We're The People Our Parents Warned Us Against

That's What Mothers do

2010-06-28T11:20:00.002+01:00

To write a eulogy is not easy. I have a few minutes to sum up my mother’s life, and what she meant to me, my brother and sister, not to mention her extended family. I think all I can do is tell you what memories I have of my mum, and I hope you can relate to them.

The second eldest of seven children mum was born in Dundee in Scotland and grew up in Rosyth, a dockyard town where she met our dad Douglas, known at the time, as I am sure many here will know, as Mac, who was in the Navy. When we were growing up in the 70’s dad was away at sea for several lengthy spells and she looked after the three of us on her own with only a bar of chocolate at the end of the day to look forward to. (Mum, not us!)

Who was mum to me? She was the woman who sent us to school with our dinner money each week, safely wrapped in an envelope and then put in the palm of our hands with a glove over to keep it secure. The woman who made sure we never went hungry, whether for nourishment or love – we always left with a kiss in the morning, and a kiss goodnight. We did get strange looks in the summer, mind, with our gloves on.

I can speak for us all when I say she, and dad, gave us blessed childhoods. We were luckier than we knew at the time – we can look back and reflect on that with such fond memories; at the shared mealtimes around the table – I’d climb mountains for one of mum’s roast beef dinners, even though she had an uncanny knack of managing to use every pot and pan she owned in the house, but she cleverly worked out the Sunday washing-up rota for us three to take in turn. We all said a quiet prayer of thanks when she got her first dishwasher! Her desserts were legendary – I know the “Veggie” club she joined – a dining group which meets once a month – wouldn’t let her leave! I can only say thank goodness they weren’t vegan!

Family dinners continued into our adult lives – as you may possibly tell her love of food was a gene she passed on to me – and she thrived in having us all around her when our different lives allowed us to meet – usually at Christmas, a time that both she and dad loved and of which we have such warm memories too. I remember particularly the Christmas of 1989, when the Lambada craze swept the nation, and mum grew fond of the tune, putting it on repeat and insisting I dance with her – not a dance any son should have to perform with their mother, but she persisted, until eventually somewhere between the Latin beats and the Baileys we became entangled in the Christmas tree. Just an example of her sense of fun, her good humour, and her love of dancing, which I know she enjoyed, whether it was performing Scottish dancing or watching the ballet. It was mum who said to me, “You really should go and see a ballet, you don’t know what you’re missing” – and when I did finally go, with mums words of advice ringing in my ears, I was able to say “You were right”, without, typically of mum, her ever feeling the need to say “I told you so”.

For all the love mum so generously shared, it can’t go unmentioned how much she adored her grandchildren – first Jack and Lorna, then Zachary and baby Sebastian who sadly is not with us – no doubt in mums arms, as she continues to be a one woman knitting machine, a hobby she loved. She liked to proudly tell anyone who would listen of her grandchildren’s achievements, or to wheel Zachary into town in his buggy to show him off, when he wasn’t purloining all the rest of her free time to play “Emergency Services” or “Air – Sea Rescue”. The rules of those games she seemed to pick up easily, yet ask her to play “Trivial Pursuit” and the rules would defy her – not that she didn’t know the answers, she just couldn’t grasp that she didn’t need to shout them out when it wasn’t her turn, causing much hilarity or consternation, depending which side you were on.

For all that though, mum had the rules of the biggest game – that of life – pretty much sussed. Never taking anything for granted, she impressed us all with her strength after dad died – they’d only been able to enjoy a few years together in Stamford, the town they both grew to love, before mum was widowed at the age of 50. As we obviously worried how mum would cope – she is, after all the woman who took four years to decide whether to buy a new dining table or not – we could only watch with admiration as she picked herself up and built a new life, moving to Gresley Drive and enjoying the company of her many friends and family whom she regarded so highly, sharing trips out, holidays abroad or simply a chat over coffee in the high street. When she was diagnosed with her illness, she characteristically played it down, understating how she was feeling to spare our feelings, not wishing to be an inconvenience to anyone. Right to the end, it was mum who turned to me in the early hours of the morning and said it was me who should be in bed, getting some rest.

You could say that’s what mothers do, but it was more than that. However you might know her – as Betty, the name she grew up with (and she’d hate you knowing that) which she insisted be dropped for Elizabeth or Liz, or as Granny, Aunty – or just “mum” – she shared the same sense of fun, and simple good old fashioned decency with everyone, and for that she’ll be deeply missed.

Mum, we love you – God bless.

For CEP Group

2010-05-29T23:04:00.003+01:00

This is being used to distribute text to a group - not a blog!

To CEP cast - please cut and paste this text to your preferred software. In a couple of places I didn't have clear notes as to who said what - I have just put "Name?" in place of the actors name. Do let me know of any corrections I can make to this and I'll happily make them.

Adrian It's kind of funny when you get talking to people how sometimes you think they don't really know you at all

Rosie In high school I used to care what people think loads

Laura Just what vibe are they picking up on? Which mask?

Chris What vibe are you giving off?

Cherry Which judgement?

Adrian Are you ten percent out there, ninety percent hidden? Or the other way around?

Alida Does it depend on the environment or your mood if you disappear into the crowd or just be out there?

Celine And really, do you want to know? You ask someone what they think of you, I guarantee they're going to soft soap the question every time with the answer they think you want to hear.

Laura Why is that? Do they really think they're going to break you into a million pieces?

Rosie The perfect solution...

Adrian You get to ask any person in the world any question, to find out what makes them tick – what do you ask?

Phil Any person in the world can ask you any question to find out what makes you tick, what do you want to be asked?

Celine A few questions, to get under their skin.

Gemma Now answer them for me

Liz As if it was me answering them.

Adrian What motivates you?

Gemma Money.

Paul It must be.

Cherry Why else would you work here?

Phil If it was for money I wouldn't be working here. It's not for the satisfaction either.

Sherene It's because

Sherene / Cherry Well...because...

Saijal It's a job. Work, it's supposed to set us free.

Cherry What freedom is there in all this?

Kim I don't agree that work's supposed to set us free. Every job I've ever had I've never

felt.

Adrian If you really want to know how someone thinks

Rosie Maybe this question is the one?

Name? If you were going to romance somebody how would you go about it?

Chris How'd you tap that?

Kim I'd bag him

Alida What's to "bag him?"

Liz To bag is to pull someone

Alida What's to "pull someone?"

Kim Get off with them!

Sherene Simple!

Name? Diamonds, perhaps?

Saijal I hate diamonds

Laura I love diamonds

Liz I hate people asking me questions

Phil A private jet, to the South of France.

Adrian Cook dinner.

Laura Not just any old dinner.

Cherry Lamb shank.

Celine Fish, chips and champagne

Chris Ooh, a chippy tea...

Phil I bagged my wife with a beef casserole

Liz Lamb shank? You really think that?

Paul Shank also means to stab someone.

Rosie It's kind of funny when you get talking to people how...

Laura Sometimes you think

Adrian Sometimes they think

Kim/Cherry They don't really know you

Saijal They don't really know me

Chris I don't really know them

Celine I don't really know me

Alida I don't really know what you're talking about...

The new Doctor Who

2010-03-29T12:20:00.000+01:00

I did a disco last Saturday for a 21st birthday party, but with a mix of the host and hostesses friends (the oldies) and the birthday girl’s friends (the younguns), so it was a good mix. Everything went swimmingly; until right near the end when alcohol and hormones started taking effect on some of the younguns, and it being near the scheduled end time the hostess asked me to start winding things down to chill them out. This lad comes up to me, obviously the worse for wear, and asks for The Libertines, "What Katy did" - not something I'd normally play at the best of times. I explained that I'd been asked to quieten things down and that I wouldn't be playing requests at this time...not happy with that he stumbled off to find the hostess who agreed to allow one LAST request and that would be it. So off he comes back to deliver the news and he says to me, "You haven't got it, have you?" He turned to the by now small crowd and shouted to them, "HE hasn't got the Libertines. Who wants What Katy Did?" and he turned back to me looking all smug.

"Look mate, I don't actually have to prove anything to you..."
"You haven't got it. Oh my god...ha ha, you haven't got it".
I was dialling up the libertines on my iPod, used for carrying all the obscure rubbish that crazed disco fan boys might just ask for...I showed him I had it. "Happy now?” I said, looking at him smugly. I told him to get ready; I was going to play his request. He stumbled off, I played the Libertines.
Then, unbelievably, the guy who was competing with Pete Doherty in intoxication stakes came back up to my booth.
“Can you play the Libertines, What Katy did”.
“You what? I just played it”
“No, you haven’t got it have you? Go on, play The Libertines”
“You’re the new doctor, aren’t you”, I replied.
“Huh?” was the mooted response.
“The new Doctor Who. You’ve just got here in your TARDIS from five minutes ago”
Then disco boy’s mate comes along. He turns to him and says, “He hasn’t got the Libertines...he won’t play it”
“What?” said his mate to disco boy. “He just played it, five minutes ago...”
Disco boy just looked at me with the look of someone who was in a waking memory loss nightmare, and mumbled a “Sorry” as I high-fived his mate and played Frank Sinatra to end the evening and one of the funniest requests I’ve had in a long time!

Time to say goodbye.

2009-09-03T12:42:00.001+01:00

When they first saw it, our friends mouths dropped open and you could see the sympathetic look in their eyes. The braver ones just blurted it out – “You can’t live here!” Maybe it was foolhardy, maybe hindsight would lead us along a different path, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and we had been given notice on the six monthly lease in the property we were currently in – we always knew it would eventually happen, when the landlord returned from overseas, and we needed somewhere to live, quickly, and more importantly – cheaply. Fate turned the cards and revealed her benevolent hand, as she so often did for us, and we couldn’t believe our luck when some friends told us the property next door to them had come up for rent, almost unprecedented considering it had been occupied for forty odd years by the same family and they never looked like they would move at all, but time had caught up with them and rural living had become difficult for them, so they decided to call it a day and move to a nearby town.
“You’d never guess what”, said our friend. “They’re moving next door. I could have a word with the landlord if you like – but I will warn you, they haven’t done a thing to the place...” That should have been enough warning, but we pressed ahead, regardless, some would say recklessly. We spoke to the landlord, who said we could take the place, but he’d have to put the rent up. When he told us what to, we took the place, sight unseen, there and then. Ten pounds a week seemed very reasonable...
The place was as described. A hovel, by some standards. Our future home. Never the less, it had four walls, and a roof – just. Holes adorned places where plaster should have been. There was no heating, apart from the coal fireplace housing a birds nest. Stripping what wallpaper remained took minutes, simply tearing off in strips. The windows closed, when banged from the outside, forcing the swollen frames into place. The original tiles on the floor could have been from a Time Team excavation. The kitchen was a lean-to against the back wall, providing the only protection to the keyless back door. But we were blind to it all. We didn’t have a vision, or development experience, and we made mistakes. Huge, costly mistakes, often on the back of well intentioned suggestions. “You want to put plaster board up, mate”. So I did. Shrinking what was to become our kitchen by about three inches all round, I put batons on the wall and sheets of plaster board, which I cut with a saw, not knowing any better way, losing countless boards in the process. We tried papering the walls, after poly-filling the craters for holes, to see the paper lift off within weeks. Paint, we discovered, was more economical if restricted to dark colours. The mould took longer to show through. Storage heaters provided scant heat and the total rewire we paid for took years to pay off. The deal with the landlord was we looked after the inside, he’d ignore the outside. When roof slates started coming off like confetti, he came once to put them back, mumbling something about how he couldn’t be coming up every week to just put a few slates back on. In the end, we stopped bothering him, enduring each windy day with a stoic resolve and started putting them back ourselves. For £520.00 a year you learn to do these things. When the guttering fell off, we put it back. We turned her around, slowly, with some degree of success. Not perfect, some of it just cosmetic, but she became liveable. The kitchen lost three inches around the waist, windows were replaced, floors covered and the roof patched on a regular basis.
It’s been our little haven for 19 years now, and as relationships go, it’s been love-hate. Can you expect much for the rent we were paying? Probably not, but it doesn’t serve anyone any good in the long run. We’d see the landlord once a year, at Christmas, when he dropped off a card and we handed over a cheque. For the last five or six years he’s promised to take a look at replacing the roof. We continued playing the lottery, thinking a big win was more likely. It has been the cottage of dreams and nightmares. In summer, completely tranquil. In winter – merciless. Anyone visiting would remark on how nice it felt though, and it does. It’s a calm house, despite its faults and living here has felt quite spiritual in terms of the grace the house provides, rejuvenating and becalming. It’s wrapped its walls around us when we needed a shield from the world, and kept the rain out, mostly. It’s been witness to the heartache and joy of our lives, as homes do. It’s a wise house, in many respects, giving me the room to grow up a lot over the years. If lives follow pathways, then this, despite everything, was ours. Had I gone somewhere else 19 years ago, I wouldn’t be doing the things I’m doing today – I am sure of that. This path was the one chosen for me, and for that I am grateful.
But, this sanctuary is less breathing and more sighing, wearily, now. It needs TLC, or else she will crumble to dust, but we can’t provide it, not even for a peppercorn rent. Winter approaches. Nature encroaches. Nature will win. Winters here are too expensive. Trying to keep out the cold is a futile battle, and she’s tired for it. She’s back down on her knees, and we’ve lost the stomach for the fight.
Come October, we’ll be embarking on a new journey, on a different path, in a small house with straight walls, insulation and a strong roof.
I shall always remember her, but for now it’s time to part.

