Last night’s reading material was King Lear which, I just remembered, was weakly punned by Morrissey for King Leer, a track from his transitional 1991 album, Kill Uncle.
Tonight, I am burying my head in Hamlet. I wrote a manic, slightly unsuccessful seven-minute adaptation for a comic revue ten years ago. I resurrected and rewrote it three years ago for a different comic revue; it worked far better the second time round.
Madness and the ghost of my father have preoccupied my thoughts the last few days, which may explain a subconscious decision to return to these plays, instead of finishing off the latest Terry Pratchett, or re-re-re-re-reading Michael Symmons Roberts’ brand new collection, Drysalter. If the prospect of discovering what’s inside poems with such titles as Hymn to a Rollercoaster, A Plate for a Face, What the Night Told Me, and The Fortune-Telling Rabbits of Istanbul doesn’t have you doing whatever it is you do when you are in a frenzy of anticipation... well, then.