Saturday night on the couch, the Parkinson show and a famous guest – Kenneth Branagh. Kenneth Brrrranaghghgh! A big star; huge, in fact. And he talks and talks until I feel dizzy. It is disturbing because moments before his appearance I had pictured kissing Ewan McGregor, the other guest and now, the only thing left is Branagh’s big mouth all over the screen. As always, he brags about his shaved, well-combed and completely clean Shakespeare movies. And then he reveals the big secret; the new Branagh project is an opera in English. And, of course, not a real opera, more like a fat free light version of an opera. So that the English can understand….What a bummer! Obviously, everything has to be simplified.
Let me give you my humble opinion Mr. Branagh – those who are too lazy to move their bottoms into a (real) theatre to witness Othello squeezing the life out of a pale Desdemona while Jago waits around the corner with a despicable grin on his face – those people don’t deserve Shakespeare! And the opera? You don’t listen to the lyrics, no! You could read the libretto or get briefly acquainted with the plot but you go there for the sake of the music and the glory of the human voice! 
And you know perfectly well that the language of the opera is Italian, German or French. So, if you excuse me; I prefer my Shakespeare raw and lethal, my Wagner German and intense and my Bizet uplifting and as French as can be…

I can’t take this anymore, too weak…for this shit, she says. Straight to my face. 
And she throws the Keats, it is the hardcover edition, on the kitchen floor. I have obviously offended her, not intentionally of course. It was no big deal, I grabbed the Keats in the bookstore and since I was dressed in black I figured it would look good on me. It did. I can’t tell her that because she would say I’m selfish and according to her that’s a sin. I pull out a cigarette but then – of course, no smoking; the gas leaks constantly in her apartment, no naked flames allowed. 
There are red spots on her neck; she’s working herself up to the final outburst of anger and I feel this urge to kiss her. Must not disturb her monologue. Her hair is all over her face and her clothes seem suddenly too big; as if the amount of rage she pushes out of her lungs causes her body to shrink.
Don’t punish me, I say, it’s just poetry. And Keats looks at me from the kitchen floor and wonders how I can put up with a woman who considers his words an insult.
What can I do, I completely love her…she holds my big fat heart in her hands.