Wednesday, day three of the Bataan Rehearsal March, we went through Act One, which is a very busy act for the women. Rather than going off to hide in the lunch area, I stayed in the "backstage" area of the rehearsal and did my best to get a little sewing in (though I was very distracted by the presence of Eragon, the children's fantasy book I started on the way home - the horrible, horrible Mariner's traffic gave me plenty of time to bury myself in it). This meant I got the chance to admire "Mr. Bunthorne" as he sang his silly song about "an attachment a la Plato for a bashful young potato," carrying around a genuine spud with Mr. Potato Head facial gear, with two rubber carrots on his fingers so that he could mime taking him for a walk down Picadilly.
During a moment of silliness, I imagined the competing poets, Bunthorne and Grosvenor, as Trent Reznor and Robert Smith, then (of course) started re-writing all of the songs in my head as if it was a big Goth production (as the forces of industrial and synth-goth faced off). With my reputation (and skill!) as the Queen of Doggerel, I could probably pull it off.
Tonight, my supposed "off" night (as I had no plans after rehearsal), shadowdaddy picked me up at 9 and took me to Dilettante, where we drank port and split a deliciously rich and creamy sundae (and visited with each other and enjoyed each other's company). I also cheated and bought myself a paperback edition of Perdido Street Station at Bailey Coy. Maybe I'll finally finish it now that I have my own copy.