘lot’ of many of those residents. I do not know how it was produced: but I do know that in responding to those unanswered issues, and applying the same ethos to the forthcoming Neighbourhood Plan (NP), the PC would do much to reconnect with the majority of villagers. More importantly, they would demonstrate that, unlike larger governmental organizations, they really are ‘in touch’ with the needs of their constituents.

In some ways, the NP should have been the ideal vehicle for this: but it is becoming increasingly obvious that it is not fit for its original purpose; and is actually creating greater distance between the PC and the people it claims to represent. It will therefore need the new makeup of the PC (hopefully elected by a majority turnout) to make some brave and direction-changing decisions – for instance:

• publishing the Terms of Reference that govern the relationship between the PC and the NP steering group and authors;
• having these audited by a neutral third party to ensure that all points are being abided by – and, where this is found not to be the case – publically remedying each and every issue discovered;
• as there is already a growing feeling in the village that the NP is being imposed on them from a great height, and that the document as it stands is even less relevant to them than its predecessor (the PP), such remedies may include either taking what work has been done, and repurposing it – once residents have all agreed how this should be done – or even starting from scratch (as with Graham Collier and Keith Risk’s small group meetings, that commence tonight (Wednesday)).

There are, of course, many other ways of involving the parish’s constituents: but it appears to me that the NP is the current, most pressing representation of the failing relationship between governing and governed. Demonstrating that residents are being listened to on this single issue would go a long way to restoring faith in the PC, and encouraging day-to-day involvement.

Relevance

Such action would also “go a long way” in demonstrating how necessary, how important, residents are to the PC in not only supporting them ideologically, but in helping them fulfil objectives that were identical to residents’ own aims and hopes for the village and its surroundings – that villagers’ active participation is required in carrying out both the small (such as repairing benches and kerbs) and the big (raising funds, where government stipends are not enough).

The current relationship between the PC and its constituents strikes me as strained and weak: not only because of the obvious class differences, but because there is a mutual lack of understanding and values. Only if both sides see that this relationship is important, and are willing to put the hard work in to mend it, will trust be reestablished. Concrete opportunities must therefore be presented – and continually – for each side to listen to (not talk at) the other.

Communication and procedure

Again, this overlaps with the previous point. The new community website has gone some way to improving matters – but it can still be difficult (if not impossible) to navigate, and find the information you need. Were a database to be built of those ‘parishioners’ who would prefer the PC to be proactive in disseminating minutes, reports, dates of meetings, etc. by email, say (i.e. in the way those residents preferred; not in the way that things were currently done; or in the way that was easiest), then I would be surprised if villagers did not, as a consequence, take more steps to be involved, even if they were initially reactive.

The monthly meetings themselves do not allow for much resident participation. And holding them in such a small space feels like the PC is excluding more than a few ‘regulars’ from attending. It is closed in capacity as well as in spirit.

For instance, we are allowed to comment on individual planning applications – but not on issues that are relevant or timely to our own lives or predicaments. If the PC are discussing the states of grass verges and easements (to take a recent example), why cannot a resident who is currently fighting their way through the complexities of the planning system for such access, not be given, say, three minutes, to have their say? At the moment, such an interruption is quashed by the chair – albeit politely – and then tabled for the end of the meeting: by which time, both relevance and momentum (not to mention interest) have faded away; and most people are doing their damnedest to leave the building.

Although I accept that there may be a slight impact on timings, and lengths of meetings, the whole process needs democratizing: for the sakes of trust, and efficiency.

Access

There was a wonderful snippet in the Stratford-upon-Avon Herald of 9 April 2015:

Disabled facilities are available at Tysoe Village Hall – paid for with £10,000 from Warwickshire County Council’s Investment Board….

     The money was made available under the Community Access for Disabled People: Changing Places and Sensory Areas Fund, and enabled the installation of toilet facilities that are suitable for wheelchair users, together with two new double doorways between the main hall and the committee room.

     In addition to this, the hall is now also fitted with a hearing loop to improve its accessibility for those with hearing difficulties….

