Heather Evans Editorial

Sat in front of my screen right now, I’m worried that all I am going to type is an absolute brain fart. Funnily enough, even getting the energy of that sentence from my head, down my arms and then through my fingertips felt like it was a strain upon my delicate state. Can I have a break yet? Too soon?…

I am absolutely knackered, and there are three main reasons for this.

The first one is Stratford-Upon-Avon. As an English Literature grad, going to Shakespeare’s hometown has never ceased to mystify me. The first time I went was with my school to see Anthony and Cleopatra, and the venue and performance itself was an enchanting and illuminating experience. Set in Haiti rather than in Egypt, with Anthony being an English, colonising soldier in love with the enigmatic, Haitian Cleopatra, it made me think of Shakespeare in a completely different light. It pushed me to think alternatively about different and unconventional ways that Shakespeare could be directed, and in turn positively influenced my analysis at university. The trip made me realise Shakespeare is not dated, boring or irrelevant, but timeless, captivating and pertinent for all ages. Ever since then, the RSC has held a special place in my literary heart.

Towards the end of last year, in the midst of graduate depression and the mounting doom of unemployment, my twin sister and I decided to book a trip so we had something to look forward to as we waded through the cloud of failed expectations. At the time we shared a bedroom, a bed, a wardrobe, and overall each other’s space. We are identical twins, so it isn’t like we share enough already. We needed to get out and feel like ourselves again, remembering why we enjoy the arts enough to study and commit our career paths to it.

Note – you should check out my sister’s blog as well; she is as literary as she is foodie > doublepaigespread.wordpress.com.

In our shared double bed, while browsing on our identical red HP laptops we got for our 16^th birthday (how vintage), we decided to book to see Shakespeare’s supernatural and psychological thriller Macbeth. This was a unanimous choice as it is Paige’s favourite play, but also because Christopher Eccleston was playing the crazed, malevolent Macbeth and Niamh Cusack was his counterpart – the unsexed and relentless monster, Lady Macbeth.

What. A. Cast.

Nothing beats the touching feeling you get when you physically visit the houses and walk the streets of Shakespeare’s world; the birthing place of iconic plots and characters that have crucially shaped our country’s culture as well as the literary canon.  The day with my sister was pure magic. We visited Nashe’s House, perused the Chaucer second-hand book shop, educated ourselves at Halls Croft and had a drink with one of my old lecturers. It was 10/10.

The performance was grotesque, chilling and an utter rapture from its haunting beginning to its spellbinding end.  This performance focused primarily on the theme of time; how time passes, drags, repeats and snags. The staging was stark and simplistic, and its nakedness made the setting feel like an eerie apocalyptic wasteland. At momentous points, significant lines of foreboding were echoed as a projector boldly spread key quotes across a screen above the stage, displaying the words of the witches’ prophecy as a tattoo in Macbeth’s consciousness. However, the best performances and most effective directorial choice came from casting the witches as three, seemingly innocent, little girls. Saying the iconic lines in unison reminded me of creepy playground rhymes sung in the horror film A Nightmare on Elm Street, and it was truly disturbing. Suspense was skillfully built over time, but it also had the critical balance of light with dark from the strange but humorously played Porter.

The only aspect I felt was a possible negative was the use of a digital counter on stage. The counter, set off by the Porter, counted downwards from two hours until Macbeth’s death, resetting dramatically as Malcolm becomes King, with Fleance and the witches’ appearing on stage to signifying how Banquo’s prophecy lives on. Personally, although I understand the counter was displaying Macbeth’s limited time, it made me acknowledge the time I had been sat there, anticipating the interval rather than simply becoming engrossed in the performance itself. Nonetheless, it didn’t detract from the fact it was a fantastic adaptation.

My main point is that being there really made the difference. Nothing compares to physically witnessing Shakespeare’s work in the place where he roamed and created. It’s an indescribable feeling. You feel like you are a part of history, and it made me feel warm in my heart and bones.

This leads me onto the second reason why I am exhausted. The day after we went to Stratford, Paige, our best friend Annie and I boarded the place for Amsterdam.

We had an absolutely brilliant trip, but my highlight was definitely going to see Anne Frank’s house. Ahead of the holiday, I had been reading Anne Frank’s diary so I could fully appreciate and understand the family members, their history, and Anne herself before entering their secret hideout. However, similar to being in Stratford, nothing compares to being within the walls of the secret annexe in which the two families lived for two terrifying years.

In her diary, Anne draws a diagram of the secret apartment behind her father’s old warehouse, but you cannot comprehend their extreme situation from some straight lines or a picture. The headset provided guides you through the warehouse, detailing the use of all the rooms as well as explaining who their helpers on the outside were, before becoming silent to allow you to digest the bookcase that shielded the door to their secret living quarters.

I was taken completely aback. Walking through the rooms which Anne describes in her writing, you can almost hear her voice, the quarrels between the parents, and the hushed whispers and footsteps on the floorboards. In her bedroom, you can see all the movie stars she stuck on her wall to make life more bearable, and you can see the attic where she would often escape to see Peter, sharing their deepest thoughts together in the twilight. Reading her diary is entertaining and heart-breaking, but visiting the annexe where she wrote her frustrations, angst and daydreams gives her words new meaning. If you ever go to Amsterdam, you must read Anne’s dairy and visit the house. It truly puts everything you hold dear into perspective.

Finally, this come to the third reason why I feel so blooming tired.

I have given up all hot drinks.

Yep, you read that correctly.

I promise it isn’t indefinitely. I don’t think I would survive, as I am barely surviving right now. However, after realising that I drink on average about 6+ cups of tea and coffee a day, I needed to give my body a bit of a break from the obnoxious amount of caffeine I drink.

So, until I start my new job (eeek!) I am not having a caffeinated beverage. The struggle is real and I am not lying when I say that I am shaking due to withdrawal symptoms, but I am hoping it is doing me a little bit of good…

Therefore, my recommendation this week for a hot beverage is something I am craving hugely: just a plain ole’ cup of tea. Please.

I’ll let you know how I get on. For the time being, happy reading and drinking!

Love,

Hev xo