Saddened to hear of the death of the sublime Dame Maggie and so glad that I got to see her last stage performance five years ago.

I don't know how my local cinema stays open because there was only me and one other person there this afternoon - for this lovely film that was sad and funny. And definitely aimed at my generation as I'm all too obviously there for the silver screen discount and the free coffee (delivered to my seat by a nice Generation Z-er who didn't want me to miss the start of the film). It has been quite a cinematic week as I also saw Prima Facie with an astonishing performance by Jodie Comer; first time I'd seen a NT Live production - apart from a few at home during lockdown - as if you live in London it's just as easy, and often cheaper, to go to the theatre. I didn't think I'd be as engaged watching a screen - but I was mesmerised.

Well, I'm still here, still picture-less despite much fiddling - and heaven knows why I chose tonight for a comeback as, honestly, this weekend has been jinxed. Last night I had tickets for this play at Hampstead - no reviews yet, but it sounded promising - but alas, the performance was cancelled; and today I was planning to visit these wonderful artists' studios, only to find a notice pinned to the door: exhibition cancelled. So what else has been happening? I doubt anyone reading this will be hankering to see Beetlejuice Beetlejuice ... But just in case you're tempted, let me tell you that I crept out bored to tears and thoroughly confused after giving it 40 minutes, which was 40 minutes too long. On the other hand, though I'm probably not the demographic for an Irish-language rap movie, Kneecap was absolutely hilarious - though you need your wits about you to keep up with Irish rappers'sub-titles. I didn't realise it was based on a real-life rap group until the end; but give me a break, I was the oldest person in the cinema by decades. On a more decorous note, this adaptation of Pride and Prejudice by a cast of three was sheer delight and so inventive that I'm sure Jane Austen would have been in ladylike fits of giggles. However, this time I felt like I'd gatecrashed a Saga holiday outing - and I was the youngest person there by, perhaps not decades, but a good few years thank you very much. Well, it makes a change! I also hugely enjoyed this play at the National about a group of gay black American men competing in a hot chicken wing contest. (Oh, the smell of that sizzling chicken! I was rather hoping they'd pass some round the audience.) The Grapes of Wrath was impressive but not as moving as the book. And I caught an amazing performance by the understudy playing Michael in the Death of England trilogy; I'd already seen the third part when it was at the National last year. The evenings do seem to be drawing in so I was thrilled to see the return of Slow Horses, which is quite as good and possibly even better than anything by John le Carré; just be glad that you can't smell flatulent Gary Oldman/Jackson Lamb through the screen. (Which reminds me that I've only read two of the books; must get cracking with the rest.) But to end on that more decorous note, most evenings this week I've been immersed in Mrs Gaskell on BBC Sounds: Sylvia's Lovers, which I'd never read, and an excellent adaptation of North and South - only Cranford seemed a bit stodgy, maybe just impossible to stand up to that wonderful TV series ... can it really be 17 years ago? Feels like yesterday.

I'm enjoying watching Love for Lydia on TPTV. Real, old-fashioned Sunday evening telly - and look out for a pre-Brideshead Jeremy Irons and a very youthful Maureen from Corrie. (Unfortunately, the ever-annoying Blogger is refusing to let me insert images ... It's been such a long time since I posted. Is Blogger defunct? Or just throwing tantrums? Tonight's episode reminded me how good HE Bates is on food. Well, think of all those massive dinners put away by the Larkins. We sat at the counter and ate fish and chips and separate saucers of scalding stewed peas, seasoning them from great tin salt and pepper dredgers that were like pint pots.Mrs O'Keeffe tossed the frizzling chips in the gleaming fryers and wiped her fat hands on her hips and asked me how my father was ... I was intending to post about my expedition yesterday to the excellent Edward Bawden exhibition at the Higgins at Bedford - but without pictures there doesn't seem much point! (Blogger doesn't like paragraphs either!)

I couldn't find an image to do this justice ... because this 5* brilliant show is possibly the best thing I have ever seen on a London stage. (Never having been to Tokyo where apparently last year the stage run sold out in just four minutes!) And to think I was very meh about booking yesterday: I've never seen the film, thought it might be just another overly-loud West End musical, felt a bit sniffy about going to a kids' show ... okay, hands up, I was simply entranced and sat with a big grin on my face all the way through. (Only saw one child which is possibly a reflection of the stonking ticket prices as well as its being a school day.) Massive standing ovation at the end with the whole Coliseum audience up on its feet .. the young Japanese heroine looked enthralled as if she were trying to capture the moment forever in her memory. And I felt quite teary that it was over! I'd have happily sat down and watched it all over again. I wonder what the Japanese audience made of the sorceress Yubaba - because to me she looked like Mrs Thatcher crossed with Princess Michael of Kent.

