I went to see "An Inspector Calls" at the Wimbledon Theatre last Wednesday. Knew nothing about it (for all that I could imagine that an inspector might call somewhere in the proceedings) but thoroughly enjoyed the show all the same. (PG had given the thumbs up to Stephen Daldry's thirty year old production.) With a bit of judicious editing, there's probably a good episode of Colombo in it. That J.B. Priestley eh? He was a wag. Uncle Willy gave me his own personal copy of Priestley's "Literature And Western Man," a book he treasured so profoundly he never actually felt worthy of reading it himself.
The play must be set for GCSE or whatever because there were a lot of adolescent kids in school uniform in the audience; what I took for a girls school in tartan skirts up in the gods, and a boys school in the stalls. Badinage ensued. I found it all rather jolly and life affirming for all the tut-tut-tuts I heard from fellow grey beards, mostly women.
Hope for me yet?