On Sunday we had a treat, and were taken to Glyndebourne in the afternoon by two of our friends -- to see Eugene Onegin. It's a long drive back to Cambridge and we were amusing ourselves with doing some first principles lit crit on the opera (neither the husband or I, nor I suspect the host who was driving, had actually read more than a page or two about it, nor had we read the Pushkin version from which it is adapted -- hence "first principles").
We were talking about how far we thought it was a terrible romantic tragedy, a comedy or manners or a nasty (though witty) satire on human folly (isn't it a joke that Lensky is such a look-alike Byron? and, in the first act, don't we all know that Tatyana is a larger than life parody of a teenager who just hasn't understood the tactics of playing hard to get . . . and so on).
It was, I fear, that kind of convesation that might not have looked too out of place in Pseuds Cormer -- until it was interrupted on the M11 by a series of notices (over what must have been the last 20 miles or so of the journey) which read "50 Animals in Road SLOW".
A little more donnish chat followed, I confess.