In The Wings


The old man was as greedy with his bottle as he was lazy with his seniority. Still, he was company. And such stories!

Geoffrey took his own bottle from his pocket, raised it. “Cheers.”

“Bumpers,” said the old man. He drained his pint in a long swallow, holding the empty bottle at length to be sure of the last drop. Satisfied, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Now where was I?”

“You were telling me about Lord Olivier. About the first time he played Hamlet.”

“Right. A little shite, he was. Nervous as a summer flea. I recall him whispering to himself. Sounded like a daft old woman.”

“It must have been a great event in your life to see him there.”

The old man, savage now, cocked an eye. “How d’you mean?”

“Well, such a splendid actor. All the history of the Globe. You know. Garrick, even the Bard himself…”

Geoffrey felt his face grow hot. He was about to add something about glory, but didn’t.

The old man snorted and reached a hand  for Geoffrey’s bottle.


Sunday Photo Fiction