23rd October 2015
I was hoping for a contrast to the Globe’s very traditional staging, and boy did I get it in spades. I don’t know if the production came with an adult content warning, but I felt like it should have done – if only because it took all the sex so much more seriously…
I gave blood earlier this week. Don’t worry – I’m not about to go all Titus Andronicus on you and mention all the times Shakespeare talks about blood – life is too short and I tend to get light-headed just looking at my own donation*. I was just lying there, musing on how odd it was to, you know, undergo pain and some prolonged discomfort to help strangers. How great altruism is**. And how profoundly undramatic it is.
I had a wonderful, unexpectedly quiet day on Friday, waiting for something to be delivered. The last time I was at home, the peace was somewhat disturbed by a neighbour practising his trumpet – The Entertainer and Christmas carols. In September. This time, perhaps helped by the fact it was cold enough not to have the windows open, I basked in glorious silence.
Hello, my name is Desperately Seeking Cymbeline and my greatest nightmare is Henry VIII. Not the man himself, although let’s face it he is the stuff of the worst, cheese-and-chocolate fever dreams that you ever woke up from screaming, but the play.