My Word

The other night, I was privileged to have been given complimentary tickets by my very good friend, Lynn Sherman, to the play she was appearing in—Bahaghari Productions staging of the musical “We’re Still Hot.”

I arrived at the Teatrino in Greenhills at around 7:45 pm and was promptly seated. It was quite a pleasant surprise to be seated right next to Lynn’s parents. I decided early on that it was going to be a very enjoyable evening.

Just then five noisy people of diverse nationalities came barging in and positioned themselves to the right of my seat. The noisiest of them all was this middle-aged blonde woman from UK. She whipped out her ringing cellular phone and started talking to her teenage offspring.

“No, honey, I can’t right now. I’m in the middle of something.—No—no—I don’t know anything about that. You’ll have to talk to daddy. Well, I don’t have his number here. Yes—yes. Call daddy.”

As she put the phone down, the lights dimmed and the overture began. I was really getting into it. The storyline was very interesting. Three former school mates meet at their old alma mater to put on a musical review for their homecoming batch.

At the end of act I, the house lights were raised and everyone began conversing. I had the great misfortune of being of earshot of the “noisy British bitch.” Apparently, the show tipped way below her celestial expectations. She constantly pointed out how this one fared poorly in contrast to all the plays she had watched in other countries—in her lifetime.

Finally, she made the mistake of complaining about something so stupid I would probably remember her by for the rest of my life.

“Why can’t they just speak with their own real accents?”

I was in such a state that any further mention of it would have probably made me burst out laughing. I kept my cool and held back. In my brain, I was bashing her head against the wall screaming:

“…BECAUSE THAT CHARACTER IS HUNGARIAN—YOU NIT WIT!”