We went to see Richard II at the Globe theatre, in London.
I don’t understand how Shakespeare can make so much sense, four hundred years later. I wasted time. Now doth time waste me. In the interval we debated why Richard resigned – overheard other people doing the same thing.
Last January we saw Henry IV part I and II at the Barbican – it came as a nice surprise to me that the chap who appears in the play we saw today as Hereford, and then as Bolingbroke, is Henry IV.
It would be great to watch the whole series of history plays from Richard II to Richard III with overlapping actors, and then go on to Wolf Hall and Bring up the bodies.
(Someone should fill the gap of Henry VII. The Winter King, by Thomas Penn, is a great book about him.)
(Apparently when George RR Martin, the author of the Game of thrones, goes to book signings, he gets booed. He’s 66, not so young any more, he should be focussing writing the next volume. I feel a bit the same about Hilary Mantel. Short stories about Margaret Thatcher? I feel like saying to her, reproachfully.)