Piece of Work

Firstborn, my theatre buddies and I sat with our pints, bums growing colder on the cold stone of Wapping Wharf while we chatted, considered, and watched the light on the water.

As dusk took over, we hauled ourselves up and continued our walk to the Tobacco Factory to see James Rowland's Piece of Work. His superbly crafted and performed storytellings are always about life, death, family and friendship; this one was a bit less of a pacey narrative than usual and a bit more of a meander through father-son-brother relationships, our place(s) in the world, mental health, existence and suicide, through the appropriate lens of Hamlet and using maps laid out on the stage.

At least two of us were carrying our own reflections, this week somewhat weightier than usual, on life, death, family and friendship, and I'd been concerned that it might be too much. It wasn't. We are, after all, a little older and a little more life-experienced than we were last week.

As always with James Rowland, there is no way of knowing how factually true his autobiographical narrative is but, as always, his truths are profound.

Spoiler here.

Joe Tree Day - thank you, Joe.