On Saturday evening I went to the Dukes in Lancaster to see Blake Morrison's We are Three Sisters, a play about the Brontes with 'a nod to Chekhov.' I read Chekhov's The Cherry Orchard a couple of years ago, and despite writing a successful essay on comedy in the play, I was left rather dazed and confused by the experience. After seeing Morrison's play I think I understand a little better. I laughed, I despaired, I felt the sisters' frustrations. I enjoyed the doctor's performance, a flawed unhappy man, but still good at heart.
It was a warm evening and a full house. There were complaints from the audience, but air-conditioning is so rarely needed in Lancaster. Ladies paraded in their summer frocks. I felt hot and frumpy and so consoled myself with a mint cornetto.