ESCAPISM | Episode 186

My monthly journal for July, in which musings on grief and escapism meet a set of mini theatre reviews and a long‑weekend adventure in Stavanger.

If I thought the heatwave would break in July, I was wrong. July arrived in a continued haze of heat: the air felt heavy the whole month. But I won’t be tempted to go on about the weather again in this episode – you don’t need me to tell you how hot it has been! For me, then, July was full of short bursts of escapism.

That escapism came in the form dinners with family, long chats with friends, easy walks, seven (count them…) trips to the theatre, a short trip to Stavanger in Norway, and quiet evenings where the sky refused to darken until well past ten.

On the calendar on my kitchen wall, July was full and appeared joyful. And in many ways, it absolutely was. But woven through every outing, every conversation, every moment of laughter, was the familiar thread of grief: quiet, constant, impossible to shake. Every activity was tinged with the awareness of who isn’t here to share it with.

I’ve been thinking a lot about escapism this month, about what it means to step out of my own story for a while, and why that sometimes feels like both a relief and a betrayal. July gave me plenty of chances to explore that tension. Plenty of moments where grief slid to the side just enough for me to breathe, and plenty where it surged back with force.

Escapism

It was a simple and friendly question, tossed out casually, without any particular weight behind it: “Have you always been into shows, or is that a new thing?”. I answered instantly, because the truth is uncomplicated. Live performance of all kinds has been stitched into my life for as long as I can remember. I grew up with it, adore it in all its forms – whether on the stage, behind the stage, or watching the stage.

But the question lingered long after the short conversation ended, tugging at a thread I hadn’t quite realised was loose. Because while my love of theatre isn’t new, the way I lean into it now – the frequency, the intensity, the almost gravitational pull – most certainly is. And that shift has everything to do with grief.

There’s a particular kind of guilt that comes with escapism after loss. It’s quiet, but persistent. A whisper that says: “Shouldn’t you be sadder?”. As if grief demands constant visibility, as if stepping sideways for even a moment is disloyal. I’ve felt that guilt often this year, especially when I’m doing things that look like joy from the outside; booking tickets, planning trips, wandering into quirky little stays that promise novelty and rest.

And layered on top of that is another misconception I briefly brushed against in last month’s journal: the idea that doing these things – proactively seeking out pockets of delight – must mean I’m ‘being brave’. That I’m living a full life. That I am somehow special in the way I am dealing with my circumstances.

But nothing could be further from the truth. I’m not being brave. Or strong. I’m surviving. And sometimes survival looks like stepping into a theatre or onto a plane and letting myself breathe for a moment.

The Escapism of Theatre

Escapism isn’t about forgetting. It’s about loosening the grip grief has on my lungs. It’s about letting my brain slide into a different place for a couple of hours, or a couple of days, so I can remember what it feels like to be a person rather than a wound. Even in the moments that look carefree, including sitting in a theatre as the lights go down, grief is right there beside me. It doesn’t vanish. Doesn’t soften out of kindness. It simply shifts its weight, just enough for me to experience something else.

Theatre is the place where that shift feels most tangible. There’s something almost medicinal about the moment the orchestra swells and life narrows to a single story that isn’t mine. For a couple of hours, I get to inhabit someone else’s emotional landscape – their heartbreak, their joy, their chaos. In doing so, my own circumstances become quieter. Not gone, but gentled. I emerge lighter, or brighter, or at least a little more connected to the world. It’s escapism, yes, but it’s also sanctuary. A reminder that creativity is still alive, still vibrant, still capable of reaching into the dark and pulling out something that feels like hope.

You’d Have Loved Tonight

I absolutely love it. In the way I imagine some people lose themselves in a novel, I like to watch stories unfold in front of me – living, breathing, shaped by real people in real time. Whether ancient or modern, plays and musicals give me a kind of immersion I can’t find anywhere else: the alchemy of words, music, movement, and design coming together to create a world I get to step into via my seat. There’s something extraordinary about sitting in a room full of strangers and feeling us all react – laugh, gasp, fall silent – at the same moment. It reminds me that connection still exists, even when my own life feels fractured.

I get a similar sense of lift when I listen to an orchestra concert: that swell of sound, that collective inhale, that moment where the music seems to rearrange the air.

And yet, in those moments of joy or wonder, there’s an ache that never leaves. I’m no longer able to turn to my person and ask, “Did you spot that”, or claim, “You’d have loved tonight”, or even simply, “I had a good time”. That missing conversation, that missing witness, is one of the sharpest pains of all. Every experience carries a shadow of the conversation I can’t have. The sharing was half the joy. And now the joy has to stand on its own. Which it can, but not without cost.