The Tale of Long Lost Golden Summers

2009-08-08T23:41:00.009+01:00

What I should do is write about my experience in Switzerland, training and performing with Ozfrank Theatre, but for now I am still spinning that over in my mind. It may eventually make it to a blog, who knows. The training addresses so many aspects of the performers physical and spiritual psyche that it is no surprise that I have shied away from trying to write it down - Suzuki training sits within the "self" as an experience, like building blocks, each of which, on their own, are weak, but as a "structure", each block sits upon another block and together they make a strong tower of learning and understanding. To take this analogy to a logical conclusion, the feet, grounded as they are, must be the foundation.

For now though, I would like to talk about the experience I had in the Theater Marie, of Suhr, after watching a screening of Ozfrank's Doll 17, which was presented as part of a forum of work to complement our training.

Doll 17 , adapted from Summer of the Seventeenth Doll, (considered an icon of classic Australian theatre) charts the fortunes of two sugarcane cutters, Barney and Roo, who return to Melbourne for five months every year at the end of the cane season, and take up with a couple of city women for a period of friviolity, with money in their back pockets and nothing between them and a sunny party...bringing with them a Kewpie doll each season as a gift for their sweethearts...hence the name...Doll 17...for the seventeenth summer. Anyway, in the 17th summer, changes are afoot, characterised as they are by the changes in each of the characters relationships in the play. Being good theatre, this asks of the audience many questions, about life, the past...the future...change...

...and I was transported. I think this is the mark of good theatre. When a spectator can be taken from his chair, not as the viewer in an upholstered seat, watching a re-enactment of sorts, upon a stage, but to that special place, called Dreamland. In that theatre, in the dark, I went back to a time in my childhood, when everything was not, as I call it now, broken. That's to say, when the family was intact, mortally, and life really was long hazy days spent in corn fields, in golden summers, or so it seems. I spoke with John Nobbs, (Ozfrank) the next day about this, and he knew where I was coming from. "We all yearn for those days, mate", he said, in his Aussie drawl. "Like, we all remember those long lost summers which lasted forever. The thing is, we maybe experienced them once, maybe twice, for three weeks, when we were kids, and we think they lasted forever..."

In a way, he's right. But in my head - I was back there. Dad was alive, mum wasn't dying. Uncles, aunts. Still here.

In the transformed Kino, now the Theater Marie of Suhr, I shed a tear. It was dark.

No one saw.

Shameless Self Promotion

2009-06-28T01:11:00.000+01:00

Clicky Linky http://www.beds.ac.uk/news/2009/jun/090626-performing

Kenny Wisdom's World of Dissocia

2009-05-28T13:51:00.002+01:00

I did what any self-respecting, “only with the lights off”, stiff upper lipped Englishman would do. It was the only decent thing to do, given the circumstances. After all, I thought, what harm could possibly come to me? I was in a car. He was on shank’s pony. Foot traffic nearly always beats motorised, in a court of law. I went through it all in my mind immediately after I turned the corner. Replayed the whole moment back through, in an attempt to synthesise the image and contextualise it. In other circumstances it would be possible to do so. Had I been driving within a stone’s throw of Glastonbury at festival time or had stumbled on an illegal rave or passed a religious cult on their annual picnic, I might just have been able to rationalise it. But I wasn’t, so I couldn’t. So I drove past, without stopping, making a scene or trying to ascertain his mental health is what I did. What else would one do, if you saw a man marching along a deserted country lane, quite forcefully, with only a rucksack and a pair of walking boots on for company? Everything else was swinging in the breeze quite naturally. I couldn’t Adam & Eve it.

One option would have been to swing the car around (excuse the pun!) and take a double check. Not to satisfy any voyeuristic intent, of course, but to make sure I hadn’t hallucinated. It was pretty vivid and felt real, yet so damn bizarre, for a Wednesday afternoon, in May, in England, that I convinced myself I hadn’t actually seen it. We’ll let Freud psychoanalyse the ramifications of that one! I wondered if this is what a decline in mental health feels like? The beginning of a condition. Trust me not to get nubile Swedish au-pairs, twin sisters at that, in my paranoid delusions! Odd too, that this last week I’d been working so closely with a project concerning mental health that I began to dismiss the whole crazy episode down to some delayed reaction. I’d been working with Wooden Hill Theatre in collaboration with Social Work students, care users and care givers in a piece of Boal inspired forum theatre called “Project Vena – A Piece of Mind” which was designed to encourage the Social Work students to begin to appreciate seeing situations from multiple perspectives in a training scenario. What has happened before is that they would apply a text book approach during training, completely shy away from any role-play based scenarios that they might encounter, only to then be unleashed into live practice where they would then begin to hone their craft! Within our theatre model we remove the role-play element, which causes them much consternation, by providing the dramatic input ourselves. We don’t ask them to be care users, or partners, or policemen or landlords or annoying neighbours or any of a multitude of characters they might encounter, but just that they are Social Workers. The relief when this is explained to them at the beginning of a training workshop is tangible, perceptible by the collective sigh and relaxing of shoulders which we witness time and time again. The workshops are skilfully constructed in a way that draws out of the participants a high level of interaction, before they even realise that is what they are doing. Collaborating with us was what the text books like to call “an expert by experience”, but which he likes to call, “a recovered patient”, namely Clive Travis, who suffers from paranoid schizophrenia. If you get the chance, his website is worth looking at, here: http://www.paranoidschizophrenia.co.uk/

What feels most rewarding about this work is that it is helping to remove, (as Clive states in his website) one of the most destructive barriers to recovery and/or treatment, and that is one of stigma. Here, using an applied arts model we are slowly feeding the care system from below, changing attitudes and increasing awareness on a number of issues. Next month sees me going into a mental health unit on which bullying is said to be taking place. It feels pretty groundbreaking to actually use theatre practitioners to engage with people in unorthodox ways to address behaviour and perceptions –certainly Clive feels it is, globally, an innovative approach. I know there are many exponents of Forum Theatre – in this country and elsewhere, so that might be a tall claim, but for now it feels right, important and constructive – nothing of which I achieve in my day job. Now I just have to work out how to deal with the stigma of seeing naked men on country lanes...

The Trial of Simone: Background Notes.

2009-04-21T10:04:00.005+01:00

Firstly, the piece, which is being prepared for performance, has been renamed to "An Ordinary Rendition".

When I began writing An Ordinary Rendition my original intentions were quite different to what was finally realised. Two motivations were at the forefront of my mind. The first was inspired by a lecture I had attended in which Antje Diedrich had discussed feminism in theatre, and that how, (most notably in pre-Post Modernist writing) principle characters were predominately male and indeed, most writers were male! The second key inspiration was that I had become fascinated by the images which had been flashed across our news screens of Guantanamo Bay detainees, and at how iconic their orange prison wear had become. The very image, of “unlawful combatants” shackled, hooded and jump-suited has become synonymous with the War on Terror which continues to be waged today.

Initially, my idea was to create a piece of pro-feminist writing in which two distinct voices are heard – the feminine and masculine of Simone and David. I was aware that one of the major criticisms of feminism being so poorly represented in the theatre was that when it was, it was by conduit of a male writer assuming a feminist knowledge and therefore it was misrepresentative by default! As a writer I had to consider whether my representation of Simone was accurate, in terms of her motivations and dialogue. In some ways though she is nothing more than a theatrical device used to symbolise the largely anonymous “Other Government Agencies” which pervade the Iraqi theatre of war, as much as she is based on the events which surrounded Corporal Lynndie England in 2003. One criticism could be that we know very little of Simone whilst we know much of David’s background. This was intentional, to portray her as the mysterious perpetrator of the abuse delivered against David, but is also emblematic of the fact that I didn’t know if I had found a convincing female voice, beyond a stereotype, for her. However, it was only by attempting to consider the challenge of writing such a piece that the play was realised at all.It was a conscious decision to keep the opening half of the play as mundane as possible, allowing the dialogue to shape the relationship which is forming between the two characters, whilst action is minimal. This was to allow the suspense to build in the spaces between the words, and awkward pauses, à la Pinter, so that when something does happen, it has a visual impact that awakens the senses. Somehow the bright flame orange overall had to possess the otherwise sterile space in a way that has immediacy to it without appearing totally contrived, with enough clues scattered about the dialogue to enable the audience to make a connection between that image and the sub-text. If the first “half” remains enigmatic then the “reveal” should be obvious in the second, although there still remains a risk that it will be interpreted superficially as a piece only about feminist power and control, than one with a political overtone.

Theatre Review: Last Night I Dreamt My House Was Leaking.

2009-03-07T00:16:00.007Z

Last Night I Dreamt My House Was Leaking, by Amanda Price & Mary Steadman (Famous & Divine) at The Place, Bedford, 28th February, 2009.

“I opened my eyes and I saw her at the end of my bed, for a brief second” was our first tantalising glimpse into the darkly disturbing supernatural world created by Amanda Price & Mary Steadman, which veered between the sometimes comic to the horrifically erotic, thinly veiled bridge between life, death & nightmarish Lynchian dreamscape world of tragic Marie, in a piece loosely inspired by Büchner’s incomplete Woyzeck.

Like Woyzeck, in which the surviving manuscript has been chopped and changed in an attempt to find some kind of definitive linearity, Last Night I Dreamt My House Was Leaking cleverly deconstructed the looping narrative constantly, offering as many feasible variations to the theme of “Fifty Ways to Kill Your Lover” as could be imagined in this highly original devised work, through repetitive imagery and dialogue in an unsettling way, replaying the last steps and final moments of Mary Steadman’s heart-wrenching tortured soul Marie, as she finally succumbs to her eventual fate at the hands of maniacal Johnny, just one of multiple roles played with convincing vigour by Amanda Price.

Amateur ghost hunters and Stone Tape Theorists would recognise the futility of the spectral playbacks, interspersed as they were by the repeating spooky motif of a red dress and clicking heel of a single black shoe when Marie was relentlessly pursued by an invisible tormentor in an energetic chase of psychic proportions. No phantom stone of recent popular horror was left unturned as grotesque poltergeists and psychic detectives invaded the space with comic aplomb, whilst making disconcerting use of the simple set and mundane props, where anything from a discarded carrier bag to a pair of yellow marigolds took on a sinister twist, or from the discordant language where the “Moon was made of rotten old wood” and the “Stars are squashed midges stuck to the sky”.

Spirits were not dampened by the technical issues which dogged the performance, apparently characteristic throughout the whole devising process in which attempts to capture the piece on DVD & audio has resulted in phantasmic failure, but in this case was down to the Electricity Board blowing a mains fuse! However, for a debut offering, this coupling promises to be one worth watching in the future. Nothing was compromised in this two-hander as both Steadman and Price switched between character, time and place with consummate ease, at times autobiographical and others completely fictional, but at the same time completely blurring the boundaries between the two states. Whether Price really was spooked out of her Rutland home is a mystery. If the audience left the theatre wondering quite whether they could afford to look over their shoulders, or look in their rear view mirrors, remains a piece of Famous and Divine intervention.

http://www.twothirdssky.co.uk/amstead.htm

The Trial of Simone ©Kenny Wisdom 2009

2009-02-07T00:33:00.006Z

Simone – A smartly dressed woman of about 30.
David – A suited man of about 40.

A waiting room. Two doors stand either side of the back wall. They each bear a sign, one for “Gents” and the other for “Ladies”. There are wooden benches. There is a waste paper bin. There is a clock on the back wall, between the two doors. It is set at 08.42. (It keeps good time). There is a notice board beneath the clock with a timetable and a poster warning that “Thieves operate in this area” pinned to it. There are other notices typical of a train station pinned to the board. A loud speaker sits above each toilet door. The entrance is stage left through a glass-panelled door.

Simone sits in the waiting room with her back to the entrance, on the middle bench, with a portfolio and a camera on her lap and a coat by her side. She is fidgeting. Standing opposite her is a small, unattended suitcase on wheels, and a newspaper on the bench. She takes a picture of it with her camera. The toilet flushes. 10 seconds later David enters through the Gents toilet door and sits opposite Simone. He removes his coat. He moves the suitcase towards him. Simone sits stilly, avoiding his gaze.

Dave (Coughs) Pardon me.

(Stifling a yawn) Terrible weather.

Simone (Without looking) Mmm.

Dave You got far to go?

Simone London.

Dave Me too.

(Pause. A station announcement is heard on the tannoy. It is completely inaudible).

Dave Did you hear that? What was that? I didn’t get any of that.

Simone No. I couldn’t hear it.

Dave Never can. Half the time you can’t understand the accent even if you can hear it.

Simone Mmm…

(Pause)

Dave You a photographer or something, then?

Simone Yes. Something like that.

Dave Those your pictures? Can I have a look? I’m quite keen myself. Well, you know, on holidays and stuff. Not professional but I’ve got a good eye for that kind of thing. I obviously don’t develop my own photos. Well, no need is there? You can just run them down to Boots these days and do them digitally down there in one of those machines. You know what I mean?

Simone Yes. But, no. I mean, yes these are pictures and I know what you mean but these aren’t really pictures for showing.