Thanks must therefore go to Percy Sewell, in his rôle as chairman of Tysoe Village Hall Committee, for achieving all this; and for the importance I know he places on accessibility. (I just hope the loop system works; and has been tested by those, like me, who actually wear hearing aids – as many installations, sadly, don’t.) I believe – from what I could hear(?!) at last Monday’s meeting – that the Parish Council also helped; and I would therefore ask why PC meetings aren’t equally accessible?

Perhaps Percy – in his rôle as chair (I believe – or at least as an important trustee) of Tysoe Utility Estate – would like to similarly equip the village’s Reading Rooms, or the Village Hall committee room – so that I can hear all that is going on? (Or, perhaps, so that more people feel able to attend, PC meetings are held in the main hall itself?)

I will only mention the Equality Act in passing, as a slight dig; but approximately one in seven people in this country have hearing problems; and in a parish which is slightly skewed to the older resident (like me), I can only imagine that the local proportion is even higher.

¶

I appreciate that the new Parish Council, in establishing itself with many new members, will have much to learn, much to do. But I truly believe that the points I raise above – if addressed – will go a long way to involving residents, by encouraging them to get involved: thus making the lives of our Parish Councillors so much easier, because of the increased support for, and involvement in, the work they do.

In essence, the problems I raise, and the solutions I proffer, are all about communication – which is always a two-way process. Messages may be proclaimed: but, unless they are received, understood and acted upon, they may as well have been written on paper, shredded, and thrown to the four winds. If we all truly care for Tysoe, then that is an important commonality we can build from. We must make the most of it, whilst we still can.

Taking a stand (in the place where you live…)

Stand in the place where you live

Now face North

Think about direction

Wonder why you haven’t before

Now stand in the place where you work

Now face West

Think about the place where you live

Wonder why you haven’t before

If you are confused, check with the sun

Carry a compass to help you along

Your feet are going to be on the ground

Your head is there to move you around

Stand in the place where you live

Now face North

Think about direction

Wonder why you haven’t before

Now stand in the place where you work

Now face West

Think about the place where you live

Wonder why you haven’t before

Your feet are going to be on the ground

Your head is there to move you around

If wishes were trees, the trees would be falling

Listen to reason, season is calling

Stand in the place where you live

Now face North

Think about direction

Wonder why you haven’t before

Now stand in the place where you work

Now face West

Think about the place where you live

Wonder why you haven’t before

If wishes were trees, the trees would be falling

Listen to reason, reason is calling

Your feet are going to be on the ground

Your head is there to move you around

So Stand

Now face North

Think about direction, wonder why you haven’t before

Now stand

Now face West

Think about the place where you live

Wonder why you haven’t before

Stand in the place where you live

Now face North

Think about direction

Wonder why you haven’t before

Now stand in the place where you work

Now face West

Think about the place where you live

Wonder why you haven’t before

Stand in the place where you are

Now face North

Stand in the place where you are

Now face West

Your feet are going to be on the ground

Stand in the place where you are

Your head is there to move you around, so stand

– R.E.M.: Stand

I was originally going to use this song to headline a completely different post: but, even though Michael Stipe claims he “wrote the most inane lyrics that [he] could possibly write”, I believe that such innate simplicity (and from a naturally-gifted poet) contains some back-to-basics lessons for those misguided souls who seem to believe that each subsequent, more complex, less transparent, draft of the Neighbourhood Plan (and, my goodness, we’re only on the second one – so all I am saying is give the village a chance to get their heads around things…!) is worthy of submission to the authorities.

One of the problems in such prematurity, to me, appears to be a misunderstanding – either deliberately; or because of a too-deep involvement in, or love of, the technicalities that seem to swamp the current version – of the document’s original aims and objectives. Instead of asking the residents – and of a place that, along with its housing, has “developed on a slow, small-scale, organic development basis” – what they want; the authors have, instead, turned the whole thing on its head, and said we can only have what they seem capable of producing. That is – and forgive me for lapsing into the management consultant speak which peppers the current draft of the Plan – they are driven by their competences; not the wants and needs of their target audience (and employers, let us not forget) – i.e. us.

