This is going to be our year of Shakespeare. Already we go to bed and lie there talking about the Sonnets and how Shakey reportedly drank himself to death in the company of Ben Jonson and Michael Drayton and what silly wankers the Oxfordians are and other significant matters arising.
I'm reading the Lodger. It's about a law case Shakey got involved in while lodging with a Hugenot family in Cripplegate. It's like you're circumambulating him. There he is, sitting in his study bedroom with the MS of All's Well That Ends Well spread out on the table, and you can almost reach him but not quite. It's frustrating how much we know about his world- like who his neighbours were and what they did for a living- and how little about the man himself.