I'm slightly lagging behind with the current course of my blog however I blame this on my spontaneous schedule and summer lethargy so here is the first account of the last number of weeks.
Thursday night was the most romantic night of my week beginning the eighteenth. Having been partially sighted to Carmen and my girlfriend being an fan of the opera comique, I was fortunate enough to get tickets to see the ballet adaptation, which I cherish as much the superstitious marvel of a lonely eyelash glued to one's cheek. However before the English National Ballet were to give their boisterous version of Bizet's opera, my better half and I scoured the all too familiar tourist ridden streets searching for Thursday night was the most romantic night of my week. Having been partially sighted to Carmen and my girlfriend being an fan of the opera comique, I was fortunate enough to get tickets to see the ballet adaptation, which I cherish as much the superstitious marvel of a lonely eyelash glued to one's cheek. However before the English National Ballet were to give their boisterous version of Bizet's opera, my better half and I scoured the all too familiar tourist ridden streets searching for dinner. We succumbed to a nestled spot of al fresco Italian and stuffed ourselves silly. Then it was a swift exit to the theatre where our feet soared accelerando and the vertigo inducing summits of the colossal victorian mass where enough to send me spiralling into my unconscious off my velvet nurturing seat. The curtain went up and the instruments were raised to their right angles but not before a contemplative pardon for the recently deceased Roland Petit, who choreographed the night's spectacle. The sad news somewhat added solitude and depth to the performance, as the twee ballerinas skidded across the slated cold stage from cue to cue it was an ode to a maestro. My overwhelming delight upon measuring the precision and control in the dancers' stance could be compared to that of licking the leftover honey treacle in a jam jar or mummy's cooking mixture (I may be completely wrong. I'm no dance critic and I am renowned for having two left feet.)dinner. We succumbed to a nestled spot of al fresco Italian and stuffed ourselves silly. Then it was a swift exit to the theatre where our feet soared accelerando and the vertigo inducing summits of the colossal victorian mass where enough to send me spiralling into my unconscious off my velvet nurturing seat. The curtain went up and the instruments were raised to their right angles but not before a contemplative pardon for the recently deceased Roland Petit, who choreographed the night's spectacle. The sad news somewhat added solitude and depth to the performance, as the twee ballerinas skidded across the slated cold stage from cue to cue it was an ode to a maestro. My overwhelming delight upon measuring the precision and control in the dancers' stance could be compared to that of licking the leftover honey treacle in a jam jar or mummy's cooking mixture (I may be completely wrong. I'm no dance critic and I am renowned for having two left feet.)
The evening according to lazily taken digital media:
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