For a document whose second sentence begins “Investment and change in the years ahead will only be worthwhile if they are what the community wants”, this would be laughable, were it not for the fact that, firstly, we are assigning the future management of our village to a tiny proportion of its population, without any real checks and balances; and, secondly, the further the Plan’s creators move away in words, numbers, figures, tables, maps and technicalities from that phrase, the further they (literally) move away from this (increasingly) obvious lip service.

This is why, although the word “vision” makes around forty appearances in the main document (although that includes contents and summaries), no actual vision really becomes, ahem, visible – and what hints there are of such come across as being contradicted by the summary document that (supposedly) sits alongside it. It’s almost as if you can hear the authors panicking, deep, somewhere, in a candlelit garret, late one night – obviously in response to Keith Risk’s extremely salient question “Where is the vision?” (tabled in the appendices) – but not actually understanding it – all suddenly scrabbling around, trying to insert as many mentions of the dreaded word: like an infinite number of caged monkeys trying to produce Hamlet’s famous soliloquy.

¶

The answer, of course, to Keith’s query, is “out there”; and, as I am sure I have said before, not in the answers to some bureaucratic questionnaire-led exercise. Only from talking to people… Actually, scrub that: Only from listening to people – and every single one of us – will you find it. (I apologize for repeating myself: but, sometimes, that’s what it takes.)

Stand in the place where you live

Now face North

Think about direction

Wonder why you haven’t before

Now stand in the place where you work

Now face West

Think about the place where you live

Wonder why you haven’t before

If you are confused, check with the sun

Carry a compass to help you along

Your feet are going to be on the ground

Your head is there to move you around

Stand in the place where you live

Now face North

Think about direction

Wonder why you haven’t before

Now stand in the place where you work

Now face West

Think about the place where you live

Wonder why you haven’t before

Your feet are going to be on the ground

Your head is there to move you around

If wishes were trees, the trees would be falling

Listen to reason, season is calling

So, a little bit of free advice – not that I feel I am being listened to by those who should be taking it… – lift your head up from your papers: and see what the village really needs: not what you can provide. Ask not what you can do for your village; ask what your village wants from you.

And a plea to the village. Monday evening’s Parish Council meeting will not only be the last one for some very longstanding and dutiful members; but my gut tells me that a currently extremely vague tabled request from a resident may actually be used to try again to get the current poor, rough draft submitted to the powers that be – riding roughshod over what the village and its residents truly stand for.

If this is what you want: fine. But I struggle to believe that those hundreds who turned out in the pouring rain in Kineton, last January, to fight off Gladman – or in the freezing cold in the Village Hall at Keith Risk’s behest – really want “the place where they live” run by closeted pen-pushers.

We need vision and selflessness to succeed as a village; we need soul; we need reason, thought, and thoughtful, listening people: people who care. But, most of all, we all need to be in this together.

NP-headed…

An empty head is not really empty; it is stuffed with rubbish.

– Eric Hoffer

Perhaps I am feeling peeved; perhaps it is the headache and spatial disorientation I am experiencing after reading well over a hundred pages of phrases such as “topography and water courses with historical settlement foci lying in the valley base”; “new residential development, including windfalls”; and “the NDOs will then be agreed with SDC”. But why are Keith Risk’s and Simon Forrester’s – admittedly cogent – emails produced in full in the latest version of the Neighbourhood Flan (it appears to be made up of many excellent individual ingredients: but, somehow, having been baked, now emerges from the oven tasting of nothing, and resembling soggy cardboard); but my blog post is reduced to six highly-condensed table entries and a footnote consisting solely of a link?