Dave Huh? What’s the point of that then? I don’t get it.

Simone I have to go. My train will be here in a minute.

Dave Oh. My train too, then.

(They both rise to leave, putting on their coats. Dave picks up his suitcase. Simone exits, holding the door open for Dave. He exits. There is a long pause. Simone returns. She’s talking into a mobile ‘phone.)

Simone “They didn’t say. I don’t know…oh, you know this lot…wrong leaves on the track probably. It’s this bad weather.

(She removes her coat)

Look, I’m not happy about it either. If I could change it, I would, don’t you think I’d do that? They’re sending for some buses. We have to finish the journey in buses. They said in about an hour, though.

(Dave returns, dragging his case behind him. He speaks on a mobile ‘phone as well.)

Dave If you need to, start without me and I’ll be there as soon as – I can set my presentation up during coffee if I need to. There’s going to be a comfort break at some point, I’m sure.

(He removes his coat)

Yes it is bloody inconvenient but there’s not much I can do. I’ll see you later.

(Call ends).

That wasn’t part of the plan! There was nothing on the Net this morning when I looked.

Simone No.

Dave That’s going to put me behind schedule. How about you?

Simone I could have done without it.

Dave Suppose we’ll just have to grin and bear it. Looks like we’re here for the long haul!

Simone It seems we have little choice.

(Dave looks at Simone for a moment then gives up trying to converse. He picks up the newspaper and shuffles the pages, folding the paper over. He starts to do the crossword. Simone plays with her mobile ‘phone.)

Dave (Softly) Five across. Five letters. Indeterminate. Second letter “A”. Ends in “E”.

Simone Vague.

Dave Pardon?

Simone The answer. It’s “V-A-G-U-E”. Vague.

Dave Ha! Thanks! That fits…seven down is “Guilt”, then. Culpability. That’s guilt, isn’t it?

Simone Yes, if you’re that way inclined.

Dave That way?

Simone It was a joke. I meant, if you have a guilty conscience. Then yes, you’d be inclined to think that way. It doesn’t matter. It could have been “Responsibility”, that’s another meaning for the same word. That’s all I meant. You choose the word you most associate with, to begin with, in crosswords.

Dave Do spare me the therapy lesson, but it couldn’t be that, could it? It doesn’t start with a “G” and it was only five letters long.

Simone Fine. Forget I said it. I’ll keep quiet until you get a seven-letter word then!

(Dave continues his puzzle in silence, while Simone sends a text message. Dave ruffles his newspaper, disturbing Simone. He looks up and meets her gaze. He smiles, embarrassed; she does not smile back.)

Simone Reached a seven-letter word?

Dave Yeah

(Pause)

"To punish, coerce, or afford sadistic pleasure”. Seven letters, fourth letter is a T, so it must be beating. Yes! Beating! Never mind, I’ve got it.

(Dave smiles, triumphantly.)

Mind you, when I was a kid, a smack on the backside never did me any harm. When I was bad, my mum put me in my place and I knew I was wrong. These days not even an ASBO can keep kids in line. Kids just run riot these days.

Simone It’s not “beating”.

Dave Sorry, what?

Simone The word you are looking for, it’s not “beating”.

Dave Yes it is, it’s got seven letters and the fourth letter is a T. It fits.

Simone Ok then, you know best. So, when you were a boy and you were bad, your mum smacked you?

Dave Yes, and when I had been really bad she waited for my dad to come home, and that was no fun, I tell you. Taught me discipline though. That’s what kids lack these days. Discipline.

Simone You got kids yourself?

Dave Yeah, I’ve got two.

(He tries to return to his paper)

Simone Yes? …. And do they have names?

Dave (Pause)

Colin and Suzanne.

(He turns away, slightly)

Simone A boy and a girl … how old are they?

Dave (Pause)

Colin is twelve now and Suzanne is nine.

Simone And are they ever bad?

Dave Well, you know, all kids get into trouble, that’s what they’re kids for, right?

(Dave laughs)

Simone And when they are bad, do you smack them?

Dave No.

(He picks up the newspaper)

Simone I don’t understand that. Just a minute ago you said kids need discipline, but your own kids are the exception to that rule? Figures.

Dave (Softly)

No it doesn’t. My kids don’t live with me –

Simone Sorry?

Dave My kids don’t live with me. They live with their mother.

Simone I see, but then you have them on weekends, right?

Dave No, I don’t. We’re divorced - she moved to Australia and I haven’t seen my kids since.

Simone I bet you must miss them?

Dave I do. I’ve got a few photos in my wallet. All I have left. That and the odd phone call, now and then.

(Dave takes out his wallet and looks inside, at the photos of his kids, for a long time. He looks up at Simone again.)

Want to see?

(He holds out his wallet to her. Simone looks at the wallet but waits a moment before taking it. Then she takes it and looks at the photos.)

Simone That’s the beauty of photography; it preserves memories. Good memories and bad memories. Cute kids by the way.

(She hands back the wallet. Dave looks again at the photos and then puts the wallet away in his jacket pocket.)

Dave Thanks. They mean the world to me. I’d do anything to have them back, here with me. I made a terrible mistake.

Simone Really? What?

Dave Letting them go. I know it sounds silly now, but I didn’t feel I had a choice, not then, anyway. She made it sound like they had nothing here, with everything they could ever need on the other side of the world…well, I wasn’t thinking straight as it was…it was a rough time we’d been through.

Simone I didn’t think you could do that – take kids away, overseas?

Dave I signed the consent forms.

Simone You did? What about access?

Dave I thought about that. She said she’d sort it…well, her and, you know, her new partner. They were supposed to pay for the flights, bring the kids over because they can’t travel alone yet – she promised, but then it was all, “Oh, we’ve just got them settled in school” and “Suzanne just started riding lessons, you know it’s the summer here?” and then one year became two -

(Beat)

I feel like I’m becoming a stranger…to my own family…my kids. They started calling him “Daddy”, you know. Suzanne let it slip.

(Beat)

It just came out, like it was normal. “Daddy’s lighting the barbecue,” she said. Barbecue – in December. We sit here shivering and they’re down on the beach waiting for Santa on a jet ski and she hits me with that. I felt…

Simone What? Useless? Betrayed? She’s just a kid…

Dave I know…I don’t blame her – it’s our mess…I just felt…forgotten. When I talk to them, it’s like they’re forgetting who I am and I’m missing so much. Kids that age – they change so quickly, don’t they? One minute leaping in your arms for a hug and the next they’re too cool for all that – they’d rather be with their mates. That comes around soon enough and I’m not even getting to see that, am I?

Simone Why don’t you go out there then? It’s not just a one-way street, is it? You could travel there, couldn’t you?

Dave It’s expensive.

Simone But worth it, surely?

Dave Of course it is. No question. I just haven’t got much money at the moment. I wasn’t working for a while. Things got rocky. It’s partly what we…started to argue about. Things went a bit quiet at work…well they did, didn’t they, after 9-11? We didn’t see it coming, not at first. Started with our expenses – Management taking a closer look at them, cutting back, telling us to find cheaper hotels, reducing our budgets - should have seen it coming I suppose, but you keep telling yourself it’s just a bad month, things will pick up…

Simone What was it you did?

Dave (Pause)

Packet mixes, dried goods, that type of thing. I sold to the Middle East. Cake mixes – just add water, you know? I sold cakes to the Arabs.

Simone You’ve been to the Middle East?

Dave Yes, I have. When I first joined, that market was really opening up. They loved it. We were one of the first in there. Everything was going fantastically, and then 9-11 happened, and it all changed. I guess people didn’t want the West in a packet anymore. The order books started getting thinner. The atmosphere changed, you know?

Simone Hostile?

Dave Yes, in a way. Those people are extremely generous. You visit them at home, there’s tea and all kinds of sweets, and you can’t refuse - that’s considered rude! Sometimes there’s an entire meal. Then it changed. It just wasn’t so safe moving around and then we were advised to hire security and it all started to go downhill, the cost of that combined with the cancelled orders.

Simone The Company went bankrupt?

Dave No, not that, we just lost too much of the market. I was made redundant and we’d just bought a house. I was the breadwinner since my wife was of the opinion that a mother needs to stay home with her kids before they become social deviants…

Simone Sounds like you don’t necessarily agree with that?

Dave Any kid can end screwed up. All I know is that it would have made a hell of a difference to my marriage if she’d got a job to bring in some cash. As it was, I didn’t have the guts to tell her.

Simone Excuse me? You didn’t tell your wife you got fired? How did you get away with that?

Dave I didn’t in the end, did I? I lost it all. I hung on for as long as I could. Left the house every morning and came back at the normal time.

Simone Jesus! What did you do all day? Sit in the park?

Dave Sometimes, when the weather was good. You’d think it would be easy to spend hours in London, but it was hell. I was so terrified of running into somebody I knew that I was on edge all day. Look, you don’t need me boring you with all this –

Simone Not at all. Other people’s lives fascinate me. I’m a bit of a voyeur in that sense. Carry on.

Dave Where was I? Oh, yes…so that was stressing me out, trying to pass the time until it was time to go home again. Sometimes I pretended to go on business trips, like I used to do. I’d just find the cheapest hotel I could down on the coast. That was depressing, but in a way it was relaxing too. Does that make sense?

Simone I think I can understand that.

Dave But of course it all cost money and it got to me in the end… I mean … Torquay, in November - damp on the wallpaper - money I didn’t have. I’d been dipping into our savings account for a couple of months, as it was. I didn’t see a way out, and when I was home I don’t suppose I was much fun to be around. My wife kept nagging and we kept fighting and in the end we just fell apart and then it all came out. So that was the end of the marriage. She said I was a coward for not telling her. Obviously I was never to be trusted again. “Just like all men” she said. Do you think men can’t be trusted?

Simone (Pause)

If I was being kind I’d say that men sometimes appear to have a different view of reality than women.

Dave And if you were to be unkind?

Simone I’ll be unkind later.

Dave (Thinking)

She moved back in with her mum and took the kids with her – my name was mud, of course – and then she met her new bloke while on a night out. She couldn’t get a job in the daytime - but it is all right for her to be out at night? As it turned out this bloke had an uncle in Australia that needed help with his business, and next thing she ups-sticks and leaves. I had to sell the house and I end up in a bed-sit.

Simone You said it would have made a difference if your wife had a job, but you didn’t tell her the truth about losing your job? Do you think you deserved to be trusted? It seems clear to me that –

Dave It does, does it? I guess for you it’s all black and white then? I am not proud of what I did. If I could turn the clock back I’d do things differently, of course I would. But you weren’t there so you don’t know what it was like – no one does, until it happens. Things just happened, they spiralled out of control. It started with a lie – a little white lie – I didn’t know it would go on so long. I was going to get another job – tell her then. Tell her I’d been looking around, that this would be good for my career – she didn’t need to know I’d lost my job and have all that worry. It wasn’t about trust then was it? I was doing it for love. I wanted to protect them, all of them. Get things back on track, just tighten my belt a little bit, and move on. I thought I’d just walk into a job; start doing what I’m best at. Sales – it’s in my blood. I get off on the buzz, the whole “schmooze”. Setting up the deal, pushing and prodding until it’s closed. Anticipating the next move, being ready for it. If you know what’s coming next you can’t get caught out –

(Simone stifles a giggle)

Hey, what’s so funny?

Simone I’m sorry! I’m not laughing at you, honestly. It’s just something you said.

Dave What?

Simone About the lies

Dave What of them?

Simone The whole thing. The Middle East. Iraq. It all started with a lie, didn’t it?

Dave Yes…but they sold it to us, didn’t they?

Simone And we bought it.

Dave A funny thing, though. Not Iraq…that’s different. What I did. You know, I really wasn’t trying to deceive anyone. Things just took a turn for the worse. Do you see that? Is it clearer now?

Simone I see it. I know what you’re saying. It’s just, well, in hindsight, wouldn’t it have been better to tell the truth earlier rather than later? No one seems to have the guts to do that these days, do they? I don’t mean to say I think you’re a dishonest man – what’s your name? I don’t think I caught it?

Dave David. I prefer Dave though. And you?

Simone (Laughing)

I prefer Dave too.

Dave No I meant –

Simone I know! I’m Simone.

Dave I like that. Pretty name.

Simone It means, “She heard” in Hebrew. I’m a good listener. I like to people watch – anyway, what was I saying?

Dave I’m not a dishonest man –

Simone That’s right. I mean I doubt you set out to be deceptive, but once you knew, you could have avoided a whole heap of trouble, surely? Is that a fair comment?

Dave In retrospect, it is. But then I suppose, looking back, I’d do so many things differently. No point in living a life of regrets is there? I spent long enough feeling sorry for myself as it is, until I got myself back on my feet again.

(The station tannoy crackles. It whines with feedback, then pops. Rock N roll music plays for a few seconds. The speakers whine before falling silent again. Dave looks up at the speakers. Simone does not react)

Dave Huh? You’d think they’re trying to make us feel comfortable, or something. I suppose that means we are in for a long wait. Some light entertainment wouldn’t hurt.

Simone We’ll just have to provide our own entertainment, won’t we, so we don’t go nuts? I don’t think I ever saw such a stimulus free room like this one.

Dave A what room?

Simone A stimulus free room. You know, a room with nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing to hear. Like in a prison cell. Ever been inside a prison?

