A day off in Stratford. What is this town?
There’s a little weekend market just outside my door. Lots of stalls and they’ve been selling their things for decades, some of them. Catching the tourist crowds come down to the river. Selling the things they’ve worked out might get bought. But it was cold this afternoon and dark. I was wandering by as they were packing up and “at least we didn’t get wet” was the general consensus. But, winter is here whether we like it or not.
I went for pub lunch with Claire and her mum and dad. My lack of surviving parents always makes me curious about the parents of others. I love Claire’s mum and dad and they bought me lunch so I must be doing something right. We went to The Garrick. We sat just by a gargantuan bust of Shakespeare. Suddenly we are in the machine. Willy is everywhere. I wonder who supplied all these businesses with their Shakespeare paraphernalia.
Lovely roast beef, and a chilled evening and we aren’t even in until 1 tomorrow as they are gradually weaning us into our late night schedule to come. I went to Dirty Duck and caught a moment with some of the cast. Good people. Now it is early by my standards to be horizontal. But I’m thinking I’ll put my head down and have more of the mad dreams I’ve been encountering. I might be on Waterside with heavy footfall, but nothing compares to the big old road forever shouting at me in London.
I’ll be happy here I think. Old ground, old words. Only six or seven generations, but it still feels a long time ago when you consider how the world has changed. He would be horrified at the monstrous commercial vomit that has taken place in his name, but I like to think that this guy who wrote for his mates might have made sense of me. One of his mates definitely had my voice regarding death – I still forget how many people aren’t as easy with the normality of it. If we aren’t dead yet it’s just luck.
AlBarclay 