When I feel particularly energetic, I try and educate my Offspring. It’s never much, but I reckon the odd little attempt is better than total apathy at my end. A few years ago Son and I intended to go and have a look at Dario Fo, when he came to the Gothenburg book fair. I started by getting a copy of some of his plays in English, that I deemed suitable for a 16-year-old. I appear to have judged that right, as Son really liked Fo.
Unfortunately, due to the timetables of Swedish trains on the day, we had to choose between seeing Dario Fo, or get to where we were going. So the train won. But it would have been good to see an icon from my youth, just like that.
A couple of years ago The Accidental Death of an Anarchist was on at the Bolton Octagon, so the witch family went to see it. Had some problems explaining to then 13-year-old Daughter why it could be considered fun to see a play about a man who gets thrown out of a window by the police.
The beginning of the play didn’t go well. Daughter generally had to be bribed, British style, with sweets whenever we watched anything live. At the time she had no idea that it’s considered good manners not to rustle sweet wrappers. After a fair amount of rustling, the actor destined for the window treatment, turned to her and said that if she was going to eat sweets, she’d have to share.
One positive side effect was that the rustling has now diminished. And she loved the play.