Saturday, May 9, 2009
The Shakesbard has spoken:
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players…
Yet some play better than others. Take me, for example. Yesterday I was upstaged in my own production. Called My Big Day Off, it went a little like this…
Enter Greg, whose windows will one day enlighten Yeoman’s Hut. As a cartographer, he maps the state; as a player, he scoops the pool. ‘Caversham Castle,’ he remarked when I named my domain. ‘That sounds familiar.’ Really? Had I already made a mark on his mental map?
Enter Brian, the unhappy owner of a bicycle shop. Hemmed in by a fleet of unfashionable craft, he tuned my gears. On leaving, I asked his name; he told me and added, his heartstrings unstrung, ‘I’m the only twit that’s ever here.’
Usually, Maud, I am oblivious to the motor that moves the solar system; lately, though, my sound system has taken to transmitting its unearthly hum. Enter Bill, a kindly old wizard who, wielding his soldering iron like a wand, exerts enough magic to unvoice the universe.
A day off work? Off stage, more like it.
Hair today, gone tomorrow. One day, Maud, Mother Nature will undo my golden locks and to earth they will fall. But for now even they need an occasional cut. But by whom? Enter Delilah, whose salon I was passing when the moment came. And who should she turn out to be? Why, the self-same de-Samsoniser of my very own boss.
’Tis true then, Maud, life is but a play – it is either that or pre-scripted.
Speaking of words, I am again in print, for my latest juvenile gem has hit the streets – though not, I’m afraid, without blemish. This epistle ends with the error.