Open Writing

'I'm playing Macbeth next week,' he says, sipping coffee at the kitchen table.

She sits down opposite him. 'Hm, let's hope you win,' she jokes.

'It's only a university production,' he says, 'but even so - '

'Well, Macbeth isn't too long, is it? Not like Hamlet, which goes on for hours, thanks to that prince of whingers.'

This shocks him. What right has she to say it? How much does she know about Hamlet? Or about Shakespeare in general, for that matter?

He asks, 'Have you read A C Bradley?'

'Never heard of him, assuming it's a him ... People shouldn't be allowed to hide behind their initials, should they? I mean, look at J K Rowling.'

He stares at her. 'Well,' he says, 'I'm beginning to wonder who you are.'

'You know who I am,' she snaps. 'I'm Anthea, the barmaid at the Crown.'

'Yes, only teasing ... Did I invite you here last night?'

'No, but I helped to get you home and you kept asking me to stay.'

'Really? And what happened?'

'Well, obviously I stayed - but nothing happened. You didn't take much fending off, the state you were in ... Anyway, you've got to lecture this morning, on the author of Lolita, or so you told me ... I must say you don't look in any condition to face an audience ... Where are your notes, uh?'

'Hey, how do you know I've got notes?'

'Because you read the naughty bits out to me in the pub last night.'

He stands up, swaying a little. 'Really? And did I impress you, my dear?'

'Not likely ... Lechers - oops, sorry, lecturers - are two a penny to me.'