Salisbury, not Sheffield

"So, what did you think of the play?"

We went, grudgingly, to Salisbury yesterday. The problems began early - about half an hour after we set off - when Mr. T put 'Wilde', the Oscar Wilde biopic, into the DVD palyer. Within the first few minutes, we came on to the first sex scene:

"No! No! Don't do it! Gay porn!" screeched one of the boys. "Noo! Oh. My. God. I can't look!"

So we spent an hour and a half watching the boys covering their eyes and wailing, and Sarah staring desolately at the screen: "I'll never look af Jude Law in the same way ever again."

By the time we got to Salisbury (which, incidentally, may as well be in a different hemisphere) all of us were already in the obligatory teenage sulk because it was bloody freezing. And then, in the theatre:

Old people.

So many old people.

In fact, our entire coachload of (lovely and youthful) sixth formers spent most of their time gaping at them.

"I really, really don't want to get old." said someone on the way home.

As for the play, it was, as Kat cleverly told all the teachers, evading having to give an actual response, "interesting". I also found the transition between Victorian society comedy and wierd X-Files style slow motion ballroom dancing interesting. Fundamentally, though, the play is flawed: Mrs. Arbuthnot goes on (and on and on) too much about her misery that it's impossible to appreciate any of the genuine feminist insight crammed between lines and lines of sanctimonious melodrama. "In her, all womanhood is martyred": but the audience never really cares. Humour is much more Wilde's forte. For actual morality, Henrik Ibsen is miles ahead.

Enfin, Grey's Anatomy. Last night. Absolutely compulsive. Even Sophie, this morning, greeted me with "OhmyGod. What is going to happen to Meredith?????"

What, indeed.