Well now. As tonight's reading drew nigh, pretty much everything that could go wrong -- short of a tornado or death -- did. Our third reader, intended to be Mr. Timmins to dear P.'s Mrs., came down with a violent stomach flu and has not been to work all week. He was unable to participate. This was a damned shame, first because he's a perfectly nice fellow, but also because he was already advertised as our only actual Englishman. I felt the loss particularly, as this not only meant I had another voice to read, but also because I had edited the piece in such a way as give Mr. & Mrs. Timmins of "A Little Dinner at the Timmins's" as much focus as I could, so that they might break up at least a little of the monotony of just me reading. With Mr. Timmins absent, that balance was lost. (Feel better soon, poor M.)
And then there is the unfortunate business of my own unhappy head. I too have been absent from work for some days. What is probably a very simple little head-cold has triggered a far less pleasant, and considerably more inconvenient recurrence of vertigo, a truly awful condition I would not wish on anyone not registered Republican and or currently kicking a dog. As a result of my own infirmity, I was forced to carry a cane, not as I might once happily have done, as an affectation appropriate to the period of the story if not altogether to a reading in a bookstore in the present day, but carry a cane I did just to keep from tumbling over between the door and my seat for the reading. Between having a cold with all the usual symptoms, including the likelihood of losing my voice at some point soon, I had also then to worry about possibly reading from what to the world might look like a stationary text but to me what at any moment might be a moving target. Not fun.
I will just here only add to these complaints, the absence of a number of our usual loyalists for this sort of thing, including, alas, my dear A. who is off in Pennsylvania with family. True, a number of good and very dear friends and coworkers came and rallied 'round us, and we did have at least a couple unfamiliar faces as well, but I did miss some of our regulars nonetheless.
Oh yeah, then there's this: in my muzzy state I brought and carefully set up my little video camera to record the proceedings, and then failed to turn it on properly, although I thought I had. These photographs then will have to constitute the entire record of the evening.
This however, while a personal loss to me as I should very much like to have had some record of Pam Cady's wonderful performance, may in the end be no great loss to literature and history. Everyone was quite kind and complimentary, but I must admit I haven't the slightest idea what kind of muddle I made of things tonight. I do remember having to save some perfectly easy lines with some clumsy improvisation, never a good thing, and I'm sure the various voices I had intended to employ for the various characters I read must all have had an unintended nasal drone in common. (I'm quite sure my accents wandered rather widely tonight.) Perhaps the failure of the video camera was a kindness to me.
Afterwards, I was treated to a birthday dinner out by my dear P. and her beloved, S. and that did me a world of good. Nothing like fried cheese, naan and lamb in a rich, almond sauce to make the world right. A good Indian dinner then, in honor of William Makepeace Thackeray, born July 18th, 1811 in Calcutta! (Wish you could have been there, at least for the pakoras. Delicious.)
No comments:
Post a Comment