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George:
Stratford-upon-Avon is not London. Not even close.
London is noise—argument, urgency, ambition. London is a place where a man can vanish into a crowd and become someone else by lunchtime.
Stratford is… remembered.

Stratford is: “Ah, there he goes—John Shakespeare’s boy.”
Stratford is: “Did you hear what the Ardens are up to?”
Stratford is: “Mind your tongue—your aunt will hear you from three streets away.”

It is a market town, where your reputation is a second coat you can’t remove.

George:
And yet, it is also a place of steady human theatre: bargaining, boasting, flirting, grudges that last twenty years, and kindness that arrives like sunlight without announcement.

Somewhere in that living, breathing scene is a boy—bright-eyed, quick to imitate voices—learning people, not from books, but from… ears.

GEORGE:
So before we talk about plays—before we talk about kings and ghosts and love and murder—let’s talk about the Stratford that made a mind like Shakespeare’s possible.
Don't like that delete thatAnd to help, I’ve invited a special guest.

SFX: A polite knock at an old wooden door.

GEORGE (smiling):
Master Shakespeare?

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