A Streetcar Named Desire (Donmar Warehouse)

I can't that that depending on the kindness of strangers is something that I make a habit of, but I'm deeply grateful to the Donmar Warehouse for running the Donmar Discovery scheme and offering free tickets for their production of A Streetcar Named Desire, which has been sold out for months. It really was the full royal treatment with a free poster and post-show discussion on top of the ticket. The Donmar might be known as the most exclusive theatre in London, but it's also one of the most generous. It's hardly like they do this because they're under booked. This (and my brand new Entry Pass for the National Theatre) is something I'm really going to miss when I turn twenty-five (thankfully not for a few more years).

I've never seen 'Streetcar' on stage before, and it's been years since I saw the film (I adore Vivien Leigh, but tend to re-visit Gone with the Wind and Waterloo Bridge), so I was able to come to it fairly fresh, which I think helped. The production is directed by Rob Ashford, who's most prolific as a choreographer, and I think it shows in the (sometimes unbearably) intense physicality and fluidity of this production. This was the first time I've been in the stalls at the Donmar, and I was right on the corner in the first row, and avoided being hit by Stanley's crockery smashing rampage by centimeters (rather terrifying). That's how intimate it was. Christopher Oram's set with the beautiful spiral staircase and dingy two-bedroom apartment below evokes the outward glamour of New Orleans and the internal squalor of the lives on display.

Rachel Weisz's Blanche arrives in this ghastly place dressed from head to toe in white, setting off her porcelain skin perfectly, and resembling a youthful Miss Havisham. She is rarely off-stage, and she is extraordinary. She makes Blanche tragicomic and sympathetic and I was completely drawn into her flights of fancy and even wanted to make them come true for her. Blanche Dubois might be a terrible manipulator and a nightmare of a house guest, but she really is one of the greatest fantasists in literature, spinning her own stories and in the end, I don't think she has any idea of what's true and what isn't. It all becomes mingled into one.

There is strong support from Ruth Wilson, who is outstanding as Stella (perhaps the heart of the play, and the onstage representative of the audience- she's the one who has to 'watch' Blanche), the tricky woman-who-loves-husband-who-beats-her role. She is no doormat, and is more than a match for Stanley. I can't help but be reminded of the Bigelows in Carousel, but the difference is that Julie loves Billy because she sees in him a vulnerability that no one else does. The violence doesn't turn her on, unlike Stella, who admits she was excited by the way he smashed all the light bulbs in the apartment on their wedding night. The question is- why is she so obsessed with a man who treats her appallingly, has no charm and isn't even remotely physically attractive? No relationship based almost entirely on sex can be healthy and Stella knows that, but she can't let go... and she never comes across as a victim.

I never would have recognised Elliot Cowan as Mr Darcy from the dreadful Lost in Austen (Stanley Kowlaski really is the anti-Darcy), and frankly, Blanche really does have have a point in suggesting that this sweat-soaked, beer-guzzling, tank top wearing (not a good look unless you're Naveen Andrews) brute has missed a few rungs on the evolutionary ladder. He's extraordinarily vulgar and bestial and incapable of thinking before he acts. I think his best moment was his despair after he'd lashed out at Stella, fearing he'd lost her for good. Barnaby Kay as Mitch, the only man who shows any traits of the Southern gentlemen of Blanche's fantasies is decent and straightforward, but who could cope with all the lies that Blanche tells?

It's a long play, and one that left me feeling rather drained, particularly after the heartbreaking final scene. I felt as awful for Stella as I did for Blanche. What happens to Stella and Stanley's marriage after the play? I think Stella knows what her husband is capable of and that Blanche isn't lying about the rape, but the world isn't kind to single mothers... I don't sense a happy future for poor Stella regardless of whatever decision she makes about her marriage.

The post-show discussion was particularly interesting in seeing just how protective Ruth Wilson is of Stella, to the point of being a bit abrupt. I think it's wonderful that she's that passionate about her character (and they must have all been exhausted), but was quite glad I wasn't on the receiving end. An evening I won't soon forget.

Latest Purchases

Ahh, neighbourhood events. Book sales tend to be my favourites, even ones with a £2 entry fee (including a cup of tea and piece of cake). I think they may have attracted a larger crowd if it had been a £1 entry charge with the goodies as an extra. It was certainly the place to be if you're interested in Margaret Drabble or Margaret Forster- I've never seen so many of their books in one place! These organisers weren't going in for bargains and no prices were given (you take your stack up to them and they decide how much to charge- it would look a bit miserable to try to haggle), but I can't complain too much with a Persephone in the stack.

