The clothes do make the man

This term in Physical Theatre we're studying Clowning. Not in a oversized-shoe 19-men-coming-out-of-a-small-car kind of way, but in a theatrical way. I could explain this in more detail, but I won't. Suffice to say it involves creating a persona (or "finding ~your~ clown", as it were) and wearing RIDICULOUS clothing.

This is run by our Physical Theatre instructor, which I've mentioned from time to time. To say that he runs a tight ship would be similar to saying that George Bush is not entirely the brightest bulb in the chandelier. So. Imagine 12 gorgeous drama students - the movie star, the classy broad, thelast_unicorn, skyesidhe (yeah - I know - some guys get *all* the luck ;) - I get to see BOTH of them on a regular basis), a host of handsome men and me - all decked up in ludicrous concoctions of miscellany - all waiting around nervously for our Lord and Master to enter the room.
Clock strikes 10.
No Master.
Clock strikes 10:05. Well, it doesn't as much *strike* as kinda get there. You know.
No Master.
We debate.
thelast_unicorn, responsible and upstanding citizen that she is, suggests we start warming up "because if we don't he'll yell at us for not having done so" (which is an astute observation - Yelling At People is a fair chunk of his teaching regime).
12 gorgeous drama students in clown costumes start bludgeoning through a warmup sequence. My man Tony meanwhile goes to the office to check on Our Lord and Master.
He comes back, but stops short of the windowed door with a kind of quizzical look on his face. People approach the door. Tony points out the GIANT paper notice stuck in the MIDDLE of the window saying Master had been rendered babysitterless. Which all of us failed to see.

Now *that's* method acting.