On Monday 28th April, I went to the Globe theatre in London to catch the opening night of Much Ado About Nothing (review posted soon) it was phenomenal, and nothing gives me more joy than revelling in an astounding performance of one of Shakespeare’s greatest works.
On Tuesday 29th, I went to the Warner Bros Studio Tour in Leavesden. That’s the Making of Harry Potter, from Page to Screen. I was so excited and eagerly stood in hour long queues to ride a broomstick and buy more Fizzing Whizzbees (highly recommended confectionery).
When I finally got a chance to stop and think about this strange juxtaposition, I came to a very important realisation. One that has really changed the way I view myself.
I am not a child. A child would have little tolerance for Shakespeare, whose phraseology and penchant for obscurity make his plays a challenge to stick with. Much Ado wouldn’t have been very entertaining to an individual who wouldn’t catch the layers of double meanings or hidden plot lines, who would miss the contextual jokes or references. Not to brag but I haven’t struggled to understand Shakespeare’s works for 8 years due to my dedication to Literature. I gladly stood for four hours in the cold, open yard of the Globe in order to experience the genius of the Bard, and the brilliance of the Thespians, and I will be doing it at least three times more this summer.
Yet I am not an adult. I didn’t maturely, sedately, or quietly observe how the crew of Harry Potter created moving portraits as we strolled unhurriedly through the tour. I bounded around with childlike glee, bouncing between exhibits, spouting fact after fact about how this special effect was achieved and how they overcame this technical difficulty to my companions. I joked with the staff about the struggles experienced when the Tour first opened as I’d been there in its youngest weeks. Even though I’d been to WBST a few times, it didn’t stop me from pressing every button in the creature workshop or jumping giddily when I was about to ‘drive’ the Ford Anglia. I was no less ecstatic on that Tuesday, a month away from turning nineteen, than I was when my mother finally allowed me to get my own cloak at the age of six.
So, although my knee-jerk reaction to an attack on my maturity is to declare “I am an adult!” the simple truth is that I really am not. I am at the confusing half-way point where my youthful enthusiasm has not yet been completely exhausted. It rather hibernates eighty percent of the time. But my desire to watch plays, listen to classical music and enjoy a good glass of chardonnay grows with every passing day. I even want to sort out my taxes, as strange as that seems.
I’m terrified of the commitments I’m making at the moment. I applied for my university accommodation and started my Student Finance process last week. I packed away the comic posters and the stuffed toys, as well as my classic and antique book collection. I started a vlog (posting soon) and bought a copy of EU case law so I have headway into my modules in September. I’ll keep toeing the tenuous line between adult and child because for not, chadulthood suits me just fine.