Going it alone

Questions: Why is it that although you know you had a good dream you can never remember it? And why is it that when you've had the worst nightmare in the world....the one where you wake up too scared to go back to sleep and have to have the light on all night....you can remember it in explicit detail all through the following day? And although you know it so well and it includes all your work colleagues, you can't tell anyone because it's so awful. I put it down to a lack of alcohol. That's what comes of trying to have a wine-free week to avoid spillage on the new carpet. Or it could be down to the film I saw last night.

I took myself off to the Rex, the last known gas-lit cinema in the civilised world, to see The White Ribbon. No-one I know had heard of this Austrian film set in pre-world war one Germany and thus was not interested in going along. I think the Swansea-based man-child, who I spoke with on the phone prior to my departure, worries that I'm Norma-no-mates but the Rex is full of solitary women looking for a bit of culture so, no problem. Actually, regardless of the film, I love it there: there's a stair lift for the decrepit; the seats are the original sit up straight version; the music is care of the organ and the adverts are courtesy of Pearl and Dean. Wareham folk arrive and wave and shout greetings to each other across the tiny darkened auditorium as if they're in the post-office. Before the main feature, Kevin comes upstairs and asks us all if we'd like an ice-cream and after the rush he informs us that if we've all got our wafers and cornets, then he'll be off and ask for the film to start. It's all so comforting that we're lulled into a false sense of security which lasts about three minutes into this traumatising film.

Regular readers...and there are more than two...will recall that I quite like a bit of a fright. Bored by Blair Witch and reduced to hysterical laughter by Paranormal Activity, I was totally unprepared to be so dreadfully disturbed by The White Ribbon. And trust me, you will come to know this superbly acted film: it's already won the Palme d'Or and is up for an Oscar. It is big time creepy.

So, lacking in sleep and at the end of another day without a lunch break in the paradise that is work, it was a BIG effort to drag myself out again tonight on another solitary trip. I could've remained under a blanket on the settee in the unchallenging company of Judge Judy and not donned waterproofs and flippers before heading off in the direction of the King Charles. And I could've missed the treat of the year. (Yes, I know it's only the beginning of February). There is a growing and impressive arts community in Poole: musicians, writers, poets and artists of all shapes, sizes and ages gathered together to share their talents. And I do mean share. Being creative is a lonely occupation and I don't think I've ever met so many folk eager to exchange ideas, confidences and email addresses. Before you could say 'performance', I found myself in front of a microphone reading out some prose and poetry accompanied by guitarists and percussionists, simultaneously being sketched by those who'd arrived replete with paper and pencils. And I left with invitations to three other arts events. It's a brave new world out there even if it's a trifle damp.