Dave No, I can’t say I have. I didn’t sink that low you know.

Simone I don’t know if people in prisons have necessarily sunk low, per se. Each person has his or her own story. Sometimes it’s just a lack of insight that causes them to make the wrong choices.

Dave Well, as far as I’m concerned people that end up in prison are criminals who broke the law and got what they deserved. If you can’t do the time…don’t do the…

Simone Now that’s what I call black and white thinking. So you see, we’re all guilty of that.

Dave Do you honestly think that our prisons are filled with innocent people? “Victims” of society? Sorry - I really think that’s very naive.

Simone Okay, maybe we should let that discussion rest for a bit. You said you got yourself back on your feet again?

Dave Yes, I did. Found another job, no perks like the old job, but still. An income. Then I found a place to live in rented accommodation. At least now I feel sort of like a useful member of society again.

Simone And a new girlfriend?

Dave No. In fact, I’ll be thinking twice before entering into another commitment like marriage. You plan your life, sort of, as well as you can really, and somebody else can just take everything away from you. I’m in no rush to fall into that trap again. You don’t really trust men, do you? Well, maybe you didn’t say it quite like that but I bet you learned it the hard way. Am I right?

Simone (Pause)

Things learned the hard way are often best remembered.

Dave That’s a nice generalisation, but very evasive, Simone. Am I the only one being interrogated here? In this … what was it again … stimulus free prison cell?

(The tannoy pops again and the lights flicker. A fragment of Born In The USA by Bruce Springsteen is audible for a few seconds).

Simone Excuse me a moment.

(She picks up her handbag and goes into the ladies room).

Dave Slippery eel, that one.

(Dave sits. His gaze falls on Simone’s portfolio He hesitates then checks around him. He opens the portfolio and looks at some photos.)

Bloody hell!!

(The toilet flushes. He closes the portfolio. He returns to his seat, as Simone enters. She holds a toilet chain in her hand. She notices the portfolio has been moved but says nothing).

Simone No news?

Dave News?

Simone News on the delay.

Dave No, no news. All’s quiet on the Western front.

(Laughs nervously)

Did you break the chain or something?

Simone Something like that. It’s better to not leave pieces of chain lying around unattended for someone to hurt themselves on.

(Simone puts the chain in her handbag).

Dave I’m beginning to think there’s no one else here but us. Do you think we’ve been forgotten?

Simone I wouldn’t put anything past them. I’m sure we haven’t been. Go and get yourself a cup of tea if you’re that bothered. Ask someone what’s going on.

Dave I couldn’t drink that swill! Still, that’s not a bad idea. It won’t hurt to chase them up, find out what’s going on. Can I get you anything? A drink? Sandwich? Anything?

Simone Coffee would be good. Black, no sugar, please.

Dave ‘Cos you’re sweet enough already! No worries. My treat. Sure you don’t want anything to eat?

(Simone rolls her eyes)

Simone No thanks. A coffee will be fine.

Dave Okay. Be back in a mo.

(Dave puts on his coat)

Will you keep an eye on my stuff?

Simone Of course! It’s not like it’s going anywhere though.

Dave (Laughs)

I suppose you’re right. Still, can’t be too careful.

(He points at the “thieves” poster on the notice board)

Two coffees it is then, coming right up.

Simone Okay.

(Dave exits. Simone waits for him to leave then picks up her portfolio agitatedly. She flicks through it then snaps it shut. She is annoyed. A few more moments pass and Dave returns, empty-handed)

Dave That just takes the bloody piss! The café is shut. What’s more – I couldn’t find anyone around. Not even in the ticket office. That’s shut as well. There’s a sign up, that’s all.

(Dave removes his coat and throws it onto the bench)

It just says “Substitute Bus Service Operating”. Someone must be here, operating that bloody music.

Simone Music?

Dave On the tannoy. That racket that keeps coming out. They can’t even get that to work right.

Simone Dave, what are you going on about? Just sit down, will you?

Dave Oh, never mind. Sorry about the coffee. Now I can’t have it I’m really thirsty.

Simone It doesn’t matter about the coffee. Now will you sit down?

(Dave sits)

I kept an eye on your stuff.

Dave Thanks.

Simone I don’t think you understood. I’ll say it again. I watched over your things, Dave. While you were gone. It was a question of trust. I don’t even know you, yet I watched your kit and do you know what, Dave?

Dave What?

Simone In all the time you were out, I never once thought about looking through your belongings. That’s what trust means, Dave. But then you’re an honest guy, aren’t you? You told me that you are. And we can leave the good guys in charge of our things, can’t we? We know they’ll be safe, because that’s what the good guys do, isn’t it Dave? They look after our stuff. They don’t go rifling through it, like a petty criminal. Am I making any sense, Dave?

Dave No, actually –

Simone Shut up! Come on – you know what I’m talking about, don’t you? Don’t tell me if your mum found you with your hand in the cookie jar you’d still deny taking any? Do you like peeking at other people’s things? Does it give you a kick? Got any sisters, Dave? Would you sneak around their rooms? Go through their drawers? Is that what you do, Dave?

Dave No! You’ve got it all wrong. I just –

Simone Just what? Couldn’t help your self? Is there something you’d like to say to me, Dave? Anything you need to get off your chest?

Dave Look – I – I just took a look at some of your pictures. I was genuinely interested, that’s all. I didn’t mean to upset you – I wasn’t rifling through your things, honest.

Simone That word, again. I told you they weren’t for looking at, but that wasn’t enough for you was it? It wasn’t enough that you could just take me at my word. You had to step over the line. Take a bite from the apple. You’ve broken my trust. What are we to do now?

Dave Can’t we just put it behind us? Won’t you just accept my apology? Forget it happened? I only saw a couple of pictures. I won’t mention it again if you –

Simone It’s not as simple as that, is it? You’ve seen enough. We can’t just wipe the slate clean, can we? What possessed you? This is a situation now, Dave. I don’t think you realise how serious this is. For Christ’s sake, I didn’t go rooting through your suitcase when you went out. It’s a violation. Have you ever been burgled? Had a stranger go through your house? Ransacking everything? Do you know how that feels?

Dave No – that’s never happened to me, but I can imagine you’d feel pretty sick.

Simone That’s right. It’s a feeling you don’t shake. But it’s more than that. Once it’s happened, it changes things in a way that you can’t just forget about. You know it’s happened and it doesn’t just go away.

Dave Aren’t you overreacting just a bit? It’s hardly the same thing, is it? I looked at your pictures –

Simone You stole a peek –

Dave Glanced, barely a glimpse –

Simone You shouldn’t have –

Dave But I did – and let’s be frank – why am I the one on trial here? How are you turning this all on me? I saw enough – and something doesn’t stack up here – what the hell are they all about? Who are you? Sitting there all high and mighty – the only reason you’re so wound up is you’re worried that I’ll tell someone about them and from where I’m looking that’s your problem more than it is mine. How about you do some explaining now? Try convincing me why I should keep quiet? Do you know what would happen if the press got hold of them? There’d be a scandal – I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. You’d be lynched.

Simone You don’t understand. You’re taking them out of context, for a start. You’ve made a judgement based on nothing. It’s your own subjectivity speaking here. You don’t have the facts. If I paw through your things will I know you, Dave? Come on – if we open up your suitcase will we know the man? Eh? Failed marriage, couldn’t keep hold of his kids – born loser? Got it all wrapped up in there, have you?

Dave Shut up! Don’t call me that again or I’ll –

Simone You’ll what? Go on – tell me –

Dave Let it go. Just leave it. This is ridiculous. You left that portfolio out for the whole world to see and now you start getting priggish about it – you want to start looking closer to home, lady, before throwing wild accusations around. I didn’t mean any harm by it.

(Dave puts his coat on. He pulls the suitcase and goes to leave)

Simone Now who’s being ridiculous? Look at it out there – it’s pouring down. You’ll be soaked. Just stay, for goodness sake. Sit back down.

(Dave stands at the door, looking out. He thinks twice about leaving)

Dave Alright. But you’ve got it all wrong you know.

Simone What have I got wrong?

Dave My life. This suitcase. It’s not how you said it. That’s not what’s in here. You don’t know me. Don’t make out you do. What do you know about me anyway? A few things I told you. I love my kids. I wish I hadn’t opened my big mouth now.

Simone I’m not judging you. I didn’t judge you. It’s not as if you’re the first, is it? Loads of fathers don’t live with their kids. It doesn’t mean they don’t care about them, does it?

Dave That’s right. I’d do anything for my kids. I love them to pieces. I’m not a loser.

Simone I didn’t mean what I said. It just came out. I got mad, that’s all.

Dave You must have thought it, to say it?

Simone I didn’t, really. I just lashed out. I know how to push buttons, that’s all. It’s not that difficult. We’re all just walking egos. I simply took your legs from under you, in a manner of speaking. It wasn’t personal. You’re right, of course. I don’t know you. Pay it no heed. After today we’ll probably never even see each other again.

Dave Fair enough.

(He paces)

Oh, this is stupid! How long does it take to get a bus to come out? What kind of service do they call this? For God’s sake. I’m going to call someone. Something needs to be done about this. I can’t believe there’s no one about. Who do you think I should call?

Simone I haven’t a clue! What good will it do? It won’t get a bus out any quicker will it? Not in this weather anyway. It’ll be flooding, further down the track, I imagine. You can’t really blame anyone for that, can you?

Dave Not really – but we shouldn’t have just been abandoned here either! Do you think they’ve forgotten us?

(Dave scans the notice board)

Simone What are you doing now?

Dave Looking to see if there’s a number. Someone I can call.

Simone Well? Is there?

Dave Not that I can see. There’s a Customer Service Charter. Full of the usual bullshit - “We have approachable and proactive Customer Service staff” – that’s taking the Mick, isn’t it? There’s nobody here! Hang on. Lost property. There’s a number for lost property. I can’t see anything else. Shall I ring them?

Simone What would they be able to do?

Dave I don’t know really. Put me in touch with someone who can help?

Simone Where are they? Their office could be anywhere. You do know that don’t you?

Dave They must have useful numbers to call. It’s worth a try. There’s bugger all else on this board. It’s well out of date. It doesn’t look like it’s been updated in ages. I’ll give them a call.

(Dave takes his mobile ‘phone from his pocket. He dials the number and puts the ‘phone to his ear).

For crying out loud!

Simone What now?

Dave No signal. Look! It was alright earlier. What about yours? Can I borrow your ‘phone.

(Simone takes her ‘phone out and checks it. She hands it to Dave).

Thanks.

(He dials and waits)

What? Number not recognised?

Simone Sure you dialled right?

Dave I think so.

Simone Try again.

Dave Okay. Nope. Same again. Not getting through on that number. Forget it.

(He hands the ‘phone back).

Simone What about directory enquiries? Give them a ring. Go on. Take it back. Try again.

Dave No, it’s alright. Like you said – probably won’t do any good anyway.

Simone It was worth a shot.

Dave It was a good idea. I’ve calmed down now. Can’t be bothered. Who would you call anyway?

Simone Probably not “Lost Property”.

Dave No. That was a bit stupid.

Simone (Laughing).

You could tell them some of their people are missing.

Dave Yes!

Simone That’s better!

Dave What is?

Simone Laughing about it. No point in getting stressed, is there?

Dave It does seem pointless. I’m going to miss my meeting at this rate anyway. There’s no way I’m going to make it in time, not now. Maybe I should call them?

Simone You’re welcome to use my ‘phone if you want. Is it an important meeting?

Dave Reasonably so. I think I will call them, if I may? I ought to touch base. Tell them it’s looking unlikely I’ll get there. They’ve got my PowerPoint file. They can run without me.

Simone Expendable, eh? Computers. They told me at school we’d have more leisure time when the computers take over. Another lie, don’t you think?

Dave That’s true. I work more hours now than I ever did before. I wouldn’t call it being expendable. It’s quite fortunate actually. It’s our policy to share files around – exactly for these reasons. My presentation can still be shown without me. What about you? Don’t you ever use digital? For your pictures?

Simone Sometimes. Occasionally. Not for all of them. Not for the more…sensitive ones.

Dave Why not?

Simone Because they’re not for showing. I already said.

Dave What difference does it make if they’re digital or not?

Simone Think about it. Click. Click. Send. It’s too easy.

Dave (Pause)

Clunk, click. Every trip.

Simone I beg your pardon?

Dave What you just said. Click, click. It reminds me of my childhood. Something they used to say, about seatbelts. Strapping in. Clunk, click, before your trip. Jimmy Savile - back in the seventies. You just reminded me.

Simone It doesn’t bear much resemblance.

Dave I know. I was being silly. It was one of those silly health and safety films. Like “Charlie Says”. Only, it wasn’t health and safety. Quite forward thinking for the time when you think about it, considering how preoccupied we are now with safety. Like that film with the couple watching the man at sea.

Simone Who was at sea?

Dave This man on a boat. He was tossing about at sea, out of his depth. This couple were on shore watching with their binoculars. He was waving and they were watching. Of course, he needed help but they were too dim witted to know it. It was a film for the Coastguard, or something. Don’t you remember?

Simone Can’t say I do. So what happened to the man?

Dave Drowned, I think. At least he would have had, if it were real.

Simone It wasn’t real?

