Measure for Measure

Walking along the Bank from the National Theatre to the Globe, we passed many booths and a band on a stage at one point—closer to the Globe than the former—and I believe I saw over the stage the words “Coin Street Festival.” Merchants sold jewelry, beads, a booth of books, and a few booths that had fabric things, such as bags, from Indian and Africa (I could tell by the type of fabric)—that was exciting. But we were rather in a hurry and didn’t take the time to browse. I said, “Now we know where the Floating Market is located,” referring to Neil Gaiman’s novel and miniseries Neverwhere. It comes to mind a lot, for me, since after all it takes place in London. Or perhaps I should say London Below. The Brat, instead of being amused, merely rolled her eyes and walked faster. My jokes are utterly wasted on this odious brat and I really should just keep silent around her, since all she gives me is scathing contempt. Perhaps I should make a sign that says, “Laugh” and hold it up every time she’s supposed to laugh or at least smile.

I took the trouble to go get fruit, nuts, and juice at the concession stand, and Ms. Thing is looking at a book that I bought at the Tower of London—she didn’t even ask to look at it, didn’t thank me for the food, and had the audacity to snap at me for saying, “Hey, look at that!” and turning back a page to see an illustration of a gold dragon that she didn’t even glance at. She snapped, “You can look at it later.” EXCUSE ME?! I bought the book, you didn’t ask to look at it, the least you can do is refrain from biting my head off, you evil spoiled brat.

It strikes me as rather ironic that this foul-tempered and insufferable brat actually, at lunch, apologized for her behavior from when she was a child. She hasn’t apologized for her behavior of the past week, I can’t help but notice. I have fortunately acquired a great deal of patience since that brat was a child. I suggest she do the same, unless she wants to antagonize every human with whom she spends more than two minutes.

I have several times told myself not to speak to the brat unless I have to, but then, this brat is the only person I’m with constantly, so refraining from speaking to her is certainly a challenge. Sometimes I speak stupidly—small talk—in lieu of awkward silence, and I just feel stupid when I do that—not just with this brat, but also with people in general throughout my adult life. I’ve told myself before that small talk is something I should refrain from starting. Here, the awkward silences tend to be at breakfast (perhaps from a combination of my not being a morning person and my being extremely ruffled by her evil treatment from the evening before, and I say something just to fill the silence—but I do that not only at breakfast, but here and there. I don’t know what’s the point of speaking to such an arrogant, rude and nasty brat. I no longer seriously think she’s consciously trying to ruin my first visit to London. She has, however, made it quite clear that she considers me beneath her contempt, for whatever reason.

One interesting detail I want to add: the strange sensation that you’re shaking, as if you were still on the Tube, when you’re actually standing still and haven’t been on the Tube for several hours. I’ll probably be more accustomed to it later.

Toward the end of tonight’s Globe performance of Measure for Measure, the Duke turned to the audience and asked, “Would any lady here be willing to be Lucio’s wife?” A groundling up front raised her hand, and the audience roared with laughter. The Duke informed Lucio that he would marry the lady, sort of presenting her to him, and Lucio said in horror, “I wouldn’t marry this whore!” They did a fine job of keeping this going. As, I believe, with Much Ado About Nothing, there was a dance at the end of the play accompanied by the live band, of course, and the audience soon began to clap to the music, and the dance smoothly transformed into the curtain call.

When we stepped out of the Globe gates and faced the Thames, I saw (as soon as the crowd thinned enough for me to see something other than people’s backs), the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, across the river and surrounded by a darkish blue—I almost want to say teal—sky with very dark grey, almost black, clouds. I don’t know when the sun is completely set. This dramatic view included the city lights here and there and reflected in the water.

Down the Bank, where the festival was before the play, a pretty big crowd still lurked, and we heard a steady rhythmic beat of drums—that’s how we first knew the festival wasn’t over—now a strange procession moved to the drums—it was in appearance reminiscent of a Chinese dragon. A row of drummers—with huge, black metal drums—wore strange black costumes and marched in a row, circling around and whatnot, and at the front was someone wearing this huge, elaborate black metal frame-like head—reminiscent of the mice heads in stage productions of The Nutcracker Ballet, and I think it even had glowing lights for eyes. An enthusiastic and varied crowd watched, mesmerized, and clapped to the drumming, and some people moved around a little to get out of the dancing “animal’s” way. Some spectators, a little further on, stood on park benches to watch.

In the dark, the clock face of Big Ben is lit up a glaring yellow, and while I saw it, I listened to it chime the hour of eleven pm.

Unfortunately, to mar this surreal atmosphere and lovely view, that was about when both of us suddenly realized that we had walked too far. So back to Brat grumbling and fuming as we turned around and went up a metal flight of stairs in order to reach Waterloo Station. I don’t know why the brat wastes so much energy in these childish temper tantrums when she should be enjoying the fact that we’re in a foreign country. While we’re in England, we should have as much fun as possible, but this brat for a companion makes that impossible for me, to truly enjoy my stay here as much as I should. Very, very poor choice of traveling companion, and it is all the more reason to not let it be my last visit to London.

Around the globe, people are abused, tortured, and starved, and yet this brat has temper tantrums at every opportunity and is rude and ungrateful and mean. She should be extremely grateful and consider herself lucky—we have the privilege of spending two weeks in London as tourists, two weeks that should be enjoyed and savored.