Megan E. Bond

I usually write theatre reviews the minute I walk through the door. It’s all still there in my head, sharp and bright, every detail could make it into the copy. This time, however, I had to decompress. Josh Seymour’s production of A Streetcar Named Desire was just too good. It completely discombobulated me. I went with a new friend I don’t know that well, which caused an issue because I felt obliged to maintain some semblance of normality after the well-deserved standing ovation at the end.

You know the kind of thing you’re getting with a Shakespearean comedy. Lovers falling out with each other amid some crossed wires. Someone (usually a hapless male) dressing up in ridiculous fashion. Mistaken identity, often resulting from the aforementioned dressing up. It’s a bit like an Elizabethan version of how nobody can tell Clark Kent is Superman because he wears glasses.

I’ve been a bit under the weather of late (who wouldn’t be in the year’s darkest, greyest months?). So a self-care retreat in the heart of Manchester was just the ticket. From the moment I arrived at the Marriott Manchester Piccadilly Hotel, I was met with warmth and professionalism from the polite and welcoming staff at reception, the mezzanine and the lounge. Their attentiveness set the tone for a truly relaxing visit.