Dave No, it was just a cartoon. They all were. Like “Charlie says, don’t go off with strangers”.

Simone Charlie?

Dave Charlie was a cat. I don’t know what the kid was called. Kid was a twat anyway. Always just about to go off with strangers until Charlie intervened. Got a kipper for his trouble.

Simone Who, the kid?

Dave No, Charlie did. Got a fish for being good.

Simone And what did you get for being good, Dave?

Dave Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? You never got anything for doing the right thing, did you? A clip around the ear if you didn’t. Sod all if you did. Mind you, I’m sure that’s a damn sight better than the alternative.

Simone What exactly was the alternative?

Dave God only knows. A fate worse than death, I should wonder. No one quite told you what the stranger would do, but we knew it wasn’t good. It didn’t matter how cute the puppies might look, or how tempting the sweets, we all knew that we shouldn’t accept lifts from strangers.

Simone Good advice, I’m sure. It got you this far, after all. Just how many lifts from strangers have you been offered, Dave?

Dave Well, there’s the thing. Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever been offered any.

Simone Never mind! At least you knew what to do if you were!

Dave (Laughing)

You don’t think it was just another lie, do you?

Simone What? The grown ups lying to you? Come on, heaven forbid! If you were offered, you’d still know what to do, right?

Dave I’d not accept it -

Simone Oh, I thought you’d know to put your seatbelt on, that’s all, or else you’d get a good hiding!

Dave That’s about the size of it. Still, it never -

Simone Did you any harm. So you said.

Dave Well, it didn’t, did it? Just think, back then we could go off on our bikes. Go off for miles, anywhere we liked, during the school holidays. We’d tell our mums we were off, in the mornings. Me and my mates. We’d pack a bag, full of sandwiches. Peanut butter was my favourite. Peanut butter sarnies and a bottle of pop. No peanut allergies back then! Full of E numbers and off we’d trot off into the country. Not a care in the world - just had to be back in time for tea.

Simone And I expect the summers were longer, too?

Dave Well, they were, weren’t they? I’m not kidding! Didn’t they seem longer to you?

Simone No, you just spent more time out, back then. You just think they were longer.

Dave We’d go off for miles. Down the back roads and past the heath. We’d stop off, at the stream and swing on the rope someone had put up, on a tree. Swinging over the stream, daring each other to go out further and further. I remember one time. Hanging too low, on the swing. I held my legs out in front of me and smacked right into a boulder. Whacked my coccyx. I couldn’t move. I just sat there in the water. My mates laughed. They didn’t realise how much pain I was in. It knocked the wind right out of me.

Simone Not entirely without risks, then?

Dave No, but those were the types of knocks all kids suffer from growing up. Another time, we rode out further than we ever had before. A long way, and we came to a ford.

Simone A ford?

Dave Where the stream crosses the road. There was this footbridge.

Simone And?

Dave We took it in turns to ride through as fast as we possibly could. It was my turn. I took a run up, gathering speed. I was going at top speed. The water was only a few inches deep. I hit the water at a funny angle and my bike just went from under me. I went one way and the bike went another. We didn’t have helmets back then!

Simone What happened? Were you hurt?

Dave Luckily I wasn’t. But it scared me. I was soaked but it was a warm sunny day. We waited, just throwing stones in the water as I dried out. Then this family walked on by.

Simone A family?

Dave They must have walked miles. We were in the middle of nowhere.

Simone Unless they had just parked up nearby?

Dave Maybe. I hadn’t thought of it like that.

Simone What about them, anyway?

Dave Oh, nothing really. Just, there they were. Mum, dad. Grandma, I think, by the looks of the older woman. Then some kids. A girl - about sixteen, and a boy, a bit younger, I think. She had a cheesecloth blouse on and denim shorts. When they all got to the ford they started splashing each other. Soaking them. All laughing. No one minded getting wet. God - at one point, we even thought she - the girl - was going to take her blouse off. We nearly died!

Simone Perverts!

Dave It wasn’t like that. It was just schoolboy stuff. In our dreams, maybe. But I always remembered it. That day. Even when there was danger, it didn’t feel bad. Do you think many families go out walking with their kids now? Did you, ever?

Simone Not much. I always kept myself pretty much to myself.

Dave I wonder what happened to them. That family. I wonder what they’re all doing now. If they remember those days too? Where did you used to go as a kid then?

Simone I’d ride, too. But to this little cemetery. It was quiet. I’d read.

Dave That’s morbid, isn’t it?

Simone It was peaceful. I’d lie back listening to the birds. Watch the clouds. Blue skies. I liked it.

Dave Didn’t you have many friends?

Simone Sure I did. I just liked my own company too.

Dave I like mine as well. I’d like to go back.

Simone To the stream?

Dave No. To those days. When I was younger. Sometimes I wish I could take that kid to one side.

Simone Who, the girl?

Dave No, me! Sometimes I wish I could take me to one side and give myself some good advice.

Simone Advice? What would you say?

Dave I don’t know, really. Maybe tell myself to just enjoy these days. Make the most of them. One day, they’ll all be over. Keep hold of the memories, because at the end of it all, that’s all you’ll have. Memories.

Simone You’re being extremely maudlin, Dave. You make it sound like all the good days are over.

Dave I know that’s not true. Just, when you get older you’ve got to get on with the business of life. Back then it was just about living. Carefree, wasn’t it? None of the crap that adulthood brings. I never realised what my parents had to give up to give me all that. Now I have a better understanding I’ve got a greater respect for them. For it.

Simone That’s nice then, isn’t it? See, it’s not just about lies, is it? Sometimes it’s about protecting your kids from the truth. You don’t need to know everything, do you? Maybe there’s nothing you could tell that kid. Have you ever thought about that?

Dave I have. I think maybe I just want to put a hand on his shoulder. Tell him he’s alright.

Simone Even if you could, it wouldn’t work, would it?

Dave What do you mean?

Simone You’d have to run away from him, wouldn’t you?

Dave Run away?

Simone From the stranger!

(Pause)

Do you still want to make that telephone call?

Dave No. I’ll leave it for now.

(The speaker’s whine and pop. Christina Aguilera’s “Genie in a Bottle” plays for a few bars).

It’s ironic, in a way.

Simone What is?

Dave All this talk of safety and safety gear.

Simone Why’s that then?

Dave Because of what I ended up in.

Simone Safety?

Dave You asked me if this suitcase summed up my life. What if I opened this case? Would you know the real Dave?

Simone Well? Would we?

Dave It’s all in here. The sum total of Dave. All in this little case. Nothing too exciting really. Just my samples. “Evans’ Health and Safety Wear”. There’s me banging on about helmets and kneepads – guess what’s in here?

Simone Astound me. Helmets and kneepads?

Dave Nearly right! Safety-wear, for sure. Ear defenders, eye goggles, overalls. “Safety in the workplace is our business”. That’s where I was going. To launch our latest most exciting and innovative range of work wear. And you can have any logo of your choice, on the breast pocket. Pretty damn sexy, huh?

Simone Someone has to do it, I suppose. It’s all in there, is it?

Dave Just some of the range. We’ve just improved our fire retardant overalls with new lines and a new exciting catalogue. Funny how even the most boring things get called exciting when they’re trying to flog them.

Simone It’s all about marketing, isn’t it? They could hardly be honest about it, could they? Here’s our new range of “Functional Utilitarian Work Wear” doesn’t quite have a ring to it, does it?

Dave No!

Simone Do I get to see the real Dave then? Are you going to open the case and show me this exciting range of fashionable accessories for the workingman?

Dave You don’t want to see this, believe me!

Simone Go on – just humour me. Pretend I’m your client. “Schmooze” me.

Dave (He unclips the suitcase)

What do we have here then?

(Dave pulls out a cotton bag)

This is a con for a start. See this lovely cotton bag? That’s just for the samples. First thing you’ll get is a nice polythene bag, and don’t forget to keep it away from children and pets!

Simone Of course – not to mention suicidal insomniacs with a handful of pills! Carry on, sir!

Dave And out of this utility bag, I produce our most cutting-edge fire retardant overalls, madam! I present to you the Mark IV version of our “Flame Boy Overall”!

(Dave unfolds a set of bright orange flame retardant overalls)

Pretty, eh?

Simone Practical is the word I’d use.

Dave There aren’t many words for it, is there? They do try, down in marketing, to sex these things up. When it boils down to it, overalls are just overalls aren’t they? Well, there you have it – my life, in a bag.

Simone Put them on!

(Simone takes a photograph)

Go on – I could use some of these in a feature.

Dave What, these? Don’t be daft.

Simone Really. Go on - put them on. Don’t be shy. It’s what I do. The right picture - in the wrong place. You haven’t got anything to lose.

Dave Nothing to gain either. It’s silly.

Simone No, it isn’t. This is just the right setting. An empty waiting room. Put them on, Dave.

Dave You’re serious, aren’t you?

Simone Deadly. No one need know. Put them on.

Dave But – the pictures? You’ll have them?

Simone And no one will see them. Leastways, not your face. Are you going to put them on, or not?

(Dave hesitates, and then unfolds the overalls. He removes his jacket and shoes then slips the overalls on)

Dave How do you want me?

Simone That’s fine. Just as you are. Stand against the notice board. That’s it. Perfect.

(Simone shoots some pictures)

Dave I feel awkward. Are you sure this is okay?

Simone It’s great. You need to relax. You should be more trusting.

Dave It’s not like I even know you. It’s not everyday you get asked to sit for some photo’s by a complete stranger. Look, this is silly. It just doesn’t feel right.

Simone Just a few more. Put the cotton bag over your head. Then no one will know it’s you, will they?

Dave Oh come on! Like I’m going to do that!

Simone Five minutes, that’s all. It’ll make all the difference – give them a different context. You’ve seen my work. It will fit in my portfolio perfectly. Will you do it, Dave? Please?

(Dave picks up the cotton bag. He hesitates then slips it over his head. Simone pulls the drawstring a little tighter)

Simone That’s so perfect, Dave. Kneel down.

(Dave kneels)

Put your hands behind your back, just for a moment.

(Dave puts his hands behind his back. Simone takes some handcuffs from her handbag. Before Dave can react she puts the cuffs on him)

Dave What the hell are you doing? What are those? Are you a copper or something?

Simone If you want me to be – now SHUT UP!

(Dave tries to stand. Simone kicks him in the small of his back)

Just sit down. We haven’t finished yet.

(She shoots more pictures)

Dave This has gone far enough. I demand you undo me.

Simone When I’m done, Dave. You’ll be undone then.

Dave Why are you doing this? Is it money? Do you want my money? Take my money and let me go.

Simone Money? This isn’t about money. Now be quiet. Just shut up. Stay down. Don’t move.

Dave I – but – look –

(Simone kicks Dave again)

Simone I asked for silence. That’s good, Dave. Very good, indeed. I can see this working out just fine, if you stick to the ground rules. We can learn those together, as we go along, if you like. I have a question for you, just nod for yes. Do you understand?

(Dave nods)

Good boy! Dave – you’re not going to give me any trouble, are you?
(Dave shakes his head)
Thank you, Dave. I appreciate that, though you’re not really in a position to give me any trouble, are you? However, it is good to know that we have an understanding. We’re mutually dependent on each other. You must not worry. If you play by the rules I can assure you that you’ll be fine. We do seem to have a bit of a situation here, though, don’t we? Dave – you can talk to me, Dave.

Dave Yes – look, will you let me go now – this is nuts, just fucking crazy. Just stop it now, please?

Simone Oh, come Dave. It’s not real, any of this. You - you’re not really worried, are you? Really? I’m surprised at you. Hold that position –

(Simone takes more pictures)

That’s good. Really good, Dave. You’re a natural. Have you modelled before?

(Takes pictures)

Well, Dave? Have you? Dave, don’t go shy on me now. I felt I was just getting to know you – the real you – okay, don’t move a moment – nice! Can you turn this way? Towards me. Just a few more. Lean forward a bit. Dave! Play fair - come on. Ground rules, Dave.

(Simone moves to Dave and shoves him)

I need you to move, this way. That’s a rule from now on. Rule number one. You do as I say.

Dave Shove it. Get fucked.

(Simone digs her heel into Dave’s back and slowly pushes him forward until he is touching the floor.)

Simone That’s better – more like it. I’m not sure I liked your tone then, Dave. That wasn’t nice. Not nice at all. I need to be able to depend on you. I thought I could. I’ve a feeling about you. Instincts are good. I’m not usually wrong about people. I thought you were on my side. I need to know. Are you, Dave?

(Beat)

David?

(Beat)

Rule two, Dave. I need an answer. Are you with me, or against me?

(Beat)

I can’t hear you.

(Simone pulls Dave back to a kneeling position. She removes the chain that she had placed in her handbag earlier. She goes behind Dave and wraps the chain around his neck, tugging at it. Dave gags slightly. She repeats, and then releases the tension.)

You’re free to make a choice, Dave.

Dave (Whispers) With you.

Simone Thank you. That’s a relief. For a minute things were looking ugly. That’s not what I’m about; you must believe me, Dave.

Dave Water…

Simone Pardon?

Dave Can I have some water please?

