Shakespeare smiles when I turn him in the light. Briefly we look at one another, and I turn him back, his face returning to its familiar, sombre mask. Then I pass him, a hologram in the corner of my debit card, to the cashier.
I’ve always had a problem with Shakespeare. At school, we trundled through Macbeth, which I enjoyed enough despite being a little freaked out by the Instagram-filtered, BBC/RSC adaptation. At college, we studied The Tempest, and again I was more than a little disconcerted by the green-hued Ariel, who bore more than a passing resemblance to Roman Polanski in Dance of the Vampires (and Terry Jones’ reluctant heir in Monty Python & the Holy Grail).
I even studied a Shakespeare module at university, but was distracted by the professor, who clearly modelled himself on the bard – a little pointy beard, slight mullet. The…
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