Peter Brook drank my orange juice
I am up to my neck in preparations for taking a group of 28 Americans around France, to places I've never visited before, all the while giving amusing and informative commentary. I had been briefed all afternoon and couldn't really be bothered to go to the jolly to meet the new British Ambassador at the British Council, but as I was just around the corner and the nibbles tend to be good I decided not to be pathetic and pop in.
The problem with these things is that you never know anyone, or at least that's always the fear. Actually the Parisian ex-pat community is so small that there's a high chance you'll see someone you know, but walking in past all the men in suits I was very conscious that a) I was all on my own and b) that I was the only person wearing jeans.
Imagine my relief when I saw another person wearing jeans, though admittedly much smarter and newer black jeans that could nearly be proper trousers. But I thought, 'well, if it's ok for Peter Brook to wear jeans, it's ok for me too'.
He was surrounded by a group of people and I didn't really know what to do so I went and stood by the window and looked out at the view onto the stretch leading up to Invalides and the Eiffel Tour. A lady came over and started talking to me and we took me over to the drinks and nibbles table to get a drink. As I was planning to work later with superhuman strength I resisted the free champagne and went for orange juice instead. She worked represented film for the British Council and told me about the things she was organising at the moment on women and film and then in a whirl and I'm not quite sure how, Mr Brook and another man came over and then they both left and I was left all alone talking to Peter Brook!
I think I went rather pink. But we started chatting and I said he'd just directed on of my teachers, Joss Houben, in a play. He said, 'oh yes, Joss, he's a good actor and a good man' which is a lovely thing to say about anyone, and also in this case true. Then somehow we were talking about me and I was telling him about working with autistic teenagers before I came to Lecoq. His eyes went very bright and he seemed very interested and asked what I'd done with them. I gave a general answer and he asked what specific exercise I'd done. My stupid befuddled brain couldn't remember very well. Then he told me about going to a mental hospital in France with his actors where the nurses said, oh you won't be able to do anything with them and he did an exercise with bamboo sticks where they had to raise them up, and of course they did.
Then the nibbles came round and he took a bite and started coughing and coughing. I wasn't quite sure what to do. Usually I'd give someone a good slap on the back, but he looked rather frail and I was afraid that if I did I might kill him and then I'd have killed Peter Brook and the theatrical establishment would be very cross with me. I said, 'something must have gone down the wrong way, as my mum would say' and offered him some of my orange juice, which he took.
He was just about recovered and we were starting chatting again when the man from Porlock arrived in the shape of L****** who I know from a mutual organisation. I said 'L*****, Peter Brook'. L***** obviously had absolutely no idea who he was and started chuntering away to me about something very dull. Peter drifted off and I ended up talking to L***** and someone who worked at Sciences Po who told us all about it for a very long time.
I wasn't really listening. I was chuckling happily away to myself. Who would have thought it eh?
The problem with these things is that you never know anyone, or at least that's always the fear. Actually the Parisian ex-pat community is so small that there's a high chance you'll see someone you know, but walking in past all the men in suits I was very conscious that a) I was all on my own and b) that I was the only person wearing jeans.
Imagine my relief when I saw another person wearing jeans, though admittedly much smarter and newer black jeans that could nearly be proper trousers. But I thought, 'well, if it's ok for Peter Brook to wear jeans, it's ok for me too'.
He was surrounded by a group of people and I didn't really know what to do so I went and stood by the window and looked out at the view onto the stretch leading up to Invalides and the Eiffel Tour. A lady came over and started talking to me and we took me over to the drinks and nibbles table to get a drink. As I was planning to work later with superhuman strength I resisted the free champagne and went for orange juice instead. She worked represented film for the British Council and told me about the things she was organising at the moment on women and film and then in a whirl and I'm not quite sure how, Mr Brook and another man came over and then they both left and I was left all alone talking to Peter Brook!
I think I went rather pink. But we started chatting and I said he'd just directed on of my teachers, Joss Houben, in a play. He said, 'oh yes, Joss, he's a good actor and a good man' which is a lovely thing to say about anyone, and also in this case true. Then somehow we were talking about me and I was telling him about working with autistic teenagers before I came to Lecoq. His eyes went very bright and he seemed very interested and asked what I'd done with them. I gave a general answer and he asked what specific exercise I'd done. My stupid befuddled brain couldn't remember very well. Then he told me about going to a mental hospital in France with his actors where the nurses said, oh you won't be able to do anything with them and he did an exercise with bamboo sticks where they had to raise them up, and of course they did.
Then the nibbles came round and he took a bite and started coughing and coughing. I wasn't quite sure what to do. Usually I'd give someone a good slap on the back, but he looked rather frail and I was afraid that if I did I might kill him and then I'd have killed Peter Brook and the theatrical establishment would be very cross with me. I said, 'something must have gone down the wrong way, as my mum would say' and offered him some of my orange juice, which he took.
He was just about recovered and we were starting chatting again when the man from Porlock arrived in the shape of L****** who I know from a mutual organisation. I said 'L*****, Peter Brook'. L***** obviously had absolutely no idea who he was and started chuntering away to me about something very dull. Peter drifted off and I ended up talking to L***** and someone who worked at Sciences Po who told us all about it for a very long time.
I wasn't really listening. I was chuckling happily away to myself. Who would have thought it eh?
posted by lecoqblogger at 7:58 pm
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