I haven't read any Muriel Spark other than The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, and I'm not quite sure why I decided to take this as the premise doesn't sound particularly appealing. I didn't realise until later that the beastly previous owner had defaced much of it with yellow highlighter. I can't stand marking books with ink (it's pencil only for me). That'll teach me to check the insides of books before buying them!

There was a whole row of just about every book Margaret Drabble has ever written. As a Drabble newbie, the lady on the stall suggested I start with Jerusalem the Golden- the heroine is called Clara, which is a name that I love, and it looks like a promising coming-of-age story (a genre that I've never grown out of).

I always like the simple and chic Penguin Modern Classics editions. My Russian is quite good, but I've shied away from C20 work, finding the C19 more appealing. It's time to step out of the ballroom of Imperial Russia and into the Revolution and its aftermath...

It always makes me unbelievably happy to find a second hand Persephone, and this one is no exception (especially as the bookmark is still in tact!). The Victorian Chaise-Longue is one that has always looked intriguing in the catalogue, but it's hard to justify paying £10 for only 120 pages (I wasn't particularly thrilled with their other very short novel, Cheerful Weather for the Wedding by Julia Strachey). Hopefully it's a case of quality over page numbers...

I also can never resist a Virago Modern Classic. I first read the much-parodied Mary Webb earlier this summer (Seven for a Secret) and I enjoyed it as rustic escapism with a fairy tale-like feel. Precious Bane is generally considered to be her masterpiece, and the cover art is lovely.

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak has certainly received a great deal of acclaim and although I'm a bit wary of Holocaust fiction (not on moral grounds; it's simply because so much of it is horribly emotionally manipulative), I'm curious to see if this tale of Nazi Germany told from Death's point of view lives up to all the hype...

This might be a good time to ask- is there anybody out there??

Early Autumn Reads

I'm going through a period where my attention span is all over the place, so I'm finding myself drawn to books that I know are going to be easy to read or short (or both). Etty Hillesum is back on the shelf for now, but I will finish it as soon as my concentration is strong enough. I love the writing of Eva Ibbotson. I never read her children's books (but it's never too late to catch up!) and discovered her 'romances' at the end of my first year at uni (A Countess Below Stairs being the first) and was completely smitten. I feel so lucky that I read that just as her other adult books were being re-issued as teen reads. It's so frustrating to fall in love with an author only to find that her work is out of print. Ibbotson's writing is repetitive in the same way that Noel Streatfeild's is- the stock characters and morality lessons in which virtue is always rewarded. The Dragonfly Pool forms a nice trio with Journey to the River Sea and The Star of Kazan- the magic tends to stem from the natural and enchanted worlds that Ibbotson creates through language and imagery, rather than the supernatural kind found in The Secret of Platform 13, The Island of the Aunts etc. It's rather Frances Hodgson Burnett-like. If you're familiar with Ibbotson, then you'll sort of know what to expect from this tale of plucky young Tally, who, on the eve of World War II, sent to a rather bohemian boarding school full of quirky teachers and pupils, and on a visit to the kingdom of Bergania, finds herself involved in a plan to rescue the crown prince from the Nazis. I don't think this one ultimately reaches the same heights as 'Journey' or 'Star,' (my favourite- I just love reading about old Vienna) but Ibbotson's writing is always beautiful and lyrical and poetic justice reigns supreme. It was also nice to meet an Ibbotson character with my name- unlike me, this Julia is a wonderful actress, but she also happens to be extremely shy...

