The best way to prepare for a night out with a Shakespearean tragedy is to do a bit of reading up in the afternoon, eat a light supper - perhaps Welsh rarebit - and then arrive early to do some stretching exercises in the foyer before curtain-up.
I'll get depressed out on the road simply because I'm not being the mama that's cooking supper every night, or that's fixing my husband's plate and my baby's plate. You miss those things, and I miss them.
In the right circumstances, I'm a big fan of eating alone. Often, on a Sunday evening, I go to a yoga class whose charm is largely that it gives me an alibi to avoid cooking family supper for once. I return to have boiled eggs and soldiers in silence with a book. Bliss.
You could be going to have supper with someone who happens to be male, and all of a sudden he is your boyfriend of nine months... and I am cheating on my existing boyfriend.
Exciting literature after supper is not the best digestive.
And if you had an, an opportunity to have a hot meal, you did. That was the cook. But you didn't stop and say, This is dinnertime and Oh wait it's five o'clock, it's time to eat for supper.
One night some short weeks ago, for the first time in her not always happy life, Marilyn Monroe's soul sat down alone to a quiet supper from which it did not rise.
You don't restore 'The Last Supper' by filling in the missing bits - you preserve. You accept the material that has somehow survived.
I hate fussing about in the kitchen when I have people over to supper, so I make a rich beef stew cooked in wine with carrots, sundried tomato paste and chopped chorizo sausage.
There are all kinds of pretensions about art, but I'm just a guy who sings for his supper.
