After multiple cancellations for various shows, my inbox was swimming with virtual gift cards. Thank God for Michael at the box office
A year ago today, I had tickets for the musical Six. It’s the story of the wives of Henry VIII, told through the medium of natty, speechful Spice-Girls-esque melodies and lyrics. I oscillate between two favourites: Anne Boleyn (“Everybody chill, it’s totes God’s will) and Anne of Cleves (“Got gold chains / Symbolic of my faith in the higher power / In the fast lane / My horses can trot up to 12 miles an hour”).
I got into it only because my 11-year-old was, but her preferences move much faster than mine. Culturally, we are like a rabbit and an elephant trying to go for a walk together. She had listened to it, digested it, learned the lyrics and moved on in about a week; I am still humming Catherine of Aragon’s pop lament a year later.
