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A monologue from the play by Michael Frayn
Lloyd
Let me tell you something about my life. I have the Duke of Buckingham on the phone to me for an hour after
rehearsal every evening complaining that the Duke of Gloucester is sucking boiled sweets through his speeches.
The Duke of Clarence is off for the entire week doing a commercial for Madeira. Richard himself — would you believe?
Richard III? Has now gone down with a back problem. I keep getting messages from Brooke about how unhappy she is here,
and now she’s got herself a doctor’s certificate for nervous exhaustion — she’s going to walk! I have no time to find or rehearse another Vicki.
I have just one afternoon, while Richard is fitted for a surgical corset, to cure Brooke of nervous exhaustion, with no medical aids except a little whisky —
you’ve got the whisky? — a few flowers — you’ve got the money for the flowers? — and a certain faded charm.
So I haven’t come to the theatre to hear about other people’s problems. I’ve come to be taken out of myself, and preferably not put back again.
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