Yesterday we took a little trip to Stratford-upon-Avon, which is where Shakespeare was born. It is a very cute and sweet little town with a bunch of quaint houses and some nice ducks on a river and a couple historical sites.



Here are some folks at Anne Hathaway's cottage. Apparently several people on the trip literally believed we were going to see the residence of the actress who starred in such cinematic triumphs as The Princess Diaries 2 and Ella Enchanted. This is actually the place where Shakespeare's wife grew up.



Nadeen blurring around in front of Anne Hathaway's cottage. I am sorry about the blurriness, my camera is malfunctioning in such a way that I can't change the flash settings, and thus, none of my pictures turned out acceptably. I'm still making you look at them, though.



Anne Hathaway was eight years older than Shakespeare and was three months pregnant when they got married. Smirk!



The roof is kinda cool, right?



A bird-scarer of the type that was used on farms back in the Shakespeare days. Nehel literally ran out of the room screaming when she saw this. Nehel, therefore, is a bird.



Now we have arrived at Shakespeare's birthplace. Here are Milena and Theo, two of the people who help run the Stanford program. One speaks Hebrew and the other speaks Spanish, so they are basically my life.



To quote Ellen, Conner is my muse. How could he not be, all standing in front of flowers, scarf nonchalantly caressing his neck, hands in pockets as if he doesn't have a care in the world. Shakespeare probably chose this place to be born just because he knew Conner would be there four hundred years later.



Ta-da! The Birthplace!


Then we had dinner at an overpriced but delicious Italian restaurant and went and saw the Royal Shakespeare Company's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. I was a little disappointed at first because I've already seen A Midsummer Night's Dream, and there are so many Shakespeare plays I've read but haven't seen (or haven't read at all). But it was so so SO SO good. And the costumes! They touched me at the very core of that deeply repressed feminine part of me that fuckin' loves fashionable clothes.

Speaking of that little kernel of fashion sense lodged somewhere between my lost ability to refrain from talking about my period and my undiscovered talent for smiling for a camera without striking a silly pose or making a stupid face, I bought two short skirts the other day. It was hot out, and I was passing by Primark, and I saw a skirt on a mannequin that I had to have. That has never happened to me before. I only go into clothing stores when something I own wears out and I need a replacement. I don't go in on a whim just because something looks cute. That is antithetical to my whole ethos.

Feeling dizzy and drunk with feminine power, I went in and rummaged through the pile of skirts until I found one that looked like it would fit me, even though British sizes are entirely different from American sizes. It did fit me, and so did a miniskirt that caught my eye on the way to the dressing rooms. And then, with estrogen coursing through my veins, I made my purchase. Of course, the weather immediately turned cloudy, wet, and freezing, and my legs have been covered up ever since by slightly-too-big jeans that mar any semblance of a feminine figure I ever had. Double sigh and oh well. Short skirts just ain't in my cards.