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Exhaustion renders me worshipful. Nothing more likely to have me down on bended knee, or conceding to the possibility of miracles, like being overtired. I imagine that the same physiological response underpins devotional piety in the laity.

Which is why we are here: 

When I am like this, I lack my critical faculties.

This weekend has been a course of short naps, nothing as restorative as sleep, and I am looking down the barrel of the week feeling nothing if not empty.

The symptoms? I am eating barely-cooked chickpeas that seemed to boil for all eternity, and the soundtrack to my typing-up is Worried About the Boy, that gorgeous BBC drama about the life of Boy George. I keep sacking off mid sentence to go and peek at the costumes. I would listen to the radio but I need noises I have heard before, and tonight my brain is too lacy for music, everything makes me cry.

Would of course alter nothing, not a mote. I am prickling all over with the joy of it: I feel as if I am being thrown down a river, and have felt this way for over a week. Hysteria? Possibly. I lack the relevant Victorian corrective apparatus, Doctor.

This weekend, I was forcefully blasted away by Henry V at the Globe.

It is a marvellous production. Two things stood out (well, three, if you count Jamie Parker, the most sympathetic, upstanding King I have ever seen).

Firstly, the music – it seems that the uniting arc of this Globe season is an emphasis on musical performance . Swayed by vigorous drumming, the light voices of the minstrels, now romantic, now haunting, the musicians held the audience in the palm of their hands from the musical prologue onwards. Henry V might almost have stamped through the stage in the final dance, a whooping, exultant affair, but it was the musicians who stirred us all to a frenzy.

Secondly, I had forgotten, if I ever knew, how incredibly accessible Henry V is. It is, among its momentous discussions of Kingship and the ethics of war, a rousing groundling’s play, with rhetoric to stir our breasts and turn our thoughts to glory. The wooing scene, one of the tenderest speeches ever written, perhaps, allows for love in all its forms, each exchange a different timbre, until all permutations of the sentiment are confessed, each audience member satisfied by their own moment where the prose stands out clear against the night and we, too, fall in love.

It was exhausting, glorious and bloody. Nationalism and sentiment are another discussion. I was willing to be enraptured, and I was.

The weekend held other things, beautiful hot sunshine and all sorts of adventures. But now, the call to war still ringing in my ears, I am crawling to bed, but not before I finally release from the prison of the washing machine my clothes. I have spun them about a hundred times today, too lazy to hang knickers up properly. Slovenly? You should see my bedroom floor. It looks as if I have emptied a handbag onto …. oh wait, of course I have, earlier I was trying to find a receipt. No luck, of course. Paperwork combusts around me, flutters to ashes.I try to be neater at work but effluvia dogs me.

In a rare moment of foresight, I made enough quite-horrible supper to serve for lunch tomorrow. Truly I am blessed.

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