Death has a sense of selfish humour

Writing

Curdling the hours leading up and into the day, a review of Speedy Mustard at the Stables Theatre manages to break and render itself done. Day past the actual mark of two, the groggy feeling of remembering a blank slate making things all that much harder to task.

Worse still when recollection finds nothing outstanding in the night occurring on stage. Sheer pain from blacking out and napping in the middle of the middle of the performance. From the plough of insomnia to the warmth of a hot spotlight generating a comfortable environment. Seriously detrimental to any theatre review assignment.

Soon Van - Wednesday, 3 May 2006 - 12:33

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Previous entries on Writing

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