Lest I Forget
All right--I hereby resolve to do better about updating this journal, since my efforts to keep a paper log of my adventures have failed miserably. And this is definitely a good day to begin.
On Saturday morning, Tina, Aimee, Kim, and I left bright and early to hop a train to Stratford-upon-Avon. (Just bright and early enough, actually--we nearly missed it, which would have been tragic.) Our mission was to enjoy a double feature at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre: Richard III as a matinee and the infamous Titus Andronicus in the evening.
The wonders began with a picnic lunch beside the Avon (perhaps not quite so picturesque as it sounds, as I was eating cold pizza out of a tupperware container.) But we had ducks and geese and swans for company, who swarmed around us a bit menacingly, and the swans ate pizza crust out of my hand. They're rather mean little buggers, really.
Then there was Richard, who was (not surprisingly) evil, adorable, and bizarrely sexy. He wiped his face and then licked his hand when Lady Anne spat on him. Mmmmm. It's so hard not to root for him in that play. So what if he murders innocent children? The poor crippled man just wants to be king! Is that so much to ask?
After the show, we got dinner at the Dirty Duck pub--apparently a popular hangout for the actors, though alas, we saw none. (Yet.) I ordered bangers and mash (ah, that's sausages and mashed potatoes for the uninitiated--very English) and tea to keep me awake for Titus, which was probably not necessary. The pub was delightful--a real fire, cozy booths, and Shakespearean quotes all over the walls. We amused ourselves playing "Which Character Would You Rather?". (Some examples for those of you who wish to ponder: Hamlet or Mercutio? Oberon or Puck? Edmund or Iago? Romeo or Horatio? Brutus or Cassius?)
Then there was Titus. It starred none other than DAVID BRADLEY of Harry Potter fame. And oh, was it a ride. Aaron the Moor was an unparalleled bastard and sex god. Tamora was wild and frightening. Saturninus bore a very strong resemblance to John Hurt's Caligula of "I, Claudius," which was delightful. Titus himself was alternately funny and entirely pitiful, which he should be. But all the rape and murder and mutilation and cannibalism left us considerably shaky.
But not nearly as shaky as we were about to become. We learned that we were welcome to wait outside the stage door to MEET THE ACTORS after the show. It was cold and rainy, and so only we poor freaks, two of us in blue velvet cloaks, came out and stayed to wait. Our chilledness and dampness were not in vain. We met David Bradley. We talked to him. We shook his hand. We got his autograph. Oh my God. I MET ARGUS FILCH! (Mrs. Norris was nowhere to be seen.)
The rest of the trip is anticlimactic, though not much less wonderful. The following morning, after a restful night at the Stratford youth hostel, we got up and walked in an old country churchyard--appropriate for All Souls' Day. (Un?)fortunately, the heavens opened up, and we got soaked. We finally caught the bus to get back into town, looking extremely bedraggled--I felt very Marianne Dashwood. Perhaps I will get consumption!
The weather shifted once again just as we stepped off the bus, and as we walked back along the Avon, past the old Tudor buildings, the sunlight streamed through the autumn trees by the river, and a church began a joyful bell peal. I was in awe. I am at home.
Last, but not least, we made brass rubbings--I did one of my noble ancestor Robert the Bruce! He looks pretty good, if I do say so myself. Then it was back to the train station and back to friendly old Reading, with not a single mishap.
I have come to the belief that all the forces of the universe conspire to make my life perfect.
On Saturday morning, Tina, Aimee, Kim, and I left bright and early to hop a train to Stratford-upon-Avon. (Just bright and early enough, actually--we nearly missed it, which would have been tragic.) Our mission was to enjoy a double feature at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre: Richard III as a matinee and the infamous Titus Andronicus in the evening.
The wonders began with a picnic lunch beside the Avon (perhaps not quite so picturesque as it sounds, as I was eating cold pizza out of a tupperware container.) But we had ducks and geese and swans for company, who swarmed around us a bit menacingly, and the swans ate pizza crust out of my hand. They're rather mean little buggers, really.
Then there was Richard, who was (not surprisingly) evil, adorable, and bizarrely sexy. He wiped his face and then licked his hand when Lady Anne spat on him. Mmmmm. It's so hard not to root for him in that play. So what if he murders innocent children? The poor crippled man just wants to be king! Is that so much to ask?
After the show, we got dinner at the Dirty Duck pub--apparently a popular hangout for the actors, though alas, we saw none. (Yet.) I ordered bangers and mash (ah, that's sausages and mashed potatoes for the uninitiated--very English) and tea to keep me awake for Titus, which was probably not necessary. The pub was delightful--a real fire, cozy booths, and Shakespearean quotes all over the walls. We amused ourselves playing "Which Character Would You Rather?". (Some examples for those of you who wish to ponder: Hamlet or Mercutio? Oberon or Puck? Edmund or Iago? Romeo or Horatio? Brutus or Cassius?)
Then there was Titus. It starred none other than DAVID BRADLEY of Harry Potter fame. And oh, was it a ride. Aaron the Moor was an unparalleled bastard and sex god. Tamora was wild and frightening. Saturninus bore a very strong resemblance to John Hurt's Caligula of "I, Claudius," which was delightful. Titus himself was alternately funny and entirely pitiful, which he should be. But all the rape and murder and mutilation and cannibalism left us considerably shaky.
But not nearly as shaky as we were about to become. We learned that we were welcome to wait outside the stage door to MEET THE ACTORS after the show. It was cold and rainy, and so only we poor freaks, two of us in blue velvet cloaks, came out and stayed to wait. Our chilledness and dampness were not in vain. We met David Bradley. We talked to him. We shook his hand. We got his autograph. Oh my God. I MET ARGUS FILCH! (Mrs. Norris was nowhere to be seen.)
The rest of the trip is anticlimactic, though not much less wonderful. The following morning, after a restful night at the Stratford youth hostel, we got up and walked in an old country churchyard--appropriate for All Souls' Day. (Un?)fortunately, the heavens opened up, and we got soaked. We finally caught the bus to get back into town, looking extremely bedraggled--I felt very Marianne Dashwood. Perhaps I will get consumption!
The weather shifted once again just as we stepped off the bus, and as we walked back along the Avon, past the old Tudor buildings, the sunlight streamed through the autumn trees by the river, and a church began a joyful bell peal. I was in awe. I am at home.
Last, but not least, we made brass rubbings--I did one of my noble ancestor Robert the Bruce! He looks pretty good, if I do say so myself. Then it was back to the train station and back to friendly old Reading, with not a single mishap.
I have come to the belief that all the forces of the universe conspire to make my life perfect.