So yes, I'm still here, still out and about - quite a bit, when I look at the sidebar that reminds me what I've been up to. But somehow with the rain, the rain and more rain, I've been feeling rather lethargic and not in the mood to write. I thought I might do a round-up to catch up - but every play I've seen since I last wrote has either closed or is on the point of closing. At least I'm on the ball with Spirited Away! And there's something about seeing such a wonderful show and emerging into sunshine (because I do love a matinée)that has recharged my batteries tonight after flopping about last week thinking I'll do something when it stops raining. Watch this space ...

Absolutely glorious... and if I'm too low-brow to meet the Guardian's high standards (another snotty review here) I truly couldn't care less. That fabulous dress - the warmth of the evening - the scent of oleander (does oleander smell? I haven't a clue) - the light shimmering on the sea - the faintly perspiring slumber of a lady who 'merely glows' ... oh, give me Flaming June over Angelica Kauffman any day. (I found the RA's Angelica Kauffman exhibition rather too worthy ... I can respect her as a woman thriving in a man's world, but her paintings spark nothing in me at all.) And what a back-story to Flaming June! Disappeared in the 1930s - rediscovered behind a false wall during building work in 1962 and separated from its frame which was considered to be more valuable than the painting - discovered again in a London antique shop by the young Andrew Lloyd Webber, whose granny refused to lend him £50 to buy 'Victorian junk'- and finally ending up in a museum in Puerto Rico. Currently on loan to the Royal Academy. (And free to get in. Unlike the worthy but ever so slightly dull Angelica Kauffman.)

Just booked my ticket. I'm really looking forward to seeing this. A nice, old-fashioned play.

This was fascinating and heart-breaking - the true story of a prosperous Jewish family in Vienna, written by their son. It's quite slow-moving and gives such a vivid picture of ordinary life through the 1930s, the meals, the holidays, the visits from relatives, a 17-year-old's first ball only days before the Anschluss, a tea-dance in Berlin even as other Jews were being rounded-up on the streets. Burying heads in the sand because it will all blow over, the procrastination, the bad decisions, then - incredibly - after escaping to neutral Ireland the return to Paris where it still seemed possible that life might be ... normal. And reading it you realise that you'd have been exactly the same, frozen by indecision, incapable of action, sweating the small stuff because the unthinkable is exactly that - unthinkable.

I loved The Crown, at least I loved the early episodes before all the Diana nonsense (I'm not a huge fan of the People's Princess!). So it was fun to see this auction exhibition at Bonhams of costumes and props from the series, so clever - even though close-up you'd never mistake them for the real Norman Hartnell etc. I did wonder who is going to bid for a life-size State Coach, looks authentically bone-rattlingly uncomfortable (estimated price £30,000-£50,000); or a Coronation chair with fibreglass Stone of Scone (£10,000-£20,000); the Queen's many ballgowns and Princess Anne's teenage mini-skirt ensemble for the Caernarvon Castle Investiture (£2,000-£3,000); or for smaller budgets perhaps a slightly battered barbecue from Balmoral (£400-£600). Diana's engagement ring? Genuine cubic zirconia (£2,000-£3,000) - or her off-the rail engagement outfit from Harrods (£1,500-£2,000). They said they are expecting lots of interest from America. Where I'm guessing there is perhaps a hazy perception of what's real and what's Netflix. Four floors to browse and it's all free.

So looking forward to this sumptuous exhibition. And especially to seeing the gowns from the portraits.

And the second film of the year ... Think Chariots of Fire: The Wet Bobs. I enjoyed it well enough but Chariots of Fire was better. Bizarrely, George Clooney didn't think to tell us at the end what happened to the real boys in the boat after the Olympics. There is a bit more here but not much.

First film of the year - which reduced a super-annoying sweet-rustling audience to complete, rapt silence after the first ten minutes. I did feel sorry for Sir Nicholas when he got ambushed by the ghastly Esther Rantzen, though. Happy New Year everybody. On the way home I bought a bunch of skinny pencil-bud daffs - and that was the first of the year, too.