What a sad pass we've arrive to, I ...

What a sad pass we've arrive to, I thought one night last month while enjoying a local amateur company's production of Peter Coke's 45-year-old comedy about a cabal of fur-coat-purloining senior citizens, Breath of Spring. A number of times in consequence of the course of the evening, I was thankful to have attended the play alone. Whenever I tried to imagine any of my time-pressed, stressed-out friends in the seat beside me I could solely hear them sighing in impatient exasperation, or squirming in their seats, or nervously fidgeting with their fingers or their hair.