Fortune's Rocks is a very strange book indeed. I find Anita Shreve's work to be of a rather mixed quality (her best by some distance being Light on Snow), but her books in the very least are reliably easy to get into and quick to read and I've tended to consider her a better writer than she's often given credit for. It seems as if all bestselling women authors are treated with a certain amount of suspicion (which I find terribly unfair). This is the first of her books I've read that's set in the past and the blurb promised 'the kind of literary blockbuster we tend to associate with Charles Dickens or Wilkie Collins... this is perfect reading for a winter night's fireside reading' (Glasgow Herald) and with a heroine comparable to Jane Eyre (The Times). That all sounded very promising. My problem with it? I can't for the life of me condone a relationship between a fifteen year old girl and a forty one year old (married) man (with children not much younger than his lust object). I might have been able to suspend a bit more belief if she'd been eighteen, but fifteen? It's like a daytime TV movie dressed up as something a bit more upmarket, with a few gruesome childbirth scenes thrown in for good measure. The heroine, Olympia Biddeforth, is beautiful, precocious and sheltered and on the verge of womanhood. Along comes her father's friend John Haskell, a doctor and writer with progressive ideas about the living and working conditions of mill girls. They fall passionately in love, are discovered having sex in the chapel at her sixteenth birthday party, she gives birth to his baby, which is sent away to an orphanage. There's no chemistry between the leads and yet we're supposed to root for them unconditionally. Olympia feels guilty about what they're doing for about five minutes, but because she's so enlightened and liberated from the ties of society, there's nothing shameful about it at all because they're soooo deeply in love. It isn't just that she's a well-bred Victorian girl- how could anyone not feel guilty about destroying a family regardless of how much in love you are? She also never has to stand on her own two feet- she enlists a sympathetic lawyer and her father has a change of heart and gives her the financial support she needs to carry out the custody battle. The one genuinely admirable thing she does is undermined in an epilogue that's so contrived that it's almost insulting. To compare Olympia to Jane Eyre... the very thought renders me speechless. On top of all that, the faux-Victorian language quickly becomes grating (did people really never speak with contractions then?). A story about the lives of the mill girls Haskell was supposedly so interested in protecting would have been much more interesting. My favourite musical is Carousel and I always got a sense that the girls in that have two options- work in the mill or get married. Julie Jordan's assertion that she'll never marry (until she enters into a brief, doomed marriage with carnival barker Billy Bigelow) is a bold one. There's the section in Stonecutters Cut it on Stone where the girls compare marriage to domestic and sexual slavery. It makes you wonder if that, or the long hours six days a week in a dusty cotton mill is the lesser evil. Considering the conflict between the Yankee and French inhabitants, it's interesting that she's called Julie Jordan (Jourdan?) and names her daughter Louise...  I know the Christian names come from Ferenc Molnar's Liliom, but it's an interesting thought (to me at least).

The Life and Death of Harriett Frean is a quietly shocking short novel, depicting an entire lifetime in a mere 184 pages (and it would probably be about half that if it was printed in a standard layout). Until Virginia Woolf came along, May Sinclair was considered the most distinguished woman writer of the first part of the twentieth century (she was the one who coined the phrase 'stream of consciousness'). It's surprisingly straightforward to read and it's laid out like a children's book with its large type and wide spacing. It makes you wonder how much Harriett really develops throughout her life as she's constantly stuck in the same mindset and the self-imposed shadow of the parents she idolises. It's ironic that it's her obsession with 'being good' and 'behaving beautifully' that makes her selfish and tyrannical and ultimately pitiable. Well worth a look, only takes an hour or two to read and more accessible than Mrs Woolf (I'm afraid I've never warmed to her, but I keep meaning to put that right). Harriett is exactly the kind of spinster I don't want to turn into! There's a very good review by Stuck In A Book that discusses this novel far more eloquently than I could.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, Wedding Season is a delightful confection. I'm not much of a fan of the chick-lit genre (I can never relate to the characters and so many of them are horribly written) and I hadn't read anything by Katie Fforde before, but I have a feeling she may be a new favourite 'fluff' author. I love stories about weddings, even though in the very unlikely event that any man should want to marry me, I don't know if I could face having one of my own. I love reading about extravagance even if I wouldn't want it for myself. Fforde depicts a very (upper) middle class world full of people called Rupert and Fenella who own crumbling stately homes that I'm not sure really exists (maybe it does in the Cotswolds), but that kind of adds to the modern-yet-nostalgic fairytale like feel to the story. The only thing that stretched credibility a bit too far was how Elsa had to design and make a state of the art wedding dress and four bridesmaid dresses for the celebrity wedding, as well as doing over Sarah's sister's wedding dress and making her own Regency ballgown in only two months. When I was a bridesmaid for the first time, my aunt had to make my dress because I was at that awkward age where I was too old for a child's dress but still too small for an adult's and that took ages (she did an amazing job, with very tricky fabric).  But these are minor niggles. I liked how it was character driven with three well-drawn, sensible, likable heroines- wedding co-ordinator Sarah, dressmaker Elsa (my favourite) and hairdresser Bron. There are no skeletons in closets or evil diva bitch brides, just about everyone is supportive and the simplicity and the friendship between the women is refreshing. A book that's like a plate of chocolate chip cookies still warm from the oven. More like this, please.

