Culture.

“You’re not going out again?” asked Hubby, aggrieved.
“I have a busy life”, I replied, enigmatically I hoped.
“You were at the Cornwall Show last week, some theatrical thing on Saturday; Theatre Royal this afternoon and now..”
“Hey mate. Before you diss the theatrical thing, let me tell you that Gonamena was one of the most moving pieces of theatre I’ve seen for a long time, besides, our teenage daughter also loved it and surely you wouldn’t deny her a historical and cultural education”. Bringing the kids and their education into anything is always my trump card.
“Education, education, education. For God’s sake Alice you sound like Tony Blair and look what happened to him. As for trying to justify taking three girls out of school on the nebulous premise that wandering around a few stalls selling local wares in a windy field is fundamental in understanding their Cornish heritage. Well, I don’t think so. One of our children is American for God’s sake. I doubt whether Trelawney will ever compete with the Star Spangled Banner”.
“That’s fighting talk for one who never so much as made it out of the beer tent on the one and only time he ever visited the Cornwall show”.
“Alice, I have not, nor ever will be an endorser of folk dancing; farm machinery does not turn me on and there are only so many crafts a man can absorb in any one day. And as for silver necklaces, how many variations on a theme can there possibly be?”
“Well actually...”
“No Alice, no actually. Any man in their right mind would make a bee line for the ‘refreshments’”.
“Well, we loved the man being shot from the cannon”, I said, a little petulantly.
“You can see any number of men being shot from any number of cannons on YouTube. I doubt that it is absolutely essential to the cultural upbringing of a four year old”. God he is such a kill-joy at times.
“Maybe not, but in my defence we saw a vast array of exquisitely reared livestock and tasted much of Cornwall’s finest produce and the girls loved the dancing”.
“Look Alice, I was with you when we saw our seven year old’s teacher the following day. Had she been totally immersed in pixie and pasty culture she would not have told her teacher that she loved the flamenco dancing best and that the bulls had ‘very remarkable privates’”. I stifled a giggle.
“It’s not funny Alice. Now you have, just this afternoon, taken the same child out of school again and taken her to the theatre too”.
“Exactly. It’s the theatre”, I emphatically and rather defensively yelled.
“It was Seven Brides for Seven bloody brothers Alice. Not Hamlet”.
“But think of what she learnt today. The respectful understanding of being quiet during a live performance; the appreciation of the performance itself including the cast, music, dancing and orchestra. Honestly she clapped very enthusiastically and, given she was the youngest there by about 70 years, was far less conspicuous. The old folk around her were cacophonous what with their dentures chomping down on half a pound of pick’n’mix and audibly discussing the show with each other. She could also, unlike some, wait to go to the loo until the interval. It was inspirational let me tell you to a young diva who dreams of international fame. We even had to go backstage and get her programme signed”. I didn’t like to add that when the ‘Brother’s’ trooped out of the stage-door to be met by our daughter, pen poised in hand, she didn’t ask them, ‘How do you manage to remember those routines?’ or ‘How do you dance and sing at the same time?’ Oh no. What she did ask was, “When you do those split-jumps in the air, how do you never get a wedgie?
“So, where are you going tonight?”
“I don’t see why I have to justify my every move, especially since I’ve run in the door, deposited the seven year old, gone to the shops, made dinner, fed everyone including two extra guests and may I remind you that nine people for dinner is not par for the course for most women. I have friends who falter at four. Any more than that and surely it’s classified as a Christmas dinner”.
“So where are you going?”
“I am going with Mags back across the water to see The Beautiful Journey”. As ever, any edifying and intellectual reference escapes him, although I could see the cogs turning.
“I thought that was a movie with that Australian thug”.
“That was A Beautiful Mind and Russell Crowe is hardly a thug. I also think you’ll find he is a Kiwi”.
We’d reached an impasse. I got my wellies on, several layers and a hat.
“I’m off then”, I called. He begrudgingly gave me a kiss goodbye.
“Why are you so cheesed off with me going out? It’s not as though I have left my chores unattended is it?”
“Don’t be silly Alice, it’s not that. It’s just the cavalier attitude you have to buying tickets. They cost money you know”.
“F.Y.I. These were complimentary”, I said, waving them under his nose. “I’m like this”, I added, crossing my fingers, “With the costume designer”.
“Bloody good job”, he responded, “Because I’m like this”, he demonstrated, slicing at his throat, “With the bank manager”.