Last Saturday, my wife told me she would take me to the theater. Theatre is theatre. Before the theatre I had an entire Saturday day and after catching a couple of beers I went to the sports club, pulling the glands and then drinking beer in the sauna. In the sauna besides me there was another man, we were sick with him, but he refused to drink beer with reference to "I still need to work tonight." Sometimes not everyone goes to theaters on Saturdays, some work. Places in the theater were especially disgusting, the first row from the very end. The shelves rose, a dark scene, on it a table with a graphene with a suspiciously yellowish liquid (the action takes place in England, according to the director's idea apparently whiskey). The actor approached the table with a thoughtful oak, poured half a glass of fluid, slowly raised his head and looked into the hall. I walked the stage, went down the stairs side by side into the auditorium and stood right in front of me. I realized that he was the man from the sauna. The man put his hand on my shoulder, looked over the heads of the spectators in the hall and said, "Now you can drink."