The Children Who Lived in a Barn (first published in 1938) by Eleanor Graham (founding editor of Puffin Books) is one of those books I feel as if I must have read when I was younger, but in fact never did. A rather nice 1955 edition caught my eye at Oxfam as it's since been re-published by the delectable Persephone Books and I love vintage children's fiction. The premise is certainly an unusual one- Granny is taken ill somewhere in Europe, Mother and Daddy have to rush to her side, leaving the five children alone ("Stop fussing about the children. They can manage perfectly well by themselves- and it's quite time they had a shot at it," says Daddy. For the record, the eldest, Sue is thirteen and youngest, Alice, is seven). The plane the parents are on disappears without a trace (a genteel 30s version of Lost, perhaps?) and the miserable landlord Mr Screech orders the children out of the house, but they're offered a barn by the sympathetic farmer, Pearl. A healthy amount of suspension of belief is required throughout- I found myself reminded of the way the Provincial Lady worries about Vicky and Robin's lack of emotion as the children's matter-of-fact acceptance of their parents' disappearance is a little unsettling. What makes it so interesting is seeing the way the children  rail together against the disapproval of the beastly grown ups (especially that dreadful District Visitor) who think that children bringing themselves up without adult supervision is a recipe for disaster and develop their own very sensible set of rules and moral code. I thoroughly enjoyed this (and would love to try out a hay-box), but was a little disappointed that we never learn whether Granny dies from her illness or not...

(Endpapers from the Persephone edition)

On the subject of quick reads, I was quite sorry to see The London Paper go. Whilst it's no better than the London Lite content-wise (apart from having the adorable Pet of the Day feature), the layout and design is so much classier which makes me feel far less grubby reading it!

I met a lady in the meads, /Full beautiful—a faery’s child./Her hair was long, her foot was light/ And her eyes were wild.

 I find it a tricky to talk about art in a non-academic context in a way that doesn't sound horribly clichéd and twee. I don't know why the visual arts are more difficult to discuss than, say, books or theatre. I did History of Art for A-level and had a thoroughly interesting time with two of the most passionate, knowledgeable teachers I've ever had, and I was able to return to it when I did my finalist dissertation (on the representation of women in the Victorian Arthurian revival). For some reason, I've always been drawn to the work of John William Waterhouse. It sounds so quaint, but he depicts certain moments that tell a story in themselves. He's often mislabeled as a 'Pre-Raphaelite' because of his subject matter (medieval knights and damsels etc), but he was born in the year the Brotherhood formed (1848) and was never professionally or socially affiliated with any of them (as an Academician, I assume he would have met Millais, but have no idea about Rossetti or Hunt, or Burne-Jones or Morris). There's certainly an aura of mystery about his life in the sense that nothing really remarkable happened in it. It wouldn't make much of a Desperate Romantics style dramatisation, and yet he created some of the most beautiful, haunting images of different kinds of femininity that I've ever seen. Who says that something extraordinary can't come out of an ordinary life?

The Royal Academy has assembled a splendid array of paintings, most of which I'll probably never see again in my lifetime as so many are in private collections. It's easy to see why they're so collectible, but I still think it's rather selfish. None of the Ophelia images were present, unfortunately, but two out of three of the Ladies of Shalott were- I've seen the famous barge scene quite a few times (yay for the Tate!), and I was glad to see the 1914 "I am Half Sick of Shadows" as a contrast. It's a more womanly, (Millais-style) Mariana-like take on Elaine than what we're used to. It was interesting seeing some his lesser-known early work (several Roman scenes, and an earlier version of Shakespeare's Miranda that I'd never even heard of), but the real treat was seeing the paintings I've admired in books for years in person. There really is no substitute. I was particularly enthralled by Circe Invidiosa- the striking vertical composition and the stunning use of colour. No re-production can do the bright turquoise justice. I've always liked Circe as a character even though she's rather evil (best known for turning Odysseus' men into pigs, but in this painting she's pouring poison into the sea to turn her love rival, Scylla, into a canine sea monster- so deliciously evil). Circe Offering The Cup to Odysseus is another great example of this wonderful character in all her glory. Waterhouse is also one of the only painters to portray Medea in a positive light; so many people just can't see past the child killing. Keats's La Belle Dame sans Merci has long been a favourite poem of mine, and I think Waterhouse's painting captures the lucid sensuality to perfection. It's the hair and haunting eyes. I also adored the sketches, which are astonishingly intense in their simplicity. Infinitely more powerful and memorable than the huge Roman scenes, and on a par with the paintings of goddesses and femmes fatales.