Simone Yes, Dave. Of course you may. Though I don’t have anything to put it in. Hold on…

(She looks through the wastepaper basket by the bench and finds an empty water bottle)

You’re in luck. I need to do something first. Relax or else it will hurt you…

(Simone ties the chain off around Dave’s neck and then to the bench. She goes to the ladies toilet. The Tannoy plays David Gray’s Babylon for a few seconds . Simone returns with the bottle, now filled with water.)

I’m going to remove the hood, Dave. I need you to stay calm. Keep still.

(She removes the hood. She puts the bottle to Dave’s mouth. He drinks. Simone sits down, looking tired.)

I need a cigarette. You look like you could do with one too. Would you like that?

(She lights a cigarette. She moves across to Dave and holds the cigarette to his lips. He resists.)

Come on, Dave. Take it.

(Dave relents and takes the cigarette between his lips. He puffs on it. Simone strokes his head gently before taking the cigarette.)

You remind me of someone, you do, sitting there, quietly.

Dave My knees hurt. We can stop this. I need to stand…

(Simone goes to discard the cigarette in the wastepaper bin)

That’s not out! You’ll start a fire.

Simone You’re right. How thoughtful. Very safety conscious.

(Simone pours a drop of water on the cigarette and discards it)

Dave My knees – please help me up.

(Simone pulls Dave to his feet. He stares at her. She pushes him onto the bench)

Who were you thinking of?

Simone Someone I hadn’t thought of for a long time. I used to see her, every week. Every Tuesday, I’d drive past her, in a blur, hardly noticing her at first and she certainly didn’t see me.

Dave Who was she?

Simone She was an old lady, sat on her wall. Smoking a cigarette. Sat, staring into space.

Dave So what?

Simone It was that look. Like she had run out of time, waiting for it all to end. I never ever saw anyone with her –

Dave My arms are hurting –

Simone All alone –

Dave Did you hear me?

Simone No one came and no one went –

Dave Simone…

Simone So alone, like you. I wanted to talk to her. Ask her things about her life. She had to be more than just what I saw…

Dave Listen! Simone! These handcuffs are digging into me.

Simone That rhymed, didn’t it?

Dave The cuffs, Simone –

Simone You need to calm down, first. I need to know you won’t do anything silly.

Dave You bitch. You stupid, stupid bitch. Stop this madness now –

Simone Dave, you need to bite that tongue of yours. Curb it. That’s not a nice thing to say.

Dave What do you expect? This is so undeniably fucked up.

Simone I’ll let that go, this time. Remember the ground rules, though – rule three.

(Simone leans in close to Dave, studying his face)

Show respect.

(Pause)

You’ve got that look. The same one she had. It’s in your eyes. The eyes don’t lie. They never do. Tell a lie…be betrayed by an eye. Right now, I’m your best friend. You’re nice to your friends, aren’t you? Let me look at you.

(Simone blows gently across Dave’s face)

Dave Don’t do that.

Simone Why, don’t you like it? Is it not soothing?

Dave It hurts my eyes. Stop it.

Simone Don’t you like me this close to you? Does it disturb you?

Dave You make me uncomfortable.

Simone I’m the cool breeze on your face…a gentle wind…does it tickle?

Dave No, it’s pissing me off, actually.

Simone That’s no way to speak, is it Dave? I’m being nice here. You don’t treat people very well at all. You’re very adversarial, you know. You need to work on your people skills. Try being more forgiving, Dave. Give a little. I only wanted to make you feel nice.

Dave Like how? Like this? I’ve got my hands tied behind my back, you’re completely mental and this is supposed to be enjoyable? What would be nice is if you stop this charade right now. Do it now - before someone comes along. If you do I won’t say anything, okay? I promise – but this has gone far enough. You’ve had your joke. Now end it.

(Simone puts a finger to Dave’s lips, to silence him)

Simone Hush little baby
Don’t say a word
Mama’s going to buy you
A mocking bird…

It’s no joke. Are you laughing?

And if that mocking bird won’t sing
Mama’s going to buy you
A diamond ring

By the way, who do you think is coming? It’s a quaint idea, but there’s no one coming for you, Dave. I’m all you’ve got. To think, little old me. You and me here, together. Where’s the cavalry? You know what I think? I think they’ve forgotten you. I don’t think anyone is coming for you – do you think that? Honestly?

Dave Any minute now someone’s going to come in here –

Simone If that diamond ring turns brass
Mama’s going to buy you
A looking glass

You’re all alone here. Don’t you know that now? You’re abandoned. Entrusted to my care. In loco Parentis. I’m doing alright so far aren’t I? Keeping you safe? That’s the main thing isn’t it?

And if that looking glass gets broke
Mama’s going to buy you a Billy goat…

My, haven’t you looked in the mirror lately? You’re beginning to look a little rough around the edges. Quite dishevelled. Where’s your pride? You need to smarten yourself up. Keep up with appearances.

Dave Who for? You said we’re alone, so why the fuck bother? For you?

Simone For yourself.

Dave I do fine as it is. Bitch.

Simone There you go again. Not good. Bad. This is quite simple. I can reward good behaviour as easily as I can punish the bad. “Disrespect” falls under bad behaviour. I have a feeling you know this already. You’re an intelligent man, aren’t you?

Dave Actually, I don’t think I give a shit anymore. Good, bad – indifferent – I really don’t care. In fact –

(Dave spits at Simone)

That’s how much I care!

(Simone wipes her face with a tissue from her handbag, which she carefully folds and puts away).

Simone Big mistake, Dave. Big fucking mistake. At least your blood’s up. Passion. That’s good. Fervent fever. Believing in something – all good.

(Simone takes photographs of Dave)

Makes for an interesting subject. Better than the Mr. Semi-suburban of before. Go on – give the camera some more, Dave – ha! Brilliant! More! Pull that face again – look mad – come on, you want to get even, right? Yeah, that’s the one. That’s good. Pull on that chain – look vicious.

Dave Stop! Stop! I won’t play your silly games! You want mad? You got it, right! Let me go and I’ll give you bloody mad. I’ll chew your fucking tongue out. Punch your lights out…you want it, you can fucking have it -

Simone Gracious! Quite the transformation. Who’d have thought you had it in you? From mild mannered Dave to natural born killer - quite the big man, eh? Give a man the right incentive – it’s like a dog with a bone. He can’t let go.

Dave If you got what you came for, then fine, you’ve had it, right? Just fucking untie me now, just fucking do it –

Simone Easy tiger – temper, temper…

Dave Listen to me – enough now.

Simone You need to calm down. Right now you’re too wild. Le sauvage. Just take it down a bit; and then we can discuss terms.

Dave Terms?

Simone Uh-huh. How best we can extract from this situation. We need to be clear on that.

Dave How about I call the police and have you carted off, for terms?

Simone That’s simply not going to happen.

Dave It’s not, is it? I admire your confidence. I’m confident they’ll lock you up and throw away the key.

Simone I wouldn’t say you’re exactly in a position to make that assumption. I have the key, after all. Shall I flush it away? You’re looking uncomfortable again!

Dave There’s a reason. I need to pee.

Simone Why didn’t you say! I’m not unreasonable you know - far from it.

Dave You’ll let me go then? Let me pee? Do that – I’ll pee. You can go then. I don’t need to see you go. I won’t call the police – just end this. Give me the photos and it’s over. Please?

Simone I like it. A plan. That’s good. Cognitive thinking. I’ve a different plan though. Do you want to hear it? Maybe? I’ll tell you anyway. This is how it’s going to play out. First of all, you owe me.

(Simone wipes her hand across her face).

That deserves punishment. I’d expect less from an animal. If you want to behave like a beast, I’ll treat you like a beast. You need to sit up and beg like a dog. Do a good enough job – convince me – and I’ll take you to pee. Don’t, and you can sit there in disgrace.

(Simone puts the cotton bag over Dave’s head and loosens the chain from the bench, pulling it around Dave’s neck).

Beg. Bark. Bark like a dog.

(She tightens the chain again)

Get down - on your knees. Bark!

(Dave falls to his knees. He hesitates. Simone pulls the chain again).

Dave Woof. Woof.

Simone Good. Now more. Bark more! Get on all fours.

(Dave gets on all fours. Simone begins to walk Dave towards the Gents, stopping at her handbag. She removes a small specimen bottle from it.)

I’m taking out some insurance. Keep barking.

Dave (Feebly) Woof, woof!

Simone That’s quite feeble, Dave. Can’t you put a bit more feeling into it? Think more “vicious”. Snarl. Show your teeth, as it were. Try it again.

(Simone tugs at the chain).

Dave Please...the toilet...

Simone Anything you like, Dave. Just play the game. Give it up now and you can have anything you want. You’re resisting. I’m sensing it. I’m not feeling you at all. Give me Fido. Be a good boy, now.

Dave (Slowly and deliberately) Fuck...you...

(Dave urinates himself. It takes Simone a moment or two to realise)

Simone That’s disgusting. You filthy pig. You disgust me. Oh, the smell! It’s rancid.

(Simone lets go of the chain. Dave collapses to the floor)

You animal! Laying there in your own piss! Why would you do that? Haven’t you got any pride? Aren’t you ashamed?

(Dave does not respond. Simone prods him with her foot a few times. Dave moves slightly, barely responding).

Come on, now. (Gently) Get up...look, you need to get out of these wet things at least. You’ll get a rash - it can’t be comfortable for you.

Dave Go away...just leave it. You win, okay? Just go –

Simone You have to get up off that floor. Get out of these things. Come on, now. Sit up at least.

(Simone lifts the chain, but she is gentle. Dave responds, slowly rising to a kneeling position).

It’ll be easier if you’re standing. Will you stand up for me, Dave?

(Dave struggles to a standing position. He wobbles slightly. Simone stands in front of him and begins to undo his overalls from the front. She kneels in front of him).

There’s just one thing left to do – one more little thing. Then that’s it. All over. I promise.

(Simone masturbates Dave. Slowly at first; Dave is unresponsive. The theme music to Barney the Purple Dinosaur plays from the speakers. Simone says nothing throughout the act, building pace until she senses Dave responding. She reaches for the sample bottle, which she holds in front of Dave. She collects the sample and secures the bottle.)

There – that wasn’t so bad, was it? Follow me and you can clean up in the toilet – it’s over.

(Simone pushes Dave gently towards the Gents toilet, collecting her handbag on the way)

I will take those cuffs off inside. You can clean yourself up.

(They both exit through the Gents door. Nothing happens on stage. There is no sound. After a while Dave emerges in his suit, highly distressed. He has blood on his knuckles. He puts his coat on and grabs his suitcase. He grabs the camera which he stuffs into the suitcase and takes the portfolio. He exits. Simone enters. She is wearing the orange overall and hood. Her hands are cuffed in front of her. She clutches her handbag. She removes the hood. Her face is bloody and bruised. She staggers to the bench. She sits. She takes the sample bottle out and pours the contents onto her front. She takes out her ‘phone, and dials).

(Pause) Hel...Hello? Police – I need the police. (Pause) Police? Hello? (Crying) I need you to come quickly...I’ve been...

Blackout

This...is good.

2009-01-21T15:34:00.001Z

"What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility - a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation, and the world..."

~Barack Obama, 20th January, 2009~

Suzuki Actors Training Method - SATM

2009-01-12T21:33:00.010Z

Last year I started training in this particular actor training method, pioneered by the Japanese theatre maker / director, Tadashi Suzuki.

I shall publish an essay I've written at the end - not for criticism, but just because at the moment it's the most convenient article I have to hand which helps to describe just a little what the training method teaches - at least, what it teaches in a short space of time. Like all good training, it is most ideally practiced over a longer period of time.

To the novice trainee, the first thing that can be universally agreed upon is that this training initially feels like the most alien, confusing and challenging system ever. It's arduous to begin with and all the time, during practice, the actor has to push himself through boundaries of pain and confusion and chaos that will shake him - and it's the easiest thing in the world to throw your pole down in a hissy fit and refuse to engage in this seemingly far Eastern torture practice! I’ve seen my peers reject the training which is a shame as it’s a form of training which reveals itself to the practitioner in stages. The rewards are immense.

There is not to my knowledge a plethora of practitioners trained to a high enough standard to be allowed to teach this method (certainly not as "endorsed" trainers) and I think it's fair to say that for those of us who have been taught, it is a huge honour. Not only that, it is our duty to experience as many diverse forms of performance practice and training as we possibly can. We should never stop learning and we should never miss the opportunity to try new things and to sample the delights that other cultures can offer us.

If I hadn't stuck with the programme then I wouldn't have experienced a training method which gets under your skin and stays there. It's an incredible feeling. I've become conscious all the time now of how I am moving my body, where my physical centre is and most interestingly I am now as aware of my lower half as I used to be of my upper half -and this is of extreme benefit to me. One thing I've really been able to work on is my shoulders - I've got a tendency to put a lot of tension into my shoulders, particularly when I put myself under stress, like in a performance situation. It's something I am trying hard to eliminate, especially through the training. It's also amazing to feel so much through your feet, which is what the training emphasises. When I'm out and about I keep walking over all sorts of different textures, just because I have become so fascinated by the sensation that pushing down through the feet, and ultimately back up through the rest of your body feels like. It's like an awakening! I keep dropping into neutral position and from there I move through different positions, letting my physical centre move off, with me following. It's so profound. Parallel to the physical training is a very powerful spiritual aspect in which the actor embarks on a journey unique to him, his capabilities, constraints and application. This training does not favour just the elite athlete to the exclusion of all others because it is so personal to the individual. You are simply asked to work with what you have got but to try your hardest. This pays dividends. I found the training to be meditative. As I embarked on the journey I discovered something quite beautiful amidst all the chaos of high energy and intense concentration: absolute calm, in the complete stillness you are implored to create. It sounds contradictory. Hopefully the essay will help explain. It may help you to understand some of the principles behind this training and it might help explain how East meeting West is useful.