Considering, as well, that only thirteen other people (out of a parish of “about 1500 people”) appear to have commented on the first draft, then how (even though it has grow’d like Topsy) can this reflect “the thoughts and feelings of local people”? And were their – these select few – comments equally redacted? After wading through the plethora of links that pepper the document, who (meaning the final inspector) is going to type this long address (accurately) into their Web browser to see that my comments (as well as those provided in response to the original questionnaire) were actually a lot more nuanced than their subjective and summary executions would have you believe?

It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

– Shakespeare: Macbeth

I am also insulted by the two-page ‘Easy-read’ Summary and the childish Purple Stars of Aspiration (and will be trying to scrub the patronizing implications of these from my flesh for many weeks): but have not yet worked out if the relative microscopic size of the not-really-an-abstract-more-an-excuse is because the authors believe us all to be simpletons, incapable of understanding their mighty handiwork; they don’t want us to realize what a complex mess the NP actually is when we (try to) wade through it; or this is yet another of their pathetic attempts at “consultation”. And yet, I am told, again, that the group behind the Plan – as with the first version – believe this is ready for submission: even though it is peppered with notes and gaps (especially with regards to that consultation – or, should I say, almost complete lack of it).

To be honest, if it is supposed to represent the village and its residents, it should not need such a noddy guide. But the group seems incapable of anything but making the readily transparent utterly opaque. Therefore, a lot of the language is similarly prodigiously obscure. For instance what does this – selected at random – actually mean…?

The Tysoe NP is the de jure plan-making process referred to. The sites are ranked through a prioritisation process. This ranking is described in Appendix B6. The questionnaire (Appendix B3) conducted as part of building the evidence base for this plan contributed to the prioritisation process.

It is no wonder so few people have commented.

¶

I could say so much more. But – aside from, as previously stated, the fact that I think this document openly represents the biases of a small élite within the village; that it will probably soon be superseded, like its predecessors; and will have about as much power as a cardboard flan in a Force Nine gale – my blood pressure is already at boiling point. If anyone else in the village agrees, and doesn’t want the NP in its current form representing them, either: then they can say so on the Plan’s website; comment below; or email me and/or the Parish Council. (Remember: the final vote on the Plan only requires 50% of the turnout – not 50% of the village – to say yea….)

Talking of the Parish Council: perhaps the new one (to be elected on 7 May) will consider how its predecessor doled out its claimed “official approval” for the Plan’s development – and whether that should be modified or revoked. Is there a contract governing this relationship? If so, surely it should be in the public domain? And I, for one, therefore, would like to see it: as I feel very under-represented by a document that could, theoretically (however unlikely), govern the next thirty or forty years of my life.

PS Note to the Neighbourhood Plan creators – I would like both this post and my previous two (first and second) to be included in full, please, in the next draft. Thank you.

The Pard of Avon (ye seconde parte thereof…)

Blow winds and crack your cheeks…

Time had moved on. And the experience had made her vow never to do it again – what with all the packing; still-unopened cardboard boxes; complicated fees; broken Emma Bridgewater crockery; crooked solicitors; and estate agents who wouldn’t recognize any version of the truth if it poked them in both eyes with a hot poker. This time, she swore (for the umpteenth time), it was permanent: even if the cottage had proved not to be quite as perfect as it had first looked on that bright spring day; and all the paint had obviously been applied hastily with a thick roller by a one-legged moose. Especially the skirting-boards. This meant that it was now winter, of course. (Nice carpets, though. And extremely well fitted.)

Flakes of snow were therefore dutifully drifting lazily down outside The Peacock, in Oxhill: so lazily, in fact, that some of them just couldn’t be bothered to land; whilst the majority took the shortest route to the ground possible, whilst still trying to look as ballerina-like and graceful as they could: imagining they were in some wonderful Disney cartoon (and wondering when “whilst” took preference over “while” in a sentence).

Inside, two familiar-looking oldish gents (you might have to saw them in half and count the rings) were sat in front of the log-burner: which didn’t so much roar, as just hint at the odd, low, unthreatening growl. Our two subjects were long past the coat-steaming stage; and well past their first pints of the night. They were the only customers, though.

