In syncopated time (write of passage number fifty-one)

I finally got in to see One Man, Two Guvnors. I've wanted to see it for years; the original "live-streaming" was in 2011, when James Corden looked about fifteen.

The play was vastly entertaining. It's a reworking of an eighteenth century Italian commedia dell'arte, set in 1963 Brighton. Aside from James Corden (who eventually won a Tony for his role, when the play transferred from the National Theatre in London to Broadway), there were a number of faces familiar to anyone who watches British drama. Lots of slapstick, some audience participation (including one ringer), and musical interludes provided by the cast, and a skiffle band that mutated into Beatlesque foursome (with XTC overtones) after the interval.

I was very glad I went.

Waiting for the bus, I encountered a lovely lady struggling with the new bus app on her phone, which informed her that the next #11 wouldn't depart for another hour or so. I checked the posted schedule, and texted the stop number, assuring her that we only had a ten-minute wait.

Evidently this wasn't enough. She asked a young man seated next to her for help in deciphering the app. He asked me if I were sure that I had checked the Saturday schedule. Patiently, I told him that not only was I looking at the Saturday schedule, I had texted the stop number. The bus driver in the "Not in Service" bus chose this time to take pity on us and allow us on, where the discussion continued, Victoria-style, about how technology has transformed university course-work, reading, and life.

The app-challenged lady turned to the young man, whom she recognized from some sort of tour he'd given up at the university (also very Victoria): "You won't remember this; you're far too young, but there was this duo called Simon and Garfunkel..."
"Oh yeah," he said. "They're great."
"Well, when I see everyone on their phones, I remember they sang this song, 'Dangling Conversation' - have you ever heard that one?"
I nodded. "With actual syncopated time," I said.
"But there was this line, I always think of: 'You read your Emily Dickinson; and I, my Robert Frost...' She paused, thinking. "...and I don't remember it exactly..."
"'And we mark our place with bookmarkers, to measure what we've lost,'" I supplied, grimacing apologetically.

I was getting weary from the effort of tuning in to the not-so-dangling conversation across the aisle, which was veering off in another direction anyway. I leaned toward my window, watching my old neighbourhood darkening in the fading autumn light.