Tuesday night, I had a play to review, called After the Dance, by Terence Rattigan (The Winslow Boy, The Browning Version). The audience was all wobbling with turgid expectation, wreathed in the smell of their expensive soap and cigars, dripping devore scarfs and knobbly amber jewellery, discussing the awfulness of theatre provision in Oxford, but the programme suggested a fine evening of comedy turns from veterans of such classics as The Bill, Absolutely Fabulous, Spaced, Robin of Sherwood... and it really was pretty good, like one of those classic technicolour romances full of lipstick and stiff upper lips and being strong even though you're falling apart. It was glamourous, and sad, and outrageous, and funny, and Damian bought me ice cream, and, at the end, when the big red velvet curtain came down, I was fully expecting swelling romantic music and the cast list in curly gold script, but instead, everyone just got up and left. The heartless fiends. (more of the same...)
Addendum: for those people who keep asking me what they should be wearing to the Rocky Horror Picture show,
a) How should I know?