The Escapism of Travel

Travel offers a different kind of escape, rooted in movement and perspective. My trip to Stavanger in July wasn’t a terribly grand adventure (more on that in a moment). But it was an important shift in scenery, a change in pace, a chance to stand somewhere unfamiliar and let my senses recalibrate.

Travel has always done something good for my soul: the simple act of being outside, eating new foods, following unfamiliar paths, and stepping out of my usual routines, seems to relax something tight inside me. There’s healing in experiencing a world that isn’t my every day one.

Take my Quirky Stays. I’ve previously mentioned how I now know the idea to find little pockets of curiosity and comfort was a stroke of genius. They sit somewhere between escapism and exploration, offering not just a bed for the night but a shift in atmosphere. A truffle-shaped cabin (my first Quirky Stay), a caravan on a roof, a transportation into the Canadian wilderness, a beach hut by the sea, a bed in a grounded helicopter, even a capsule hotel in the middle of Picadilly Circus. Each one has been a playful, restorative, sometimes surreal adventure, and they remind me that delight still exists, even in the cracks.

Grief travelled with me to Norway, of course. But being somewhere new made it feel less claustrophobic, less all‑consuming. There’s something about watching a new-to-me part of the world unfold in front of me – mountains, harbours, quiet streets – that reminds me I’m still capable of that same wonder I find at the theatre. And wonder, I’m learning, is one of grief’s few antidotes.

Guilt and Escapism

And yet, the guilt persists. The guilt of enjoying anything after loss. Of spending money on joy. Of making plans. The guilt of stepping away from grief for even a moment.

I worry sometimes that people might look at my theatre trips or my travels or my quirky stays and think I’m running away, mistake me for someone who is strong or brave, or even think I’ve moved on. But I’m not any of those things. I’m – painfully – learning to live alongside something that will never leave me. I’m learning to let myself have moments where grief slides to the side, not because I’m trying to outrun it, but because I’m trying to survive it.

Escapism of this type isn’t a betrayal of grief. It’s a kindness to myself. It’s trying to make the most of my life and to honour the person I lost. A way of remembering that I’m still here, still capable of joy, still capable of curiosity, still capable of being moved by stories and landscapes and small pockets of magic.

And July, with its shows and its travel and its gentle experiments in breathing, reminded me that I’m allowed to seek those moments. I’m allowed to step into someone else’s story so I can keep writing my own. So let me tell you more about it.  

Another Month of Shows

As I mentioned above, July brought with it another little flurry of theatre. When I say I’ve been purposefully leaning into the escapism of live performance, this set of seven mini reviews is the proof: a warm evening at London’s famous outdoor theatre, my first ever BBC Prom in the Royal Albert Hall, a couple of West End spectacles, a brand‑new musical that’s instantly become one of my all‑time favourites, and a local amateur production that punched well above its weight. Some serious, some silly, some neon‑bright, some quietly powerful – all of them excellent. Each one was a small gift to myself: a couple of hours of storytelling, sound, and that wonder I yearn for.

Here’s my selection of mini reviews for July, shared in the order I saw each production.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream: Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre, London

There was something magical about watching A Midsummer Night’s Dream under an open sky, and Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre felt almost purpose‑built for it. This production struck a beautiful balance between Shakespeare’s original text and a handful of modern touches that made the whole thing feel fresh without ever tipping into gimmick. The live folk music threaded through the show added a lovely sense of whimsy, and the cast – agile, inclusive, and clearly having a wonderful time – brought a real vibrancy to the forest’s chaos.

Mary Malone’s Helena was the standout for me. She delivered every line with such emotional clarity and comic precision that I found myself watching her even when she wasn’t the focus of the scene. Her physicality, timing, and sheer presence made Helena feel both hilariously exasperated and deeply human.

The whole evening felt like the perfect marriage of play and place. As the sun dipped and the stage lights warmed, the world of the lovers and fairies settled naturally into the park’s greenery. It was escapism in its purest form: a couple of hours where the outside world softened, replaced by mischief, magic, and a reminder of how joyful Shakespeare can be when handled with care.

Jesus Christ Superstar: The London Palladium

This revival of Jesus Christ Superstar at the London Palladium was a full‑throttle rock opera from the moment the band kicked in. The sound was enormous – the kind that vibrates through your chest – and the ensemble moved with such precision and electricity that they felt like a single organism. It’s rare to see a cast so tightly in sync, especially in a show that demands this level of stamina, but they never let the energy dip for a second.

