Wednesday May 3rd 2023
Present: me; Gill Hunter, Sally Isdale
Thanks (albeit through clenched teeth) go to Clare for my presence on this fateful day. Having bought a ticket, she then proceeded to book a clashing holiday. I was the beneficiary. I use the term loosely!
The promise of James Norton, indeed, rather a lot of James Norton and more than hitherto seen, compelled me to London. A jolly enjoyable dinner was had, and then the play ...
Dismal, torturous, unremittingly bleak. I am baffled on so many levels: that anyone wanted to write it in the first place (if you can create a story from a blank page and give your character any life, why would it be this one?), that anyone would turn it in to a play, that anyone would think "yep, that's a play and a story I think it's worth getting my tackle out for" and that it got a standing ovation at the end.
I am sure the performances were fine but everything else, horrible.