“No: I didn’t mean the plays and sonnets weren’t any good, when I said that. I just implied that, having been around this long, it’s just slightly easier to keep them in print, and help build importance, and an industry around them – that’s all. I mean, there isn’t a Royal Jonson Theatre, is there? Although I’m sure that would bring the Yanks over here even more! Or the Royal Marlowe Company? All it takes is the very occasional, very little nudge. Obviously I don’t make any money from it… directly. But the fame’s nice.”

“So how do you survive – er, financially, I mean?”

“I used to, er, help out at the Birthplace Trust. But, at the moment, people seem to think I’m some sort of retired archaeologist, ‘off the teevee’ – which isn’t that wrong, of course; and I, for one, am not going to convince them otherwise: especially if it gets me free pints of ale…! Another?” he asked, clinking his almost empty glass against his greying, close-cropped companion’s. “I must do some research, though: they seem to expect that I should always wear badly-knitted, colourful jumpers….” He stroked his stubbly, white chin with his free hand.

“Don’t mind if I do,” replied the other, a ruminative smile on his face. “Mind you, I’ve got to get back home, later; and look at it,” he said, glancing outside into the darkness; and then lifting his darkened spectacles – which didn’t help. “Two miles. In wellies. And with my gammy leg….”

“No problem,” his friend grinned, then laughed, at the obvious ploy. You can bunk at my hovel. But shouldn’t you be writing more of that Kenneth Grahame eco pastiche rubbish…?” Just at this moment, a gaggle of middle-aged women entered, snow piled like advertising-manufactured dandruff on their hats, hoods, and thick coats’ shoulders; and, after a ritual removal of said items, scarves and gloves (but not necessarily in that order), they plonked themselves down around the large ‘Reserved’ table in the window of the pub: some of them snuggling amongst the cushions on the large bench; others choosing and shuffling chairs around, governed by some innate, feminine law of organized chaos – including a couple from under the gentlemen’s table: who courteously nodded their tacit agreement in return, touching their long-eroded forelocks politely. “Oh bugger,” suddenly whispered the older one, with the wispy hair, after rising from his seat. I don’t bloody believe it.”

As if on command from some invisible sergeant-at-arms, all the women [see subsequent book description] had removed various editions of King Lear, of various ages, and in various states of repair, from their handbags [ditto]. “Hello, Book Club!” welcomed the barmaid. “Hello, Linda!” they all replied in unison, cheerfully; and then a discussion followed – literally over the gents’ heads – about the sudden change in the weather; the inaccuracy of forecasts; would they be having their usuals, or something a little more warming; and were they happy with their food orders. “I think a couple of extra bottles of that nice South African Merlot would be nice!” chirrupped one of them (as the others nodded, sagely). Somehow, it was obvious that this (obviously Waitrose-shopping, Boden-wearing, Range Rover-driving) slightly older, less rural-accented lady, was the leader of the group. And it would become more obvious as the night wore on; and the snow deepened, dependably.

¶

Once the hubbub had resolved itself, and all were back at their respective tables (and Linda positioned behind the bar, of course: after many trips to and from the kitchen), the two men listened in on the discussion; realized it was probably growingly obvious that they were doing so; and ordered some food, too, so they could eat in silence, and listen some more. “They just don’t get it, do they?” muttered the senior of the two, chewing appreciatively on a chunk of gravy-coated Charlecote venison sausage. “Honestly, it’s not that complicated – it’s just about a bloke who goes senile; his nasty, greedy, dysfunctional family; and a critique of mental healthcare. The rest is just filler. Oh, apart from the storm. Everyone loves a good storm – I mean, look at them… – special effects will make everyone forget the dross; and a sad bit at the end – especially someone or three worth caring for dying (and the more the merrier, if you see what I mean…) – that means that those with hearts leave the theatre in a turmoil, knowing that it moved them, and therefore must have been really good. Honestly, it’s just a formula. Well-written, I’ll admit; and cleverer than Jonson or Marlowe, of course; but nothing particularly original. You could even set it on a council estate, now, if you wanted ‘edginess’, or modern relevance….”