Sam Ryder’s Jesus was a fascinating mix of ethereal vocals and raw emotional intensity. His high register was genuinely breathtaking, even if a couple of moments showed the strain of a long run. The audience didn’t seem to mind; at one point we erupted into an ovation mid‑show so loud my Apple Watch’s noise alarm suggested everyone should calm down a little. Judas and Pilate were both superb, and Richard Armitage’s Herod was a delight.

This production leans hard into the rock‑concert aesthetic with lights and smoke, and uses guitars and mics with long cables as part of the story – but it never loses the story’s emotional core. It’s bold, loud, unapologetically dramatic, and swept me up and held me there until the end. A real treat.

Beetlejuice: Prince Edward Theatre, London

Beetlejuice is exactly what it promises to be: neon‑soaked chaos wrapped in a musical theatre bow. It’s silly, loud, knowingly ridiculous, and absolutely committed to its own madness. The production leans into the cartoonish aesthetic with gusto with bright colours, sharp humour, and a score that bounces between mischief and mayhem. A couple of songs are genuinely catchy, and the cast clearly revels in the freedom to be as unhinged as the material allows.

There are flashes of modern‑world commentary woven through the absurdity, which gives the show a little more texture than you might expect. But mostly, it’s about fun. Big, messy, unapologetic fun. The audience the night I went was wildly lively; cheering, reacting, occasionally forgetting that a theatre auditorium is not the place for full‑volume conversations. At times their energy added to the experience; at others it pulled focus. But that’s the risk with shows that attract a fandom‑heavy crowd.

Still, it’s hard not to enjoy yourself. Beetlejuice is escapism in its purest form: a couple of hours of nonsense that lets you switch off your brain and just go along for the ride. Not profound, not life‑changing, but absolutely entertaining.

Black Dyke Prom: BBC Proms at the Royal Albert Hall, London

There’s a particular kind of nostalgia that comes with hearing a brass band in full flight, and the Black Dyke Prom tapped straight into it. ‘Once a bando, always a bando’ proved true the moment the first notes rang out across the Royal Albert Hall. The programme was varied and engaging, showcasing the band’s technical brilliance and the kind of ensemble precision that only decades of heritage can produce.

They played with warmth, clarity, and a real sense of pride – and yes, of course Brassed Off made an appearance, much to the delight of the audience. Sitting in the Rausing Circle gave me a gorgeous vantage point; the hall’s acoustics wrap around you in a way that feels almost physical. It’s been a while since I’ve seen live music at RAH, and I’d forgotten how special the space is. There’s something about that vast dome and the glow of the stage that makes even the quietest moments feel grand.

This Prom wasn’t flashy or experimental; it was simply excellent musicianship delivered with heart. A reminder of how powerful live music can be, and how comforting it is to return to something familiar and beautifully done. I have two more Proms booked this season, and can’t wait.

Hot Mess: The Other Palace, London

Hot Mess is one of those unexpected gems that sneaks up on you. A one‑act musical that compares humanity’s relationship with the Earth to a chaotic love affair shouldn’t work as well as it does, but somehow it lands perfectly. The writing is sharp, funny, and surprisingly tender, weaving environmental themes through a story that feels both intimate and universal.

The two performers carry the entire show, and they do so with remarkable chemistry. Their delivery is playful one moment and devastating the next, shifting tone with ease. The music is clever and well‑crafted, supporting the narrative without overwhelming it, and the staging keeps things dynamic despite the compact format.

What struck me most was how accessible it felt. The show doesn’t lecture; it invites. It uses humour and heart to make its point, and the result is something genuinely engaging. I left feeling entertained, thoughtful, and slightly in awe of how much can be achieved in under 90 minutes.

If you can catch Hot Mess this summer, do. It’s smart, warm, and wonderfully performed – I hope it gets a life after its current run at The Other Palace.

Sweeney Todd: The Rep Birmingham

Sweeney Todd at The Rep was, in a word, dark – but it was the kind of darkness that feels deliberate, crafted, and strangely satisfying. This production leaned fully into the grit and grime of the story, stripping away any lingering traces of melodrama and replacing them with something far more grounded. The staging was stark and atmospheric, using shadow and space to build tension rather than relying on spectacle. It made Fleet Street feel claustrophobic, dangerous, and unsettling in all the right ways.

The cast delivered performances that felt sharp and emotionally charged. Todd himself was played with a brooding intensity that never tipped into caricature, and Mrs Lovett’s blend of humour and desperation added a welcome layer of complexity. The ensemble moved with purpose, creating a sense of constant unease, as if the whole world of the play was teetering on the edge of something terrible.

The score, as always, did much of the heavy lifting. Sondheim’s music cleverly balances horror with beauty. It’s not an easy watch, nor is it meant to be. But it was compelling, atmospheric, and executed well. A production that stayed with me long after I left the theatre.

