Paddington Writers

'A 21st Century Hamlet'

Hamlet comes on stage in modern attire. Once centre stage, he pauses and begins:

'To be or not to be...'

'Cut' shouts the director.

'What's the matter ?' says the actor.

'Come on. It makes no sense - a man just walking along chatting to himself... We're gonna have to update it. We're in the 21st century now.'

Dressed as before, Hamlet walks on to centre stage, then pauses, takes a mobile phone from his pocket and puts it to his ear.

'Hello, Horatio,' says Hamlet , 'I'm on the battlements. To be or not to be, that is the f-----g question : whether it is nobler in the mind to blah-de-blah-de-blah or take arms against a sea of fortunes and, by opposing, end them. D'you know what I'm sayin'? To die - to sleep - no more, and by a sleep to say we blah-de-blah-de-blah. 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. D'you know what I'm sayin' ? Bye, Horatio. See ya.'

STAY IN TOUCH
>> The handsome couple by the teashop window,
>> Sip from flower painted cups.
>> He watches cricketers on the Green,
>> She stares at watercolours on the wall.
>> Both exquisitely groomed and  tailored,
>> Carefully aged and revered.
>>
>> By the old oak clock we settle,
>> Hot, hungry and thirsty,
>> Muddied and not so perfectly trussed.
>> Sore from the steep hill ramble.
>> We giggle about the bull, losing our way.
>> Eager to share, forging a future.
>>
>> Always stay in touch, my mother said,
>> Just before the big day.
>> Or else you become strangers,
>> Sitting opposite in a railway carriage;
>> Like the spectating man,
>> And the watery eyed woman?
>>
>> Jenny Kingsley
>>
>>
>> TO A YOUNG CAPTAIN
>> My dearest William,
>> As the hot, sticky summer draws to an end,
>> And so begins the season of swollen blackberries as rich as cream,
>> And crisp leaves whispering underfoot,
>> I sit by the fire, thanking you
>> For introducing me to the thinking and reading man’s game.
>> A library of prose and poetry, a new language.
>>
>> Remember the matches, when, by the Green,
>> I sat cross-legged under the mulberry tree,
>> “The Times” firmly in hand, hoping no one would notice?
>> I was stumped by googly, gozunder and kato,
>> The mutterings of nightwatchmen, rabbits and all-rounders.
>>
>> But then one hazy June day,
>> Bowled over by your schoolboy enthusiasm,
>> I laid my paper to rest,
>> And, for some unfathomable reason,
>> Clapped for Atkinson’s half century.
>> I was caught
>>
>> In a world of spin, shots, strokes,
>> Steeped in history and anecdote,
>> For the sake of which, at a snail’s pace, I unravelled.
>> An enigma of common and invented words, puzzling phrases,
>> The obsolete as relevant as the new:
>> Reflections of the changing nature of the terrain, pitch and players.
>>
>> Blushing, I bought a dictionary of cricket
>> To peruse while sipping caffe latte
>> And you were in the schoolroom
>> Considering conjugation and declension.
>> The rules of play I learned
>> And silently argued with the umpires.
>>
>> I wonder: would the gentlemen of Hambledon,
>> Decked elegantly in white,
>> Still praise bat and wicket
>> If held and claimed by a mother or two?
>> While we await judgement,
>> please teach me to flip and float, slice and smother, and be silly.
>>
>> The fire wants kindling. I await your reply. ‘Bye for now.
>>
>> Yours forever,
>>
>> Mummy
>>