So yes, a lovely exhibition. Finishing on Sunday, so hurry up...

 

The Magic Circle, 1886

 

Circe Offering the Cup to Odysseus, 1891

Circe Invidiosa, 1892

La Belle Dame sans Merci, 1893

 

Windflowers, 1902

Jason and Medea, 1907

Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May, 1908

 

"I am half sick of shadows," said the Lady of Shalott, 1915

 

 Study for The Lady Clare

Nigella, dancing on stage, red shoes and more

Last week was rather hellish, but this weekend has had a lot of interesting and entertaining moments. I'm not going to let that inept hack destroy the confidence I've gained over the past few weeks, and that's that! I wonder if I'll be able to get enough weird and quirky jobs to maybe write the theatrical equivalent of Monica Dickens's One Pair Of Hands (sort of like a 30s The Devil Wears Prada about a debutante turned cook general). Since Friday, I have enjoyed:

• A new job of sorts as a sort of adviser to an absolutely lovely Korean woman about to begin an MA in Creative Writing. I hope I'll be able to put my background in literary criticism to good use. Maybe I can ask her to teach me some Korean, that would be exciting!

• A good rummage in Oxfam. I love the chaotic nature of our Oxfam. You never know what you're going to find, and, best of all, the books are all only 99p. Somebody is giving away their entire Angela Carter collection; I can't imagine why anyone would want to do that. With the acquisition of Black Venus and Heroes and Villains, my Carter collection is now nearly complete. It'll feel a bit strange once I've read all her books. I also found a nice Women's Press edition of The Yellow Wallpaper and Other Writings by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, which I've been wanting to read for a while. 

• Sam Mendes's latest film Away We Go is a rather nice little piece of film making, even if it's never going to be an all-time favourite. The film follows a couple expecting a baby, who find themselves with no reason to stay in Connecticut when his parents have the chance to realise a lifelong dream to move to Belgium and set off on the mission to find the perfect place to bring their family up in. John Krasinski and Maya Rudolph are both really likable and believable as the parents to be, and there are scene-stealing turns from Allison Janney as an alcoholic mother from hell who openly insults her children to their faces and Maggie Gyllenhall as an equally appalling new age mother who blames strollers for all of society's failings.

• Meeting my grandmother's cousin and his wife for the first time. They live fairly locally, but I'd never even heard of them until recently (my grandmother died a long time before I was born, when her children were very young). My extended family is just a bit complicated and dysfunctional. They're big animal lovers, and the fact that we have a cat and currently a rabbit as well helped to break the ice quite a bit. There were some interesting stories, and we might be related to Nigella Lawson through a connection with Joseph Lyons of the Lyons Corner House. I kind of like that idea. Deep down, I'd secretly quite like to be a bit like her. There are also apparently connections with the Redgraves and Val Gielgud (brother of John)- through marriage only, but I find any connection with theatrical royalty exciting.

• It seems as if there might be a possibility or two for Bunny. Absolutely nothing is certain, but here's holding breath and keeping fingers crossed...

• I got to see the first performance of the music act performing at the Rosemary Branch this week, Sing Baby Sing! a group of four singers with experience as backing singers for various pop stars performing 70s and 80s Motown hits. I was very impressed with their energy and I hope they get a larger crowd later in the week. The audience was even invited to dance on stage at one point. Normally there isn't a chance in hell I'd join in something like that, but when I was asked to dance by Leigh, our leading man from Les Primas, how could I possibly refuse? Sunday night is probably the best night to go to the pub because it's quiet enough to be able to have a proper conversation. I like being able to talk to people without having to shout. I feel very lucky to have had the chance to have two lovely dancers to myself, every girl's dream come true...

