The weather was perfect, as if celebrating with us the joy of the summer holiday. As the evening drew nearer, the sun sank into the west sky, its golden beams of light dazzled my eyes as we drove into the city, heading for the Festival Theatre for a play called The Cripple of Inishmaan.
By the time I finally manoeuvred the car into a 90 degree parking lot, taking three clumsy attempts to get all the wheels into the white lines, we were running very late. We ran along the Torrens River towards the Festival Theatre, the skirts of our would-be-elegant dresses billowing in our wake as we rushed up the set of steps leading into the dark-glassed front entrance.
We arrived just in time, puffing and panting, to hand over our tickets to the ticket-collector, who was already pulling shut the heavy door leading into the theatre. We squeezed through the half-closed door, walked down the sloping aisle until we found our seats, and sat down in the navy squashy chairs, just as the lights overhead were extinguished.
Watching a play was very different from watching a movie. Devoid of the special visual and sound effects that I had become so accustomed to in the modern age of entertainment, the pure talents of the actors and actresses on stage seemed to shine even more brightly, each of their lines, postures, movements, or even expressions won the audience’s laughter or applause. When the curtains finally drew close, I was left marvelling at the talents of the South Australian State Theatre.