The Youngest of the Darling Daughters suggests that we should compile an album of what might be called “Failed Selfies.” I am thinking that it might have to be a very, well, large album.
A Failed Selfie, in case you are wondering, is one where we have managed to cut one of us more or less out of the picture; where one or both of us is sporting Haystack Hair, a wrinkled
nose, closed eyes or a grim expression; where we have been standing on the other side of a roadfrom our Theatre of Choice in order to capture its splendid facade in the background only to snap a red London double decker bus trundling along the road cutting
out the view. As I say, there are any number of such sad selfies on the Youngest of the Darling Daughter’s mobile phone.
Obviously it was I who gave her
the idea of the album by standing in such a way in front of the theatre poster advertising Flowers for Mrs Harris that it was impossible to tell exactly what show we were about to watch. We (or should I say she - I am useless at taking selfies, even of the
Failed Variety) took several bursts of photos before agreeing to call it a day on account of the fact that (i) the show might otherwise start before we had collected our tickets from the Box Office, visited the facilities and clambered up all the stairs to
our seats in Row W; and (ii) to be honest, the efforts so far were probably as good as we were likely to get.
It is generally the Youngest of the Darling Daughters
who researches the shows we should take in on our regular Theatre Dates, she being far more knowledgeable than I about All Matters Theatrical. Flowers for Mrs Harris was, however, my idea and I was a little concerned that she might not enjoy it as much as
I thought I probably would. I needn’t have worried - it was, my daughter conceded, rather different from other shows we have seen together but it definitely had a charm all of its own. I don’t want to spoil it for anyone who might be going to see
it in the future, but when I was recounting the most poignant moments to Mr B this morning (as in, the morning after the night before) I could feel tell-tale prickling in my eyes. Granddaughters Katie and Eleanor would say this doesn’t necessarily mean
much, reminding me that I am the only person ever known to cry during a film called Hotel for Dogs - but, honestly, to still feel the love after a good night’s sleep must say something about the floral Mrs Harris.
We needed a good night’s sleep, because we were late getting home partly due to roadworks on the A27 resulting in a long diversion. “Do you know where we’re going?” my daughter
asked me more than once. She didn’t actually say that my reply lacked conviction, nor complain that anyone would have thought that having lived in the area for thirty-eight years, I might know way around. Even in the dark. She is far, far too kind for
Today we did what we do best, cramming as much as possible in the short time before my daughter had to drive back home. Walking and talking along the seafront
from the Sea Lane Café to the Bluebird Café, breathing in the fresh sea air (as my dear Mum would have exhorted us had she been with us - I can almost hear her voice in my head) and stopping for coffee and a toasted tea cake between us (sharing
is caring, did somebody say?)
Oh, yes, and we did stop for a selfie on the seafront where I also posed on a rock pretending to be the Little Mermaid. But
without a tail and, you will be pleased to hear, keeping my clothes on....
Flowers for Mrs Harris is all about a woman who instinctively cares about the other
people in her life, even the ones who can be irritating or demanding or thoughtless. She is rather like the Youngest of the Darling Daughters, in fact.
Youngest of the Darling Daughters really is the very best of company. But, then, you can tell that from all our selfies.
Failed or otherwise.