• I have a rather splendid new pair of red shoes. I needed black flats, but walked out with 40s style red shoes with a little heel instead. Perhaps it's my ballet-fixated brain in overdrive as The Red Shoes is one of the few good dance films. In fact, it's more than that, it's a masterpiece. It was the first 'grown up' film I ever saw (at the Barbican) and a re-watch is long overdue. I also want to get my ballet shoes out again- I'm going to see if I can find any informal adult classes.

A pet for life- not just for a show

I suppose this has been bit of a wake-up call. I was blissfully lucky with Les Primas. Everyone was approachable and considerate, everything was beautifully organised and there were no stupid demands. It was the very opposite of the diva-like behaviour being parodied on stage. I never took that for granted, but this has made me appreciate that cast and creative team all the more. So much hinges on having an organised, sensible, tactful director. One who isn't particularly well organised and is severely lacking in People Skills isn't anyone's dream employer, least of all the lowest minion of all- the bunny chaperone. I'm still not entirely sure what the point was in going to enormous fuss and expense (though my fee was absolute peanuts) to get a real rabbit to appear in two scenes, after which he's replaced by a toy for a climax that apparently made no sense whatsoever. There's nothing about about a rabbit in the text at all; it's all in the director's warped mind. It isn't like needing a real Toto for The Wizard of Oz. How did I get involved? Well, I was up for just about anything to get a foot in the door in the theatre industry, but now I know that there really are limits. I should have backed out when Herr Director (HD) (who clearly hadn't done any research about the practicalities) told me that the bunny was coming from a pet shop, as I don't approve of animals being bought and sold when there are so many in rescue centres that need homes. I'd made it pretty clear that I couldn't keep the bunny permanently, and had been led to believe that there was someone interested in taking him, but that fell through. I have never felt as awkward as I did in that pet shop when HD asked if Bunny (name withheld in interest of privacy) could be returned in a week's time and he was informed that animals are sold for life. Which is exactly the way it should be. I'm not sure when I'll get over that feeling of shame about buying an animal just to use it. I was supposed to be delighted when a deal was negotiated to have him returned to the pet shop the day after the show was over. On the contrary, I was disgusted by the attitude that it's acceptable to buy an animal, use it for a few days in your little project and then return it when you don't need it any more. I can't believe no one else picked up on that. If you want to 'hire' a rabbit, find someone who already has one as a pet and is willing to have it appear (and if that isn't possible, use a toy). He might be sold eventually, but goodness knows when. We're in the middle of a credit crunch; only a fool would pay £50 for a rabbit when you can get one for free from a rescue centre.

The first night was absolute hell- I was given the wrong instructions, which the rather unpleasant leading lady blamed me for and there was a misunderstanding somewhere along the line (I maintain that I only did as I was told) which caused HD to speak to me quite harshly in a way that was completely uncalled for. It's awful not knowing if anyone is on your side (I'll always be grateful to the lovely tenor for trying to comfort me and telling me it wasn't my fault- which it wasn't, but I'd been made to feel as if it was). Funny how HD claims to be experienced in theatre, opera and film (in fact, IMDb suggests that his screen experience is limited to three individual TV episodes in German soap operas, and the last one was ten years ago) in his resumé, but is very coy about giving examples. My family and friends who saw the show (I didn't get to see any of it as I was backstage the entire time) found it pretentious, convaluted and incomprehensible thanks to the inept direction and awkward staging (although I'm sorry they had a wasted evening, such comments really were music to my ears), and all agreed that Bunny was the best thing about it. Lots of people cooed over him and told him he was the star of the show. Being a modest kind of bunny, he's trying not to let all the praise go to his head, but I think he's entitled to feel rather pleased with himself. He was absolutely good as gold throughout and is astonishingly docile and relaxed for a rabbit.

At the time of going to press, Bunny's future is undecided, but one thing is for certain- he won't be going back to that pet shop. I'm unutterably relieved that my mother has come round to my way of thinking. Ideally, a young family with a garden will be delighted to give him a home. He really is the ideal family pet. If not, he'll stay with us. It isn't what was planned, but he's been very happy here, and adjustments can be made. We all love him and a home is a home. It's hard to imagine another job coming with so much emotional and ethical baggage. Should I continue in this line of work, you never know what's going to happen.