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Guest Commentary

Three writers in a barbershop

Part 2 of 3

Another opening, another show!

It’s been a year since I cleaned out my dressing room at the Sharon Playhouse while the crew in the theater above dismantled Ascot, Covent Garden and my precious study at 27A Wimpole St. They attacked with electric drills, saws, hammers — everything but a wrecking ball. By the time our fair ladies had washed the dirt or rouge off their faces and Pickering, Doolittle and I hung up our top hats and tails for good, it was practically all gone. Vanished. 

Fears dispelled: Mother of the bride, at last

My mother was afraid of many things. She was afraid she would get the clap from sitting on public toilets; she was afraid to serve her family underdone pork because it might poison us. Most of all, she was afraid of losing me, either to one of the many predators she was convinced roamed the streets looking for innocent children, or to some unknown, cruel twist of fate. 

Fears dispelled: Mother of the bride, at last

My mother was afraid of many things. She was afraid she would get the clap from sitting on public toilets; she was afraid to serve her family underdone pork because it might poison us. Most of all, she was afraid of losing me, either to one of the many predators she was convinced roamed the streets looking for innocent children, or to some unknown, cruel twist of fate. 

Fears dispelled: Mother of the bride, at last

My mother was afraid of many things. She was afraid she would get the clap from sitting on public toilets; she was afraid to serve her family underdone pork because it might poison us. Most of all, she was afraid of losing me, either to one of the many predators she was convinced roamed the streets looking for innocent children, or to some unknown, cruel twist of fate. 

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