Joe Egg
(Two metres of Kölsch: Berlin, Germany)
Tonight I saw A Day in the Death of Joe Egg, a richly dark humourous play touching on 1950s class sensibilities, interpersonal relationships and the undeniable focal point – the often comic coping mechanisms of parenting a disabled child. It perhaps doesn’t sound a particularly appealing subject for a comedy, but I was amazed at how much and how readily I was chortling throughout the first half. There were some lines that were delivered pitch perfect by the strong cast and their impromptu on-stage laughter served to ignite even more chuckling from me and most of the audience.
There won’t be any spoilers here, but seeing the play brought out many feelings in me, aside from the welling up of tears and uproarious laughter that it was meant to. It threw into perspective elements of my recent trip to Berlin. Since returning, I have been struck by how difficult it is to explain to friends that though it was triggered by a funeral, that the time spent there was one of the best and most positive experiences I have had in a long time. I do not say that lightly, though the fact I was escaping from a disaster zone of a bathroom has not eluded me.
In Berlin, as you can see (and as I might have said before), good times were had at an informal wake affair after the funeral reception. I have only subsequently realised that it was the preparation, the service, this dinner, through all the food and beers and the cleanup operation the day after that I grew very much closer to a couple of people. It was a brief moment in the reception, a couple of hours into the wake that I felt a pang of regret that the man we were hosting for was not present. I know Jochen so much better now than when he was alive, through all the people I spoke with that day; I heard and saw so much more of him than he had ever revealed to me and I felt more privileged to have known him. I also felt thankful, as without his friendship I would not have been standing there, glass of wine in hand, in Berlin, experiencing his beautiful apartment, surrounded by so much affection. I also wouldn’t have partaken in the many metres of Kölsch, the laughter, running the red light district gauntlet (or the ‘prostitute slalom’ as it was referred to), the early morning dancing or the simple pleasure of being counted amongst his friends.
I remember watching Maz making conversation, checking on the food, the drinks, the attendees, and I recall being so proud of him at that moment that I could have actually cried. He had been doing so much of the organisation, he had said his piece at the funeral, coped with me being constantly at his elbow and he had borne it all with a temper and grace I not been parley to before. We have been friends for a few years, but I had never experienced this side of him at all. Right then I gave him a big hug and with it knew that our friendship was now stronger than it had ever been. After returning, I realised that regardless of how much time passes and how we alter as people, that Maz and I will always remain friends. It was possibly true before, but now I feel it acutely.
Joe Egg brought it all back; the fear of possibly losing someone, the intensity of emotions involved, how much we rely on each other, even if we are only able to offer one another the solace of humour. Maz and I spent much of the time in Berlin joking about the funeral and how we would choose to run it as a farce. (To be fair, it was halfway there with the yellow painted coffin, Maz presenting a ridiculous anecdote about Scottish publicans and the strains of Marlene Deitrich’s song Johnny belted from the lungs of a GSA professor.) Far from us being disrespectful or flippant, it was the one way we could collectively cope with the horror of the situation. I’m also positive that had he been there, Jochen would have joined in wholeheartedly with it all.
The whole time there, in Berlin, felt like a gift. In a way, each death I have experienced so far in my life has been a gift; a lesson in how to live, in priorities, in the effect that a negative shape of the lost person has on every day after it. I count myself lucky to miss so many people that way, with such intensity, but I’m glad that it has also left me positive about how I can try to influence the people and world around me before I’m the one lying in a box.
– Today Rosie is in meetings, is painting, has the builder in, is doing a spot of Gran visiting and is out for dinner in Falkirk –
