Many years ago, when knee high to a giant, I spent a good chunk of my time doing youth theatre. I worked with an excellent one in Cornwall, where I met some of my longest-standing friends. I set a small one up in North Norfolk. And I did a few plays at uni… And then it all ground to a halt.
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If Bluebeard was Lear, and Cordelia was Cinderella, or vice versa, and you added in some iron shoes, metamorphoses, the worship of stellar bodies, and then wrapped the whole thing up in a sort of para-parable about the nature of, and boundaries between, faith, fate, fidelity and trust (not to mention love, or perhaps better Love), then you would start to get an idea of what Dove and Middleton’s The Enchanted Pig is about.
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How could I miss it? Shazz as Bottom was absolutely splendid. And keeps my theatre tally up, which is all to the good.
Now I just need a new car, a spare couple of hundred thousand quid for gifts, a place in the country and a couple of labradors and I’ll be practically Chelsea material. Well. Hmm. Maybe not.
In line with previously-stated policy decision in re: theatrical shenanigans, went with S t’other night to see Into the Hoods, a hip-hop dance-based musical reworking of Sondheim, I kid you not.
Obviously hip-hop is my thing now. I am buying my spray cans this afternoon and will be practising my “tag” all afternoon in a well-ventilated area. Just as soon as I’ve done the washing.