My friend is 100 years old. Recently she was talking about Agatha Christie’s play The Mousetrap, fretting because she couldn’t remember what happens in it. So I downloaded it on my phone and have been reading it to her. Yes, as a play, reading each role with a different voice. What do you think I am, some kind of amateur?
Last night, at a particularly suspenseful part when one character spins around and accuses another character of being the murderer, I flung my hand out dramatically, thus knocking an entire cup of vanilla Ensure all over my pants.
It’s the magic of live theatre, people.