“What about the Fool?”

“In this winter and rough weather? Mind you: the ‘mango and lime’ one sounds rather nice! Perhaps followed by a large cup of coffee?”

His companion sighed. And not for the first time. Nor the last. Not by a country mile. Or twain.

The Pard of Avon (the first part of several…?)

Thou hast seen these signs…

Perhaps it was the poor council intern from K.E.S., pulling the trolley up Chapel Lane, loaded with identical-shaped and -sized R.S.C. bags, in the sweltering heat, narrowly avoiding a collision, firstly, with the last open air bus of the day, and then a man, with sunglasses and closely-cropped greying hair, badly parallel parking in the Disabled spaces? Perhaps it was the yells emanating from the opened windows of Elizabeth House, as the councillors who had held their seats for the fifteenth time quizzed their new, fresh-faced colleagues as to whatthefuck an “app” was anyhow; and how were they then supposed to downsize it on their mobile telephones, anyway? Perhaps it was the row of white vans on Henley Street, all labelled – some considerably better than others: which did not bode well for the results of their work – with the words “sign”, “design”, “print”, or “type”; and the endless hammering from men with muscles, hard hats, and sweat: all perched precariously on a parallel row of stepladders, and a serial row of planks? Perhaps it was the rapid desecration and sacking of the dictionary corners in what were currently Waterstones and WHSmith – the raping and pillaging of books leaving anything behind, scattered on the floor, not synonym-, paronomasia- or Bard-related? Whatever it was, some powerful plague had infected – or some virulent concoction had been injected into – the retail arteries of Stratford-upon-Avon. And all just before nine o’clock, one unseasonably hot Friday night at the end of May (just as the shops were about to close).

In her first week as the United Kingdom’s second female Prime Minister, Nicola Sturgeon had declared that localism – or “subsidiarity”, as she preferred to call it: seeing as how it was so badly tarnished by Cameron’s feeble, skewed attempts – was the number one policy that would unite a nation riven by the petty squabblings of a general election campaign that, in its final days, had dissolved into name-calling and, sometimes, even outright racism. It was therefore “up to local people to take back local control” – and the newly-formed Stratford-on-Avon District Council (with an unlikely make-up of one representative from each major party – including the freak selection of an SNP member for the newly-defined Red Horse constituency – several ‘outliers’ – including a 97-year-old woman claiming to represent all Warwickshire badgers and hedgehogs – as well as an Independent ‘poet’ named Steve) had interpreted this (or was trying to) as meaning that every single business – especially those which ‘interfaced’ with tourists (and whose onrush was already making its mark in the town) – should be named – and relevantly – with an apposite Shakespeare quote, term, character or play name. Puns were allowed – under certain circumstances (which would be determined by Steve) – but no bastardizations or misspellings. Oh, and all retailers had to apply for their Shakespeare Nominative Outline Term (or S.N.O.T.) licences by midday, the next day. Hence, the “rush into the secret house of death”; or – less poetically – the long tailback from the council offices all the way down to Holy Trinity.

At the head of the queue was a man with a strong French accent screaming that a café sold food: so why could he not retain “Ze Food of Lurve”…? And, for what felt like the forty-seventh time, wafting her face with a battered copy of Twelfth Night, the poor girl behind the counter, trying also to hide behind the necessary rotating fan, now that the air-conditioning had sensibly retired, not wanting to get involved, replied “Because it’s to do with music. Music. M. U. S. I. C.. Not food. And it says here that your ‘appetite may sicken’, and you’ll ‘die’. D.I.E.. I know. I did it for G.C.S.E.. Is that what you really want…? To be associated with food poisoning…? And it’s already been given to the guitar shop, anyway….” But her fading words went unheard.

