Bottles and bottles of arachnids...

It's meant to be the tertiary text, but I have just read about twelve reviews of the Propeller Richard III I saw back in November and my eyes are beginning to go fuzzy. I'm trying to work out - because my memory has betrayed me - whose finger he bit off after killing them. It could be a couple of people (Anne? Edward?) and for each of them it would have a very different significance - and connection with The Changeling (where Deflores cuts of Piraquo's finger after killing him).

None of the reviews mention it - not even the lovely thorough ones. Some of them mention 'finger biting' but remain bloody ambiguous like an uncertain and vague bitch of research hell. Er- but yes, this Richard III business is becoming a bit of an obsession.

Also, had a moment of AHA! while reading a review on a blog. The Blog's subtitle was "The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there." and I had a nice little 'oh-ho, I know where you're coming from there, old laddy, old boy!" That quote's from The Go-Between by L.P. Hartley - actually, it's the first sentence, and all - and that gives me a sad sort of joy to have floating around in my head...

More cheerful having done excesses of research and also installing my SHINY new HiFi system, which is beautiful, and which involved me basically reorganising my room and shelving again... everything's always better when it's a bit fresher, I think. Have also moved the MASS of tickets and posters and notes and whatnot from my pinboard (it was becoming painfully close to collapsing everywhere) and made it all into a montage on my wall.

That's all for now - I love that I have five or so more solid days to dilly-dally and over-complicate this essay. Hurrah!

Oooh, bonus anecdote! I was faffing about in the bathroom looking for something in the cupboards and found that my uncle had left us a gift in one of them. Delightful! I hear you cry - What a nice man to do such a thing. Yes, yes, if it had been a bath bomb, or a necklace or something other than a dead, moldy mouse and its brother's skull I would have been overjoyed. Unfortunately not. You may be surprised to hear that I was not surprised by this and simply held my breath and went to inform the parentfolk. I blame tradition - a rather longstanding one which I may properly explain in another blog, at another time, when my eyes aren't eroded by Dicky 3 reviews.

Nanight, lovelies xx

Stranded at school

I am stranded at school. "Why?" you may ask with great concern, to which I would eloquently reply, "Because I am being cultural."

Tonight I am going to the theatre to see Translations, a piece about Gaelic signposting or some such excitement. In order for this to happen, however, I have to hang around at school - supposedly doing work - until the bus arrives. Joy of eternal joys.

Good thing there are bookshelves, I think.

We are the stars' tennis balls...

Thursday saw the trip to see the Duchess of Malfi at the Royal with schulefolk. This involved a combination of new experiences, several of which I shall elaborate on, here:

The first of these was being driven by Jess. Jess being the sort of person who, now she has the ability to drive, wants to drive all the time, almost as though simply to prove she can, has been offering lifts left, right and centre over the past few months, but this was the first time I had taken her up on the offer. Luckily she was also picking Ellie up, so the hurdle of her finding her way to my house was easily jumped. Getting to the theatre itself, however, was another kettle of fish.

Now, not being a qualified driver myself, it is probably not my place to say, but I don't think I've ever been driven by someone so inclined to shouting while driving. Some drivers shout abuse from their windows, others tell their passengers to pipe down, some even shout at the radio as they drive, but Jess, Jess shouted at her car, or herself, or both. Though her driving itself was impeccable (this coming from a girl who thought she had broken the thing after stalling twice in as many minutes) the scenario itself was pretty amusing.

The second new occurrence, which made me feel (rightly) like one on the cusp of adulthood, was the opportunity of sidling up to the bar and asking, suave as you like, whether I could please order some drinks to be delivered at the interval. Sure, I didn't request champagne on ice, or a half-crate of cordon blanc, but it felt dashed professional getting a reciept and later coming out of a packed theatre to find my coke, ice and lemon-slice awaiting me. :D

The play itself was pretty darned good. Very religious, very symbolic and quite dramatic to boot! There were bits of Caravaggio painting here and there, and a little group of singers chucking madrigals left right and centre - my favourite of which was the counter-tenor (i.e. practically castrati man) who could sing higher than I've ever seen a man sing in my life. The chaps playing Bosola and Ferdinand were fairly dashing, and ridiculously tall, and the acting was superb, even if they did fluff the occasional like (*cough*Duchess*cough*)

Overall, though, beautiful - I have had Morro Lasso in my head ever since, and now have the really amusing image of Georgie dressed as the pope, as per her plan for my birthday shindig.