Lincoln's Inn

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene…

or ... Lincoln’s Inn... and a private performance for the barristers of London city. The actor’s traditional instinct to rebuke the wealthier members of the audience is reluctantly suppressed by the reminder that Shakespeare’s troupe had their patrons and one off special performances as rock stars do today, except that they get paid £20,000 a gig of course.

There’s not much optimism for the show when the camper van’s still missing in action at 6 o clock and the rain has almost fizzled out the barrister’s barbecue. But our very own Prince Hal —director Elizabeth Freestone— arrives and we gear up to put on the play for her if no-one else. The weather report proves surprisingly inaccurate and the heavens continue to pour, proving for a nice moment in the Paris/Friar scene (“For Venus smiles not in a house of tears.”)

The audience halves after the BBQ and again after the interval, but the remaining audience are ebullient and vocally supportive, despite the biblical flooding around their feet. Our dressing rooms are the swishest yet and we warm up our chilly tongues by reading from the vast library of parliamentary debates circa 1860. The rain takes its toll on the fight-scenes. My sword in the Paris/Romeo fight slips and, moving too fast across the slippery stage, I manage to get my hand chopped and my knee whacked. Mea culpa. The magic fingers of Glynn Macdonald set me right the next day. I think Friar Lawrence is suffering a back-pain from one of the Juliet lifts so hopefully she’ll see to him as well. Our battered bodies are being looked after.

A quick watery get-out and fingers crossed for Fulham.

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