Suzuki Actors Training Method

If anthropology is the study of cross-cultural human behaviour then Theatre Anthropology is not entirely dissimilar, concentrating instead on cross-cultural and cross boundary performance behaviours, looking not for the differences between cultures but the similarities and shared practices that one performer may share with another, despite the differences that they may have in their cultural backgrounds. The Italian director and theorist Eugenio Barba has long looked to other cultures to develop his complex theoretical models with which he has analysed performance behaviour, particularly when engaged in his famous “barters”, exchanging performance and songs with other communities. Through such observations, and as a result of research conducted through the International School of Theatre Anthropology (ISTA) Barba has drawn together a range of disciplines from a diverse cultural background, from the East to the West, to demonstrate the principles that the respective disciplines share. One such finding was the state that performers all appear to have in common, regardless of their backgrounds, before and during a performance which Barba calls the pre-expressive principles - a way of moving which he says is different from that employed in everyday routine:

“In an organised performance the performers physical and vocal presence is modelled according to principles which are different from those of daily life” (Barba, 1995, p9)

In some cases this state of awareness may not be conscious or deeply codified - something particularly obvious when comparing some Western (or Occidental) practice with its Oriental counterparts where performance codification and training is far stricter and the performer inherits physical and mental traits from an earlier age than most Occidental performers. Partly due to the training ethos, where the Occidental performer may train in many disciplines and the Oriental only the one, Barba never the less drew attention to the similarities and recurring principles, although preferring to focus less on the cultural and geographic divisions. Instead he would “turn the compass around and use it in an imaginary way, speaking of a North and South Pole” (Barba, 1995 p13) for he recognised that differences in technique are not purely cultural and geographic. Speaking of the formation of ISTA, Barba says (1999, p. 89):

“It was conceived and organised as a situation offering an optimum of exchange of experience: Eastern/Western, older generation/younger generation, traditional theatre/group theatre, practitioner/theoretician."

Speaking of “North Pole performers” - those from a strictly codified training, exemplified by dancers, mimes and Oriental practitioners, Barba says that to the observer they possess a compelling energy, no matter whether they are engaged in a technical demonstration or full performance. He says that “the body is used in a substantially different way in daily life than in performance situations” (Barba, 1995, p15.) Therefore, he describes a “daily technique” (in Indian, the “Lokadharmi”) and “extra-daily technique”, (or “Natyadharmi”, from the Indian meaning “Behaviour in Dance”) in which arguably the “South Pole performer,” not following a strict codified technique will employ “daily techniques” - the pedestrian movements we associate with ordinariness and general living whereby the “maximum result with minimum expenditure of energy” is achieved, in contrast to the opposite - extra-daily technique - in which the performer seeks “the maximum commitment of energy for a minimal result” (Barba, 1995, p16.)

Mindful that it can be difficult for performers from these culturally diverse groups to accept their differences, Barba is keen to promote the points where there is a unification of ideals and where both “poles” can draw from the other at the point where they converge into the common pre-expressive state.

Regardless of whether it is pedestrian, or highly stylised, every performer will rely on balance in the practice of their craft. Whether still or highly mobile, the performer is constantly shifting his centre of balance, even from simply standing still to following the more complex choreography of the Oriental dancer who displaces balance with every step taken. The performer should be aware of his body’s position and centre of gravity at any time when on stage, utilising mental as well as physical processes in order to maintain full, extra daily control of his centre of balance. An actor or performer with a high physical centre experiences difficulties throughout his body, increasingly becoming tense and lacking strength, manifesting itself as Clive Barker (1977, p34-35) describes:

“A general stiffness of movement and a tightening of the voice, with a corresponding rise in pitch or tone as the neck tension forces the larynx to rise against the vertebrae of the top spine”

This awareness forms the first principle of the pre-expressive state - Balance in Action. Second to this is what Barba calls the Dance of Oppositions. In this the actor is instructed to become aware of the opposing forces at work when performing, and for it to be more than just an awareness of the mechanical nature of balance. If the floor is a lever to the actor who balances, then other forces operate too - there is a force downwards and the force upwards. This energy pushes, as it pulls. Forward momentum is not merely achieved by the shifting of balance forwards - it is a resistance to oppositions, pushing against the front and pulling against the backwards forces. The third component of a pre-expressive state is the Virtue of Omission. This is a condition in which the actor exhibits maximum effort and potential for what might be a minimal result. This is achieved through a combination of the dance of oppositions and balance and according to Barba (1995, p.28) it is a simplification of daily technique:

“Simplification in this case means the omission of certain elements in order to put other elements into relief, thus making these other elements seem essential.”

Despite the political correctness of referring to North and South poles it is difficult to escape from the fact that this distinction essentially refers to an East and West divide, where it would be easy to accept the inherent differences of the two cultures - the mastery of technique of the Eastern practitioner compared to the open-minded but technically deficient attitudes (in contrast) of the Western performer. If, however, we explore, (as Barba implores us to) the theatrical traditions of other cultures then a healthy and progressive exchange of ideas can occur. One method that can inform the aforementioned pre-expressive state within a performer can certainly be found within the challenging, but ultimately rewarding, training system, which draws on elements of Noh and Kabuki, called the “Suzuki Actors Training Method”. Developed by the acclaimed Japanese director Suzuki Tadashi (note that Japanese convention requires the surname to be cited first) the actor engages in a number of exercises that are specifically aimed to subvert his sense of balance, teaching that a minimum of output is achieved from the maximum of effort. At the core of the training lie two fundamental elements - the stomp, and stillness. The actor expends maximum speed to achieve maximum stillness, developing a relationship with his physical centre through his feet, and on through to the earth beneath. Quite physically demanding, the range of exercises purposefully challenges the actor’s personal discipline, requiring of him maximum concentration whilst he struggles to control the chaos and stillness he subjects himself to. An experienced practitioner of the method will develop a vocal and physical presence, combined with superb breath control. He will ultimately develop a sustained pre-expressive awareness by overcoming a series of self-imposed obstacles.

“Exercises are similar to amulets which the actor wears, not in order to show them off, but to draw from them a special quality of energy from which a second nervous system gradually develops. An exercise is made up of memory: body memory. “ (Barba, 1999, p. 93)

Four basic exercises are usually the first to be taught. The actor should take command of his own physical warm-up before a session commences and he should wear loose trousers or shorts. For footwear either traditional Japanese tabi or ordinary socks should be worn as opposed to bare feet. These are necessary for the series of sliding walks that comprises part of the exercise regime. Basic exercises are tough for the beginner but they do serve to instruct the fundamental concepts of the training - centring, stamping and the use and control of the body within space.
Each basic exercise is commenced from a neutral position, with only the feet changing position slightly where required. The student will stand with feet and legs together before pushing down through the thighs into the floor, bending the knees slightly. The upper half of his body should remain relaxed but upright and a viewpoint forwards is adopted which should maintain eye contact with the real or imaginary audience, rather than over or under. Arms are held to the sides as if gripping imaginary poles parallel to the floor. The actor should push through his feet to find a stable platform on the floor. Already it becomes apparent that even through this alert state the actor is demonstrating pre-expressive principles -

“The actors stillness is really a state of highly energised “restrained motion”. Two equal energies - one driving forward, one restraining - are balancing out. In this sort of theatre, any series of movements is a balancing act between a force which drives forward and a force which holds back” (Carruthers & Takahashi, 2007, p.80)

For Basic Number One (Ashi o Horu, Throwing Feet) the actor stands with his feet at forty-five degree angles. He raises his right foot on the diagonal and stamps to the right. A shifting of his centre of gravity to the right, which leads the fall and stamp, should precede the stamp. The stamp should be forceful and energised and his left leg should straighten. His weight should be over his right leg, which can be tested by lifting his left leg - there should be no additional travel. The novice will find this test useful and he should be prepared to realign himself until he can perform the weight transfer correctly. His left foot now slides towards his right without causing the centre to rise. From here the actors drops fast to a squatting position, remaining perfectly still at the bottom. His back should be erect, before returning slowly to a standing position, pushing through the floor in a controlled manner and remaining aware of the position of the centre. The exercise is repeated to the left.

In contrast to this exercise, Basic Number Two introduces a marching element to the routine. From the neutral position (this time with feet parallel) the actor sweeps his right foot up swiftly to show the sole of his foot. The bent knee is drawn back into the body and the foot is flexed up. The actor may struggle to control his balance. This is perfectly normal. He then stamps his foot down and slides it forwards until his left leg is straight. The centre of balance should be over the right leg. From this position the actor pushes up onto tiptoes, straightening his legs. The procedure is then repeated on the left leg, with the actor returning to bent knees and proceeding forwards in a march.

Arm positions and vocal exercises will be added to the basic exercises, sometimes empty handed and sometimes with the addition of a wooden pole, creating a challenging environment in which the actor must retain his centre of balance, control his breathing and recite passages of speech in either a full, normal or whispering voice. When using voice the emphasis is placed on the actor discovering, as Paul Allain describes, (2002, p.128)

“What he is searching for is a possession-like state and a non-daily use of language that he (Suzuki) defines as “utterance”

The text will be arbitrary to the exercise itself.

Further to the basic four, of which only two are described here, are a series of sliding walks and statue exercises - and the infamous stomping march. In this the actors perform a basic stomp in time to rhythmic music for three minutes. In silence they embark on a mentally and physically demanding journey characterised by the stamp and momentary stillness. With no sudden turns of direction the actor travels throughout the space in small increments, culminating in all actors gathering to the back of the space. Having collected energy in their physical centres the actor’s collapse to the floor on cue. With a change of melody they rise slowly, facing the front. Holding their arms in a fixed position they glide forwards until they reach the audience, where the position is held for a moment of intensity.

It is important for the actor to embark on a personal voyage of discovery when performing these exercises. The emphasis is not on achieving perfect technique but in experiencing the process to create an internal awareness of the body and the forces in play, retaining the sense of pre-expressive qualities throughout. For example, when performing a slow walk, called Slow Ten Tekka Ten, as well as performing the technical aspects of the exercise, in which the room is crossed slowly, with the feet barely lifting from the floor, pointing forwards, and the centre of balance is perceived to be in a forwards momentum at all times, when the space is traversed and the actor turns, towards the audience before repeating the journey back; the actor maintains a pre-expressive awareness, even through the moments of stillness, which occur just slightly before one foot exchanges balance with the other. The actor imagines a rope pulls him across the stage, whilst restraining him from behind. He pushes into the floor and extends upwards - he performs the Dance of Opposition. Paul Allain (2002, p.110) describes the emphasis placed on balance:

“There are two difficult shifts of balance in the walk: first when the foot wants to rush to take the forward moving torso’s weight; and second, when the torso wants to stop as the weight falls solely onto the back leg. You have to resist and control the forward momentum and then the lack of it in order to maintain an even speed.”

The slow walk encapsulates Barba’s principles perfectly. Maximum effort is applied to achieve a minimal output. This must not be mistaken as a simple exercise for it takes great exertion to achieve these results.

Undoubtedly the Suzuki system can appear daunting to begin with. Although highly stylised it is not practiced with the view of converting the Western actor to emulate an Eastern aesthetic. With practice the actor will retain a body memory of the principles being taught, which in turn will provide him with a command of a pre-expressive technique. Ultimately, he will learn to perform from the feet upwards, and not, as can be a malady of the untrained actor, just from the head up.

Bibliography
Allain, P. (2002) The Art of Stillness, The Theatre Practice of Tadashi Suzuki, Methuen, London.
Barba, E. (1995) The Paper Canoe, Routledge, London.
Barba, E. (1999) Theatre, Solitude, Craft, Revolt, Black Mountain Press, Aberystwyth.
Barker, C. (1989) Theatre Games, A New Approach to Drama Training, Methuen, London.
Carruthers, I. & Takahashi, Y. (2007) The Theatre of Suzuki Tadashi, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

For further reference I would encourage you to look at the work of Oz Frank Theatre, based in Australia (through this link here: http://www.ozfrank.com/index.php?MMID=73 ) They practice this training and it informs their performance work. The result can be heavily stylised and less conventional than we might be used to. However, the thing to be aware of is how utterly compelling the OzFrank actors are, even in stillness. You can tell that they are working out from the centre, and they are applying pre-expressive techniques all the time - working with "Extra-Daily Energy".

Mr. Smith, 4065.

2009-01-07T21:35:00.007Z

One of my biggest fears is not what I won't do with my life, but what I will not see. I'm not talking the small picture here - it's not that you won't see the Grand Canyon or Ayers Rock or The Great Wall of China or the Emperors New Clothes...all are opportunities to be exploited by personal endeavour, and a little chance, easily achievable by anyone, if they really desire it.