What was needed was someone (or something) with authority. But, in a building centred around politicians (that is, people with skill-sets that ill-prepared them for government: especially of a town whose population increased, tsunami-like, at the beginning of summer; and whose definition of multiculturalism was a takeaway Balti from Thespians Indian Restaurant), this was as likely as not stumbling into parading columns of famous actors with vast, flaunted, velvet cloaks, pacing perpetually up and down Bancroft Gardens – even in this heat – waiting to be accosted (“Oh: how did you know it was little meee? I was trying sooo hard to blend in, my dear boy…”); or a drunken ex-Hamlet in a dark corner of The Dirty Duck (“Itsh wash my finesht hour, you know. My very finesht. Yesh: mine’sh a double. Thank you, good man. Oh. And a pint of Stella…”).

But, as the Man once said: “A most high miracle!” [Tourist tat and legal potions; 26c Union Street; surprisingly, perhaps – or maybe not – run by an arrogant, and, of course, bearded, hipster, named Sebastian (or so he says).] And, in through the front door – miraculously parting the infinitely long, increasingly stressed and dehydrated crocodile of shopkeepers – entered a tall, quiet, man; in fact, entered what can only be described as a tall, quiet, very wizardy-looking man. Just detectable was his voice. And, just detectable in that voice was a distant Irish brogue – as distant as Dublin and Dubai, maybe; or Dudley and Dundee – but detectable, nonetheless. But was there also a tinge of rural Warwickshire in there…?

“Excuse me,” he said (or possibly whispered: the only noise now was the whirring fan – and even that seemed to have dwindled in the man’s mysterious and powerful presence). “I’m trying to find Fairer Fortune. [Tourist tat and predictions; 26d Union Street; predictably run by a raven-locked woman of indeterminable age and thickly-applied make-up, named Helen, of course.] I have an interview there in ten minutes. But none of the shops have signs on them. And it looks like the street names are all being removed.” The receptionist gave him a map, and scribbled directions – a long arrow, basically – on it. He said “Thank you”; hesitated for a moment, and added: “It looks like you’re having some sort of trouble. I’ll be back. Later.” By the time she had looked up, after putting down her pen, all that was left in front of her quizzical, grateful eyes was an impression of wayward, wispy white hair, a kindly smile, and spectacles that somehow glistened mischievously. She didn’t even wonder why anyone would attend an interview so late. And on a Friday night, too.

¶

The following morning, all the hubbub had died down; the street signs had returned; and finally, after decades of complaints from furious letter-writers to the Stratford-upon-Avon Herald, the fascias on every shop in the centre of town were not only aesthetically pleasing in themselves; but, somehow, magically, you may say, formed a rather wonderful grouping and concatenation of hues and typography. There were even gaps in-between catering establishments – some, even, not purveying “tourist tat” at all. Or coffee.

And yet, for a while, no-one noticed. Only a couple of weeks later, wandering along by the theatre, did a man named Jack notice that Sheep Street’s clothing shop, All the Men and Women, was next door to Merely Players, the gaming-related souvenir shop; followed by Exits and Entrances, the funeral directors; One Man in his Time, the clockmakers; what used to be Mothercare; their offshoot, selling school uniforms; Ann Summers; a sheet-music shop; an Oxfam specializing in ex-military uniforms; a new public house (specializing in roast lunches and dinners); and an old-people’s home. And, on Ely Street, Flat 2b was – possibly amusingly – next to a flat labelled “2c (not 2b)”; next door to a philosopher’s; and then a gun shop; the relocated, and much-expanded, Fairer Fortune; Games Worskshop; and another funeral directors.

But, by the time he reached what he was convinced he believed he knew to be Pizza Express, all thoughts of abnormality had been replaced by hunger: and he singularly failed to notice, that, although the logo looked similar and familiar, his favourite restaurant had been renamed, weirdly, The Proud Man’s Contumely; and the previously friendly waiters had somehow become very rude indeed.

