Harry Hall
The Armchair Critic
Once a drama teacher
Well admired
Now with bones a touch arthritic
Never married
A solitary man retired
But fueled with one sustaining passion
He soldiers on
By those who know him it would be said
His love of theatre keeps him going
Even happy
The truth of course is less clear cut
He's not exactly in a rut
But neither is he fully rounded
There's just one thing that keeps him grounded
In carapace surrounded
He looks at life through others' lives
And in their stories he survives
Not Harry Hall the man
But Harry Hall the fan
The Armchair Critic
Harry's seated at his desk
His tools laid out before him
A Basildon Bonded pad of paper
A Parker pen of some distinction
A single malted Scotland whisky
In crystal glass decanter
With matching tumbler
And on his wrist a humble spring wound Timex watch
A desk top lamp for focused light
All is ready
It's nearly time
He pours himself a hearty shot of golden, fiery syrup
Takes a sip
Counts down the minutes
And then precisely
At 3am
The witching hour
Picks up the Parker
Let's words flow on the paper
Page after page his thoughts run out
The play he watched three days ago
Now held to ransom
To judgement fair
To be praised where praise is due
But oft laid bare
A criticism...or two
Until his latest opus is completed
He the victor
The play defeated
The actors standing tall and proud
Or lying gutted on the ground
No fear or favour handed out
The ritual completed
Come the morning
Six sheets filled
Another opus written
A fair critique
He truly thinks
A worthy acquisition to his slowly growing stock
Filed this day with dozens more
Never to be read outside his door
No wide horizon
No advertising
No publication
No presentation
Just insular satisfaction
This armchair critic all alone in hibernation
Jan 30
Jan 30, 2026 at 5:01 AM UTC
Harry Hall
The Armchair Critic
Once a drama teacher
Well admired
Now with bones a touch arthritic
Never married
A solitary man retired
But fueled with one sustaining passion
He soldiers on
By those who know him it would be said
His love of theatre keeps him going
Even happy
The truth of course is less clear cut
He's not exactly in a rut
But neither is he fully rounded
There's just one thing that keeps him grounded
In carapace surrounded
He looks at life through others' lives
And in their stories he survives
Not Harry Hall the man
But Harry Hall the fan
The Armchair Critic
Harry's seated at his desk
His tools laid out before him
A Basildon Bonded pad of paper
A Parker pen of some distinction
A single malted Scotland whisky
In crystal glass decanter
With matching tumbler
And on his wrist a humble spring wound Timex watch
A desk top lamp for focused light
All is ready
It's nearly time
He pours himself a hearty shot of golden, fiery syrup
Takes a sip
Counts down the minutes
And then precisely
At 3am
The witching hour
Picks up the Parker
Let's words flow on the paper
Page after page his thoughts run out
The play he watched three days ago
Now held to ransom
To judgement fair
To be praised where praise is due
But oft laid bare
A criticism...or two
Until his latest opus is completed
He the victor
The play defeated
The actors standing tall and proud
Or lying gutted on the ground
No fear or favour handed out
The ritual completed
Come the morning
Six sheets filled
Another opus written
A fair critique
He truly thinks
A worthy acquisition to his slowly growing stock
Filed this day with dozens more
Never to be read outside his door
No wide horizon
No advertising
No publication
No presentation
Just insular satisfaction
This armchair critic all alone in hibernation