Come from Away: Promenade Productions at Everyman Theatre, Cheltenham

I booked this amateur production of Come From Away on the enthusiastic recommendation of friends and colleagues who insisted I’d think it was professional. They were right – astonishingly right. Promenade Productions delivered a show that was as close to professional quality as I’ve ever seen from a community company, and at times it genuinely rivalled a West End company.

The magic of Come From Away lies in its humanity, and this cast captured that beautifully. Every performer brought sincerity to their role, shifting effortlessly between characters with the kind of precision and warmth that makes the show’s storytelling so special. The musical numbers were tight, energetic, and full of emotion; ‘Welcome to the Rock’ in particular landed with a punch that rippled through the audience.

What impressed me most was the care in the details; the accents, the physicality, the humour, the stillness. The band was excellent, the pacing spot‑on, and the staging well designed. It felt like a community telling a story about community, which is exactly what Come From Away should be. I left feeling uplifted, moved, and genuinely amazed by the quality of what I’d just seen. A fantastic production in every sense.

To Stavanger for a Hike

This little adventure began, as some might say many good adventures do, in the middle of a woodland…

Jenny and I were wandering through the trees a couple of months ago, on a walk to see bluebells, when she said, almost off‑handedly, “There’s this hike in Norway I really want to do”. And that was that. A seed planted, a plan formed, and suddenly we were on our way to Stavanger for a long weekend that turned out to be exactly the kind of escape my brain has been craving.

The hike in question was to Preikestolen – Pulpit Rock. It’s one of those places that’s famous for a reason. Featured in almost every magazine article and blog about Norway, you see the photos and assume they must be exaggerated, filtered, impossibly dramatic. And then you stand there yourself, looking out over Lysefjord, and realise the photos don’t even come close. The views are among the best I’ve ever seen: vast, bright, properly spectacular.

We caught the bus from Stavanger centre out to the trail head, armed with Narvesen sandwiches and suncream, excited to tackle the 8km-there-and-back trail to the legendary rocky ledge. The trail up was a joy in its own right, shifting from forest to meadow to stone steps to open rock, each section offering something new. There was even a troll bridge!

Yes, it was busy, but not the chaos I’d imagined, just lots of people quietly sharing the same sense of awe. A collective breath held at one of Norway’s most iconic viewpoints. It was absolutely the perfect excuse for a trip. I even bought the tshirt!

Make it a Long Weekend

The rest of the weekend was a patchwork of small delights. We explored Stavanger’s colourful streets, wandered beaches, and ate more cardamom buns than I’m willing to admit. We made chocolate trolls (as you do), found ourselves in front of some wonderfully weird art, learnt about oil and sardines, and watched the locals go absolutely football mad (we were there when Norway made it to the semi-finals of the World Cup). There was a sauna, a spa, and the kind of easy friendship that makes even the quiet moments feel full. My head came home buzzing with new stories; my camera roll overflowing with snapshots of joy.

What struck me most was how gentle the whole trip felt. Not gentle in the sense of slow or restful, as we packed plenty in, but gentle in the way it held space for both wonder and grief. Travel doesn’t erase anything; it just shifts the weight a little. Standing on that cliff, walking those trails, laughing over pastries, I carried grief with me as always. But it felt different there. Less suffocating. Less sharp. Being in Norway was a reminder that the world is still enormous and beautiful, even when your own life feels small and heavy.

Jenny and I left already plotting our next trip to this stunning country. I think we might be a little bit in love with Norway – its landscapes, its nature, its vibe, its legends, and its buns. And while the full story of this trip will come later, for now it’s enough to say: it was exactly the kind of escape I needed.

See You Next Time…

July ended up being a month where escapism threaded itself through almost everything I did, from the theatres I sat in to the cliff edges I stood on, from the quiet moments at home to the noisy ones in new places. Looking back now, in mid‑August, I can see how each of those experiences offered a tiny shift in perspective, a small breath of air, a reminder that stepping outside my own story for a while isn’t avoidance but survival. Theatre, travel, friendship, family: all of them gave me pockets of space where grief could loosen its grip just enough for me to feel something lighter. Not uncomplicated joy, but something close enough to keep me moving.

And this month already has its own markers of escape and curiosity. I spent a fantastic day at Wenlock Pottery trying my hand at Raku firing – a messy, fiery, unexpectedly meditative process that I can’t wait to write about properly in the next episode. There will be more theatre, of course; I seem constitutionally incapable of going a month without it now. And there was even the spectacle of a solar eclipse that swept across the sky – you can see the photos I took over on my instagram feed.

See you next time.