Categories: uncategorized
Date: 03 July 2010 09:40:13
Sometimes life and the theatre walk hand in hand. In fact, there are times when it is difficult to tell which is which. But then, that's part of the whole point of theatre, I guess.
We had a fantastic night at the theatre last Tuesday. The Scottish Play. In all its glory. And all its gory, too... and then some. The goriest production I've seen, and one which left the Smudgelet in a state of shock, weakly saying that it was utterly fabulous and he never wanted to see it again! I'd tell you more only the run at Shakespeare's Globe theatre is not yet over and spoilers would definitely spoil it - especially if you are able to get Groundlings tickets as we did. Suffice to say, I have never felt so vulnerable and ill at ease whilst watching a play - which was, I believe, part of the desired effect.
After the play I found myself explaining to the Smudgelet about the black humour used to break the tension (and yet somehow build the tension up yet further in doing so). The porter scene in the play was especially well done... and utterly gross, yet funny.
Yesterday I found my mind sweeping back to that situation as I sat once again in a courtroom, awaiting my other son's appearance into the dock at the back. It's horrible, actually, the tension in the courtroom as I wait. The lawyers and Youth Offending Team are all re-reading their documents in preparation, the judge is sitting with a look of studied boredom which I think they all assume with their wig and gown whilst getting ready for the session, and I am sitting there in the public gallery with my back to the dock, only able to see my son if I turn round to look.
There was the sound of the key in the door as the escorting officers brought my boy up from the cells. I turned to look, unsure how to react when I saw him, as once again a smile and a wave seemed somewhat inappropriate but an impassive reaction would hardly be the comfort I wanted my presence to be. (No matter what he's done, he's still my son and I still love him, however ashamed and concerned I might be, and when my sister asked whether the journey to the courtroom and the stress and tension was worthwhile "just for that one glimpse of him", she hit the nail on the head... it was).
So there we sat. The key rattled again in the door. Nothing. Hmmm... The clerk went to the door from the our side to see what the problem was and we heard his anxious whisper at the keyhole: "What do you mean, it's the wrong key?" Yes, that's right. They couldn't actually get into the courtroom.
It was quite funny, in a macabre sort of way, to watch the legal folks battling hard against the giggles. (There was a bit of even blacker humour involved which I can't share, but which struck me as rather sickly amusing too but giggling wasn't really appropriate at that moment, or any moment really). The judge should have had a medal for his ability to retain his composure and remain looking intently bored with the whole procedings. But it was an interesting five minutes, listening to them trying a series of keys from the other side of the door as we waiting for my boy to make his entrance. The whole experience was, as last time, completely surreal.
So, my diary now contains another date for a day out and another glimpse of my son as the judge makes his final decision. Then another two months before I can put my arms round him (my son, not the judge) and hold him tight for a few moments before getting down to the business of hearing where he is to move to next.
Seems far less real than watching three witches circling a cauldron.