I swear I remember writing something yesterday... but it's not on my computer today. I think that, although I had a good long rest, my tiny-weeny laptop was out on the razz without me. I was achingly erudite and entertaining yesterday. Today, in the drizzle of the Pleasance Courtyard, I am feeling more prosaic. I can only apologise, dear reader.
Our lovely audience yesterday was the quietest we have ever encountered. Martin and I, I fear, have careered off on our own particular line of... er... I'm not sure. This was illustrated very clearly to me yesterday as over the gorgeous silence of the audience I could hear the technician (yet another of Martin's roles) giggling, and then stifling the giggle, at our fantastic gags about my sister's murder. Mum was mystified when I told her that there were virtually no chuckling from the audience – she laughed like a drain virtually throughout when she saw the show. Just because it was her daughter who was doing a show about her other's daughter's murder, she knew all the stories, and would start, together with one of my aunts, laughing at the beginning of the anecdotes. You know those people: they attend Tom Stoppard plays and laugh as the auditorium lights go down and don't stop until it's over. Know-ing, as they are: yes, yes, they know how Tom thinks, all his gags, so obvious to them.
Well, laughter about all of this has become so natural to us, and Martin, that we are surprised when others don't laugh at our death-gags. But we are delighted that people come and have their own experience, whatever the decibelage of that experience.
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