Bao, our (canine) host Chester, and me.
Although it called itself a Bed and Breakfast, Sally’s Place in Stratford was more like a self-contained apartment. The Old Bank House, however, is a true B&B, and I’m amazed at how easily Bao has adjusted to the idea that one of the rooms belongs to us, and the rest of the rooms and the downstairs belong to other people.
It’s been very hot and humid here. I heard a couple from Florida muttering that they might as well have stayed home. But if you cross the street to the park and sit in the pagoda, there’s always a lovely breeze off the lake.
Bao and I saw Arms and the Man yesterday. It was an excellent production, despite the fact that Shaw himself apparently intended the play to be a tragic-comedy, rather than a comedy. After its first performance in 1894, he wrote “I had the curious experience of witnessing an apparently insane success, with the actors and actresses almost losing their heads with the intoxication of laugh after laugh, and of going before the curtain to thunderous applause, the only person in the theatre who knew that the whole affair was a ghastly failure.”
That must be so frustrating.
An intensive theatre-going experience like this (nine plays in less than a fortnight) does make you realise how much the impact of any theatrical piece is determined by the performers, designers and directors rather than the actual playwright. Is this as it should be? Or should a play remain true to its creator’s intent? More to the point, does the creator always know what he (or she) is creating? I’ve just finished writing a novel that’s turned out quite differently from what I expected. I’m thrilled with the way it’s ended up, but even so, it’s not what I thought I was going to write.
Bao says I worry too much.
Yesterday was George Bernard Shaw’s 150th birthday. Today it’s Bao’s turn. He’s seven years old.
If I can find a butcher’s shop, I’ll buy him a bone.
Or a doggy chocolate, from Barkery and Fitz.