In light of yet another roasting Saturday, standing in a 500
year old, overheated room, full of reproduction Tudor beds, waiting for someone
to ask me the same question about the wallpaper that everybody asks, I have
decided to detail some of the things that have happened since I have been a
volunteer. The room in question is the ‘Birth room,’ where, it’s reputed,
Willy-pants was born. On the bed in this room, is a reproduction Tudor dress
that the Elizabethans used to make their little boys wear, as they believed the
devil killed their boy heirs. So, they dressed them like little girls and
curled their hair, until the age of five. I thought that was a harmless, interesting
fact, until a Texan lady claimed; “They were all sick fucks damaging their
young folk,” and stormed out of the house, interrupting a performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream occurring in
the Garden. Poor Bottom was terribly shocked as her considerable derriere
barged past him. Shortly afterwards another guide asked an Asian lady what her
son was called, to which she replied “Jonathan.”
“Jonathan,” screeched the guide, “but you’re Chinese?”
“I’m American” replied the, obviously offended, lady.
At that point I
started talking about the plague to lessen the tension.
It had all started off so nicely. I met a lovely sort-of
Scottish girl called Hannah on day one, and I really needed her. The Birthplace
main building is a maze, to get from reception to the main house I have to go
through 17 doors, the door that leads to the garden has ‘Cellar’ written on it,
and one of the doors says “Please open me slowly as people like to stand behind
me.” Who are these people?! Is it the angry ghost of Willy Shakespeare,
standing behind entrances to chide you at your lustful door opening haste?
Anyway, Hannah knew how to get around the Birthplace so we worked as a team to
get to the house each day.
I didn’t realise that the general public were so nuts. I
know that’s a cliché, I mean, I’ve worked in restaurants, I know they’re rude
and picky, but until you’ve had to ask an 80 year old Chinese man to stop
eating some lasagne out of his pocket, whilst he stands in Shakespeare’s
childhood bedroom, you cannot realise how strange people are. One enormous American man lit up a cigarette inside
the house, which is essentially an ancient ball of kindling. When we asked him
to stop smoking, he smiled jovially and took another, long, puff.
So myself and Hannah would drive to the Birthplace, discussing
if the actors in the Birthplace garden were gay or not, chain smoke on the way
from the car, and finally arrive frazzled to stand in the opening cottage. The
worst case, early-morning scenario is the one of the “blue badge guides”coming
in with a group. These are guides that are from the Stratford town walk; they
aren’t related to the Shakespeare Trust. They jump over railings, pick up
alarmed antiques, one man ran through the kitchen brandishing the, extremely
ornamental, stuffed duck whilst he discussed Tudor cuisine. Some of their punters
think that William Shakespeare is a bit like God, a sort of “there is no proof
of him” deal. One woman told me she “wasn’t a believer,” she doesn’t think he existed,
like some sort of playwriting Vishnu. I did have to point out at that moment
that if she felt that was the case, it was very silly to pay £13.75 to walk
around the house, particularly as it was quite a nice day.
If we were unlucky, myself or Hannah would be in the opening
cottage for an hour, where your main job is to stop people from taking photos
and try and explain to them that, yes, William went to the local school and,
no, he wasn’t the Earl of Oxford in disguise like in Anonymous or we’d be stuck
in the exhibition. The exhibition has the same ten lines of the Tempest on an
audio-loop over and over and over. It’s also a really boring exhibition. On
week ten they provided some finger puppets to encourage children, which meant
that I was forced to sit through a man showing me thousands of pictures of his
pre-school daughter in a production of Romeo and Juliet, whilst she fiddled
with a tiny felt Prospero. Best case scenario is we’d be in the workshop. I
love the workshop, it’s where Billy’s Dad, John, made his gloves (called
whittowing at the time). There are lots of props including a rabbit skin, which
Hannah lovingly named Geoffrey on the day she fell down the stairs in front of
a coach load of Japanese tourists. After visiting the Birthplace a woman left
us 10 rabbit skins in her will (which I suppose is a nice gesture, but is a
little odd), and as far as I know they’re still jammed in the office being used
to mop up spilt tea.
Anyway there’s a lot more than that, I may do a part two.
However, for today, I hope you have enjoyed my adventures as a tour guide. Tata
xxxx
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