A diamond, shining in the dark…

With a heartrending script that demonstrates deep understanding of both the human spirit and the capabilities of drama in drilling deep into that spirit (and which, after rereading earlier, left me crying quietly); as well as the capabilities of the stage – demonstrated through intensely detailed and specific directions (which Harriet Walter, who plays Linda, described, in this week’s Herald, as “totally waterproof and perfectly written”) – it is hard not to approach any production of Death of a Salesman wondering what (if any) new insights can be brought to it; or if the director has dared attempt to meddle with Miller’s genius, rather than building upon it (unlikely, of course, with Gregory Doran in charge – and which proved to be the case). Of course, with actors such as Walter and Antony Sher in the lead parts, it is also hard not to take your seat with greedy anticipation. (I had originally booked to see this in another month or so: but that greed – and impatience – got the best of me: and I managed to grab a ‘restricted view’ stalls seat for last night, at the last minute. However, it is early in the run; and I am still looking forward to a better view – not from the bridge, ahem, but the gallery – when I eagerly see the play again.)

Of course, Willy Loman – in many ways, like Lear: who Sher will play, on the same stage, next year (once he has grown back the beard to match his current moustache) – is a rôle many actors measure their careers by: and this was no disappointment. What marred the evening for me – as it did with both parts of Henry IV – was that not all the rest of the cast was of sufficient quality to support him: and I’m afraid I must pick out Alex Hassell (who played Prince Henry, and now plays the key part of son, Biff) as the main culprit. Next to the likes of Sher and Walter (and most of the remaining company), his acting looks less fluent; his accent less convincing. (The RSC proved with the awe-inspiring Oppenheimer that dependable American intonation can be a ‘non-issue’: so why choose actors who can’t reach such giddy heights? And, yes, I know there’s supposed to be the continuing father-son allegory that started with Falstaff and Hal – but does this really require the same actors? It’s a bit tenuous, anyway – and staging a play this wonderful on Shakespeare’s main stage does not need any excuse. Yes, it’s Miller’s centenary. Yes, it’s possibly his greatest play. And, yes, it stands up to anything that the Bard wrote. Nuff sed.)

Having gotten that slight grump out of the way, it is a great production, featuring some great performances (special call-outs to Sam Marks as Happy, and Tobias Beer as Howard Wagner); and Doran has to be praised for pacing it perfectly so early in its run. Not completely constrained by what he describes in the programme as “almost iconic stage directions”, the text is simply the starting point for a wonderful set from Stephen Brimson Lewis (translating his design from instructions based around the more common proscenium arch): which partners cleverly with the work of lighting designer Tim Mitchell – especially in merging into and out of what Miller described as the “strata” of Willy’s memories to form the “continuous present” at the heart of the play. Add in yet more period-perfect music by Paul Englishby – including the wonderful, rare choice of alto flute (played hauntingly by Andrew Isherwood) – and you have the perfect demonstration of the synergies which the RSC so excels at.

What I found enlightening were the frequent moments of humour that emerged, that can be so easily overstepped in a work of deep pathos; and that – certainly in simply reading the text – may not be readily apparent on pages filled with emotion, and, inevitably, tragedy. I have probably said this before: but it proves why performance (and a director’s insight) is necessary to understand a play – even though it is someone-else’s interpretation. Reading a novel brings words to life in a different way – even if you are then in control of the pictures you see.

How Sher (or any actor) copes with the amount of energy (and emotion) required to perform this day in, day out, I do not know – but his investment in the play (as with wearing Falstaff’s fat-suit) is obvious from the moment he appears on stage to the sad, but inescapable, moment he leaves. (“Shhh!”) The large cases of samples he carries, as he enters, he bears with Sisyphean resignation: as well as an understanding that they are his only method of providing for his family – a career he was once proud of. His family is his reward; his sons his legacy. That this is coupled with Walter’s pitch-perfect, sympathetic and stoic performance as Linda – demonstrating an undoubting love for her flawed husband – means that, whatever its flaws, this is a production that is (if you can get a ticket, of course) unmissable: and I am therefore looking forward to my return, just before the end of its short run.

The play finishes with a short Requiem. But it was only after I left the theatre, the drizzle freshening my tear-stained face, that I realized it was Good Friday. “We’re free… We’re free…”