It is not yet nightfall and the light on Stratford upon Avon is still good. There is a glow through the rain.
But you will still need your walking wits with you.
As you navigate the gigantic, clogged drain puddle that sits, that floats, like a small ocean outside the shop that is never open.
Alert. Alert.
You will need your wits to avoid the soaking. The dead drenching wet that you will get.
When waves pushed up by the wet wheels of passing vehicles freeze you to the skin and ruin the best shoes that you always wear when you go to the theatre.
Did you book a meal to burp up when seated in the auditorium because now is your chance?
For you are at the bottom, the lower end of Sheep Street.
Stratford’s street of a thousand restaurants. Some opened. Some closed.
Heed. This is where the theatre sheep eat.
Where filling faces and bellies with enough warmth and comfort to sleep as the words pass over their heads is a must and a well-measured thing.
Heed.
Never too much drink for it is you to be moved.
Not the bowel.
To piss in performance is frowned upon. Hold it in patron. Hold it in.
Satisfied. Finished.
Plates cleaned as though dish washed.
Cutlery arranged as should be.
Bill, (not William) paid.
IT IS TIME.
Time to make way to the Holy place.
Religious in repetition, repeats and regurgitation.
But you can do it. Again.
You can make yourself comfortable to hear out yet another explanation another exhortation another expiration of hot breath. It can be done.
And you can do this.
As familiar as you are with the ever-present fighting swordsmen or maybe swordswomen in disguise.
You can do this.
You may have seen the cavorting and posing in tight leather or weathered brown cloth to tell the story you already know so well.
But you can do this.
The spectacular swing down from the ramparts with yet another attempt at meaning clutched between their teeth.
You can do this.
Over and over and over again. Year after year after year.
You recognise this. You know this.
And as always you will make much of the best bits that speak to you as old friends.
And then.
The ordeal.
If ordeal it was is over.
You. We. As a body. Must advance. Retreat? To the Dirtiest of Ducks. The doctor. The curer of all ills.
Where with luck the word churn and the senses burn can be dulled with the continuous infusion of alcohol.
Have no fear.
There is a night to recover in.
The morrow will bring and you will sing.
No head. No throat.
Just a bright new day…and moments…to quote.
You can do this.
Ian Frederick Harris.
