And now it really is the last LLFF of the Noughties. It's about 6pm and Nick and I have returned from a long day's wandering and learning and eating and being confused. First stop was the fantastic Museum of Communism, which had a lot of boards displaying photos and quite small writing, and both of us later admitted that we had thought we were going to struggle to focus, but were pleasantly surprised with how well it held our attention. It was really quite amazing. I was 11 when the Berlin Wall came down, and I don't think I really understood what Communism was until about 2006, when I read The Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists and 1984 in quick succession. Part of me briefly thought I was a Socialist for a while, and I suppose I still might be. But I also feel a bit Libertarian, which really doesn't fit on the same side of the fence at all. Hmmm. Either way, I would like to believe in democracy. There was some interesting footage at the museum showing ordinary Czechs in ordinary, slightly Eighties clothing, fighting the Communist forces in squares we'd been walking through moments earlier. It was inspiring. Not that I want to start a revolution but just that, maybe, if we needed to revolt, one day, we could find the courage. Power to the people.
Then we walked out of town a bit and went to the Museum of Prague, mainly to see a miniature model of the city that was made in the nineteenth century. And we would have enjoyed seeing it if it hadn't have been for the freaking annoying feature which meant that the model, which was about as big as four ping-pong tables and surrounded by a glass case, could be lit up in different sections by one person standing at a computer screen at one corner. Fun if you are in control of the screen and wanted to light up the Old Town Square or the Charles Bridge or whatever, but unbeLIEVably irritating for everyone else, who has walked around the glass case and is staring in detail at one particular area and then all the lights go out and only one patch of the model, invariably on the other side of the case, is illuminated and the bit closest to you is in pitch darkness. Badly thought out and made us both strop off. Still fun though.
Suddenly we noticed that all the while, time had been marching on, and we had to rush back across town to our hotel, pick up a couple of things and then wolf down a delicious lunch in a nearby eatery where we had gone because our hotel had supplied us with vouchers giving us 10% off if we ate more than 400 CSK which was basically impossible as a main course was about 125. But the waiters were charming and the food was perfect so we were well happy innit. Then we charged over to the National Theatre where we'd bought our tickets for Godzilla: The Ballet yesterday and the man at the door frowned at us and we thought it was because we were late, so we went up the stairs and he shouted at us and then his colleague explained that it was at another theatre and that we needed to go out and turn right, which we did, but we couldn't find anything resembling a performance of Goldilocks, so we went into another building and asked a woman who said "Hmmm. You have three minutes to go two kilometres," and it turned out the theatre was directly opposite the Museum of Communism, and we ran back across town and got there a bit late and flustered, and walked into our box, expecting to see taut men and wispy women in 200 dernier tights and perhaps some sort of figurative bear costume, delicately acting out 'Who's been eating my porridge?' in a routine choreographed by Rudolf Nuryev or similar, but instead appeared to have walked in to the live version of Let's Pretend, where the rejects from Prague's second-best ballet school went to get drunk and then die. I know as much about ballet as I do about microbiology, but even I can say with confidence that the dancing was a disgrace. The main man did four average pirouettes in a row and then expected applause from the audience. And then there was the singer/narrator, who sounded like a haggard, inebriated tramp who had stumbled onto the stage and been told to make up a song as he went along. There were no bears and no bowls of porridge. There were lots of people dressed up as red ants, some of them with women's knickers attached to their thoraxes, doing routines with silver Swiss balls, looking like something any sixth form girl could have choreographed in a twenty minute tea break. It was all quite extraordinary. In the first interval, the lights went up and I looked around - Nick and I were almost certainly the only people who had not brought a five year old with us. In the second interval, I felt a bit drowsy after my nap and Nick said he had had enough, so we culled. An experience.
Since then, we've been to a couple of shops. I developed an obsession with buying a fur muff while I was in Prague, and must have been in about thirty shops over the past two days, miming inserting my hands into a soft fur ball. I have been greeted with many strange looks, although one lady showed me a gigantic, bottle green one made of fox yesterday that I loved until I found out it was around £200. Today I walked past yet another shop that had hats on display in the window and said to Nick, hopefully, "Muff?" He agreed it looked possible, and yes, lo, inside was my dream muff, creamy white, very soft and - crucially - much cheaper than the other one. I now own it and am very happy. Sorry Peta.
Tonight we have a table booked at a restaurant near the Old Town Square, and all around everyone is getting excited. Nick, however, has a hatred of New Year's Eve so we are not allowed to talk about the end of the decade. He is lying on his bed next to mine reading Barbara Walters' autobiography and I am desperate to compile lists of best albums of the past ten years, best movies, best moments, worst moments, top three lessons learned, etc., while he just wants to forget about the passing of time. He tells me that he gets excited on New Year's Day, and looks forward to the future, but hates to think about what has been lost, missed opportunities and ineradicable truths. So, just between you and me - my best album released in the Noughties is Poses by Rufus Wainwright. My best book published in the Noughties is The Road by Cormac McCarthy. My favourite movie released in the Noughties is... TBC. I can't think of any good films I've seen at the cinema in the past ten years. That's insane. I did love Anvil. Maybe it was Anvil. Is that possible? I'll come back to that. My personal highlight is one long complex string - it's that I'm finally happy, but I wouldn't have been happy if I hadn't bought my flat, and I wouldn't have done that if I hadn't taken the job in the bank, and I wouldn't have taken the job in the bank if I hadn't been tutoring my boss's kids, and I wouldn't have been tutoring them if I hadn't been doing my MA, and I wouldn't have been doing my MA if I hadn't had been lost and blue and had my wonderful parents to help me... it's all a beautiful chain of events that's reached a wonderful viewpoint, crystal clear in retrospect but murky as a swamp at the time. What I know for sure is that everyone who's reading this makes me happy, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. TBC.
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