Irony

Irony is buying The Communist Manifesto at a bookshop, and the cashier having trouble because the capitalist barcode machine won’t scan it in.  This actually happened.  And I don’t even believe in communism either.  Which makes me wonder why I bought it – impulse buy, perhaps.  Damn all that capitalistic advertising.

Also in my biodegradable shopping bag was Plays by Anton Chekhov – I have read none of his plays, nor have I seen any of them.  Yes, I know, a budding playwright who hasn’t even read Chekhov?  Don’t worry, I’ll just go lynch myself now to save you all the trouble (I can use my specially made Chekhov’s gun to help with the process.)

Making up the third book is An Inspector Calls and Other Plays by J. B. Priestly.  I saw An Inspector Calls when it was at the Lyric Theatre in Star City (if ever there was a theatre made for the small and intimate play it is the Lyric Theatre, yes?  No.)  Still, it was enjoyable, as was the “whole house being tilted up on hydraulics” effect, and the constant rain/fog as well.  All very spooky/moody/misty/wet.  Like Singin’ in the Rain except with suicide and secrets.  And no music.  Or joy.

Exams are over, so writing can begin once more.  Bring it on, Act Two.  Bring.  It.  On.