Superstitions aren’t my forte usually. Assuming that little unrelated events are not only connected, but potentially foretell even greater things to come is the kind of thinking that strikes me as desperately trying to grab hold of something in life that’s missing from our everyday society. As if we are bored with the mad chaos of the universe, with the lack of barriers that prevent us from doing what we want, so we must make our own strings to dangle from, and subject ourselves to an invisible and omnipotent Nature-of-Things. When we do that, suddenly things are not only more manageable for our heads, but also more interesting, since there’s rhyme and reason to everything wherever we go now.
After more than a couple of decades of constant performances in a quaint town in Warwickshire, the Atherstone Theatre Workshop was closing down, and all of its past members were being invited for one final goodbye party. The old building where we met up on a weekly basis, a former girls school converted into a small theatre, that seated possibly 50 people at the most, was the venue for this wake.