Bravo

Peter was nervous for everyone. It was his first stab at directing
and of all the things to start with he'd chosen Hamlet.

Press night and all was well, no fluffed lines, no missed cues,
technical perfection. All the leads had done Shakespeare justice, the
tragedy of the last scene was palpable and the audience was stunned
into silence.

Peter donned his tall helmet, ready for his cameo as Fortinbras. It was
only right that having done such a seamless role of direction that he
be there on the stage to deliver the final line and receive the
plaudits.

"What drum comes hither?"

He entered from the dark nervous wings into the soothing glare of the
stage, his movement somewhat limited not by the scarlet cloak, or
leather waistcoat and trousers but by the foot-tall unvisored helmet
which he had chosen for his incarnation as the Polish conqueror. It was
heavy and its balance somewhat precarious.

"Where is this sight?" Delivering his first line with a sweep of the
arm gave him confidence. The exchange with Horatio, played by his
choice, Jimmy, passed all so smoothly. The old clique in the dramatic
society had doubted his choices but Peter knew the potential that his
people had. Jimmy was inspired to greatness and now at the end of the
play Peter was experiencing that alchemy first-hand.

"On plots and errors happen." Jimmy felt relief as he delivered his
last line but it didn't show. He was too good for that. All eyes were
now on Peter.

With command and majesty he bade his soldiers carry Hamlet's body
away.

"..Such a sight as this
becomes the field," so near to finishing, Peter stepped back with his
right foot
"but here shows much amiss." onto the arm of the deceased Hamlet who
let out a cry. Startled, Peter leapt back, crashing his helmet on a
piece of scenery, producing a hollow ringing sound. Peter's world went
briefly white then black as he came round enough to realise that the
helmet was stuck over his eyes.

He couldn't hear the stifled laughter from some of the audience at this
unexpectedly comic moment.

Everyone in the theatre waited as the temporarily blinded Fortinbras
struggled to regain consciousness and to deliver the last line of the
play. The prompt, not needed til now had to make a snap decision - it
was one line, surely she wasn't needed. She remained silent.

Fortinbras raised his head - now seemingly compis mentis. After a
further ten seconds he delivered a slightly muffled.

"Go? build? the shoulders?the solders shit!"

Peter collapsed to the stage to hysterical audience laughter before the
dusty red stage curtain swept hastily past his prostrate body.