Comedy of Errors

The play, thank heavens, went exceedingly well, despite the rain. The fortuitous cries of coyotes were effective: I should put them on the soundtrack. I do hope we can stage it for a wider audience.


But the anti-anti-Stratfordian rant was a palpable hit, judging by the number of people who kept buttonholing me to say how much they'd enjoyed it. "Delicious snark," as one said. I'd asked for AV help, as I had a number of slides on a thumbdrive, points that could only be made visually. For example, Alexander Waugh (grandson of Evelyn, son of Auberon) likes to draw shapes around letters:










Well, the promised AV person didn't turn up; then they sent a DVD player, which was useless; and finally, they put out an all-points bulletin. And the rescuer who came was—

Sarah Smith, a devout Oxfordian.

Bless her heart, she showed every slide without a murmur, while I mocked her dearest beliefs, relentlessly. It was an act of diplomacy unequaled in the transcripts of con history, worthy to be set with the Christmas Eve Truce.

Only afterward, she said plaintively, "But you only talked about the idiots." I thought it would be cruel to ask, "Who else is there?"

Nine