He had been unsure quite how much shoddy musical theatre he could stand before smashing his wine glass and digging out his eardrums with the stem. One of the very worst things about his marriage with Kathleen was her insistence on spending the majority of their time in the city. He would much prefer to be lounging around the estate. Getting lost in the woods, perhaps. Maybe shooting the odd animal and pretending it was his wife. But no; Kathleen loved culture. As much as he tried to convince her that the majority of it was as rancid and bacterial as the name suggested, she would not be swayed. They went to theatres, opera houses, concert halls, anywhere the review columns in the bloody Telegraph convinced her artistry might be found. Probert hated it all. Currently he was being bombarded by five faux transsexuals exploring the difficulties of post-op psychology through the medium of the rock ballad. The lead, an imported Yank apparently famous for being in some medical drama or another, was currently straddling a large chipboard scalpel that thrust into the audience.