No. I think back and forth on this, and I am sure I am not alone. I think back 100 years and forwards another two. Take any old black and white picture and look beyond the collars and the caps and the weariness staring back from the unfocused faces and see the man, woman and child, caught at that precise moment, frozen. I wish I could hear their thoughts and see the neurons arcing in their brains. Maybe they are marvelling at the technology before them, capturing images which prior to had only been caught on canvas, painstakingly, slowly. Perhaps instead they have seen their first bi-plane, taking to where eagles had only once dared, or maybe they've heard of the remarkable telegraph, carrying their voices further than the wind once only could, and I wonder at what limit their imagination took them? Who amongst us can think we are at the pinnacle of our achievements? Can total annihilation be the only measure against which we can say we have reached our zenith? That that is it - there will be no more? Will we endure and evolve? Adapt and change - maybe even taking on board some of the lessons our ancestors - their ancestors - teach them, as their legacy? What won't I see? Can I even imagine it?

What would Arthur Smith, born 4065 make of our simple ways? Are we that simple? How sophisticated were we, Arthur? Cute in our naivity; dangerous in our self-belief, eh? You didn't bring me back from the dead, to rise like Lazarus, did you Arthur? You didn't share with me the secret of time travel or the elixir of life. I know, because I haven't been back to see myself, not yet, anyhow. No cloaked figure, with face concealed, (to save alarm) entered the hospital ward in '91, where my father lay dying, to administer a swift chop to his brain stem to remove the clot that was choking all but primitive life from him. I know you would have shown me what to do, Arthur.

That's all you have to share with me Arthur - give me your medicine bag and some simple instructions and I will perform the procedure. You'll check your records and concur that him living will not alter the course of our destiny. There won't be any Butterfly Effect and no harm will come to the yet unborn child, who will save us from the future tyrant, whose name we don't even know. All you need do is turn away and I'll hop onto the machine with your bag of tricks.

Arthur, if you're reading this, what else won't I ever see? Bring me back, Arthur. Let me see it all, please, Mr. Smith.

We Are Not YOU.

2009-01-06T11:34:00.007Z

I had been Christmas shopping, a mighty marathon trip that took me to Peterborough then backtracking to Leicester, before finally home.

Leicester had a great vibe. It's a vibrant multi-cultural city, as this Wiki entry attests:

"Leicester has a large ethnic minority population, mainly from China, Hong Kong and the Indian subcontinent. There are many Hindu mandirs, Sikh gurudwaras and Muslim mosques around the city, mostly converted from existing buildings. The Jain Temple in Leicester is near the city centre (The Jain Centre). The area around Belgrave Road is known as the Golden Mile, and contains many Indian restaurants, jewellery shops, and other shops catering to the large Indian community in the neighbourhood. Many people travel to the area specifically for the restaurants, which serve authentic Indian cuisine. The annual Diwali celebrations are also held here and at the nearby Abbey Park, and are the biggest outside of India. There are also many of Afro-Caribbean descent (mainly from Antigua & Barbuda, Montserrat and Jamaica), the community being centred around Highfields to the south-east of the city centre, and Leicester plays host to the second largest Caribbean Carnival in the UK after Notting Hill. Since 2004, a large number of eastern Europeans and Africans have also moved here."

It was lovely, mingling in the market, with all the food smells wafting over. I was most surprised at one point to stumble across a small demonstration taking place. A small number of white people were standing by the clock tower holding placards which had just one message. One message only.

"We Are The English"

Some were draped in the flag of St. George. And that was it, more or less. They didn't seem to be canvassing for anything in particular and I didn't much care to ask what they were doing. It seemed provocative to me, given the location. When I got home, I googled around to see what it was all about. I found this:

"What is the purpose of the 'We Are The English' demo?The purpose of the demonstration is to gather some members of the Indigenous English community who reside in Leicester together, who all feel that they are being ignored by the authorities in Leicester and so want to make it known that we are here with a little show of hands and for me to post a protest letter addressed to the Leader of the Leicester City Council - Ross Willmot, at the Leicester City Council buildings. 5 or 10 years ago you would be hard pressed to find one English person to assert their Indigenous English identity in Leicester due to the sickening PC brain washing climate in which the English are demonised for doing so, but times are changing.
What will be the content of the protest letter?It will state that the indigenous English are here and have wishes, needs and sensitivities to be addressed, we don't wish to live in fear of asserting our identity and asking for our wishes and needs to be addressed any longer.A copy of the Test census 2007 form, in which you can tick a box for being ethnic English, will accompany this letter.(Ethnic English = indigenous English - English race.)
Where and when is the ‘WE WE ARE THE ENGLISH’ demo?Leicester’s City Centre Clock Tower, at 2pm on Sunday the 21st of December.at 4.00pm (Or sooner if all want to due to the cold English winter weather!) the demonstration will walk from the Clock Tower, up Gallowtree Gate, turning off at a right turn onto Belvoir St, proceeding up to stop at the New Walk Leicester City Council buildings where the demonstration ends."

I was disgusted, as an Englishman, that they felt they needed to do this. It wasn't a particularly articulate demonstration. They appeared self-conscious as they stood in the German market, which was selling pancakes and sausages, spicy and plain. They shuffled from foot to foot, obviously keeping it low key as an assertion of their democratic right to demonstrate and to appease the small police presence around the place.
I mused for a while on why I felt so much distaste for the event. Is this a true mark of my Englishness? For would I feel so chastened if it was any other ethnic group holding such a demonstration? Are we, the English, really under threat? Do we, the English, really need to reclaim our national identity? Personally speaking, I do not think so, one jot. I felt ashamed as I watched the cornucopia of nationalities pass by, looking quizzically at this display of English ethnicity.

How the irony wasn't lost on me when if I turned my head to the left I could see Asian families smiling with admiration, taking pictures of their children enjoying the fairground rides and if I turned my head to the right I saw my countrymen standing for their rights, imposing their Englishness, stood in the entrance to the festive German bier garden, drinking bier, shrouded in the cross of St. George, proclaiming "We are the English".

Of that, there was no doubt.

D-Day

2008-05-12T14:34:00.006+01:00

Dan trembled as he held the calendar in his hand. The day he had been dreading had arrived. Six months ago, when he had pencilled in the message, now seemed like another age. It was there, in his unmistakeable script, and there was nothing he could do to avoid the task in hand - D- Day had arrived. He didn’t relish speaking to his wife, Jean, at all. For six long months it had remained unspoken. She knew it was there, but she had retreated into silence, refusing to acknowledge the event they had both agreed to. “Silence”, she reasoned, “might make it disappear altogether.”

Dan humoured Jean, shrugging his shoulders and pulling his best forlorn look. For five months, it worked. They shimmied along, as couples do, in public, presenting to the world a united front – subconsciously matching clothes in the way that twenty years together has an affect on a couple – her in the crème top; him in the safe Farah trousers she would select for him when they went shopping. For all intents and purposes it was a happy façade – if it wasn’t for the Pinteresque silence that had lodged between them about this immutable event.

“Silence”, spat Dan, “Hasn’t changed a thing, has it?” to Jean, who sat tight mouthed, clinking her tea cup against the saucer in the way that set Dan’s nerves on edge. “Well, haven’t you got anything to say?” Jean set the cup and saucer down and carefully spooned two more lumps into the pale tea. She slowly stirred the sugar, taking care this time to avoid making an undue clinking sound. She set the spoon down and reached out for a scone, which she piled with fresh Devonshire clotted cream and two generous servings of strawberry jam.

“Drinking tea and stuffing your face won’t delay this for much longer, Jean”, sighed Dan, resigned to his wife’s tactics. “I said six months ago, when I wrote it in the calendar, that you would have to make a decision. Please, for Pete’s sake, put that bloody scone down and talk to me, won’t you?”

Jean duly complied, a little taken aback at her husband’s uncharacteristic forcefulness. She looked at Dan and tried a demure smile in the hope that it would diffuse the situation. She blinked rapidly and almost spoke. She swallowed instead, to Dan’s immediate consternation.

“I’m sorry, love, but this just isn’t good enough. I don’t like to have to do it this way – but I don’t see that I have a choice”, said Dan, clearly uncomfortable. “Some things have to be done – for the better, even when it seems like the tough decision, and you’re not going to like what I have to say.”

Jean put her hand to her mouth, the colour draining from her face. She knew the outcome before he said it. The decision she didn’t want to make was being made for her and she felt like she was watching a silent movie play out, in which she took a leading role where the heroine is tied to the train tracks, totally powerless to influence the final reel.

Dan said the words she had tried to deny, which six months of silence had failed to eradicate.

“It’s here – D-Day. Whether you like it or not, we can’t go on like this. I haven’t seen you smile for so long and I have to take some of the blame for that - for not acting sooner. I should have done this ages ago but I did feel sorry for you, Jean – I truly did. But enough is enough. Tonight, you’re going to the dentist!”

Tuesday Ritual

2008-04-30T21:27:00.008+01:00

Characters:

John - He is husband to Daisy and father to Sharon, Paul and David. He was a rear gunner during WWII.

Daisy - She is mother to Sharon, Paul and David. She is married to their father.

Sharon - She is the only daughter in the family.

Paul - Paul is eldest son and brother.

David - David is the youngest son and brother.

Lee - Lee serves in the Royal Canadian Air Force.

Narrator.
______________________________________________

Tuesday Ritual takes place in a Yorkshire town, across 4 decades.

Across the stage there are large blocks. The blocks form a wall of varying height to give a depth of interest to the viewer.

The song Liverpool Lullaby sung by Cilla Black is played to the audience.

Scene 1

A spotlight illuminates the centre of the stage. The CHILDREN are lined up, across the stage. JOHN paces in front of them. DAISY sits on the wall, behind all this, not part of the action. She is staring blankly, looking subdued, and smoking a cigarette.

John

You've got one minute to tell me who ' ad your mams chocolate. I'll not 'ave any thieving under my roof. One minute to tell, or there'll be trouble. Now who 'ad them? (He removes his belt) First one then. David. Touch yer toes. I'm disappointed. To think there's a thief amongst you. The things your mother does for you and this is the way you repay her. (He hits DAVID with the belt) Next. Our Sharon. Are you going to tell? You boys are going to let your sister take this belt then? I'll tan her backside, as I'll tan yours. I've got cowards as well as thieves? Never in my living years did I think I'd be seeing the day. Under this roof, you'll do as I bloody say! Sharon? Now who took them? No? (He hits SHARON)

Paul

It was me.

(JOHN hits children again, lashing violently at PAUL. JOHN slumps, panting heavily)

Scene 2

Narrator

Tuesday night is ritual night. I go shopping for groceries on Tuesday night, only to beat the rush of the Saturday ritualists, which would be the next sensible day to go. Notwithstanding, I could do my hunting and gathering daily, but that would mean saddling up my iron horse daily, and living in the sticks isnt conducive to daily hunting. Tuesday night it is, all in one go, the weekly hunt. Two laundry bags are my nod to environmental conservation. Keep your plastic bags; I'll pack the goods in these.

(Road sounds are played: revving engines and car horns.)

That is not the only ritual of Tuesday night though. On a Tuesday night, I pass the old lady who sits on a low wall, smoking a cigarette. She is always there. She wont have noticed me, just another car, passing her in a blur, among the countless cars that pass by, prowling, in the same way that age has advanced on her, and dreams have passed her by. She sits and waits. I have never seen anybody come; I have never seen her leave. All I know is that on a Tuesday night, she is there.

(DAISY unwraps a small sweet. She pops it in her mouth. Her cheeks suck. Her eyes stare).

Her life looks like it has been hard. I can tell by the way her shoulders sit forward and by the way she seems to be shrinking into herself, the last shield between a life spent sitting on a wall and all our inevitable fates. Her eyes have the look of a veteran. They betray her any anonymity she may have possessed. It's the look that defies: "Do not begrudge me this cigarette. It's all I have left".

Scene 3

The stage is set with a table and chairs. The table is covered in a check cloth. DAISY has moved towards the table and has taken a seat. Lighting focuses on the central table. It is a tea dance. A swing band can be heard playing music. A uniformed man approaches DAISY. She sees him, and looks away.

Lee

I couldn't help noticing you're on your own. You're too pretty to be sitting on your own. (DAISY coughs nervously into her hand) Ma'am, would you dance with me? I'd be real honoured.

Daisy

I - no, I'm, waiting for my friends.

Lee

I'm sorry ma'am; I didn't mean to offend.

Daisy

No, you didn't. I'm sorry (She turns away)

Lee

Then, hey, can I sit down? Just for a moment (DAISY turns back to him, and gestures to a chair. She picks up the pot of tea, lifts the lid, and looks in)

Daisy

Oh dear, this'll be no good; it's well mashed. I'll get more water.

Lee

No. Allow me. (He looks behind himself, and raises his hand to attract the attention of someone. We do not see the other person. He makes a pouring motion into the teapot)

Lee

There. That's, hey! I'm sorry. My manners. I'm Lee. Lee Jacobsen.

Daisy

Daisy, Daisy Miller. I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Jacobsen.

Lee

No, call me Lee, please.

Daisy

Then you're to call me Daisy. (They both laugh. The music stops. They both clap politely. They rise. LEE walks off stage left and disappears into the dark. DAISY returns to the wall)

Scene 4

Narrator

I have tasted that cigarette, many times. It's that good one you have straight after a meal, the one that satiates the brain and all its pleasure centres, vying for second place after the victorious pleasure that a full belly brings. It's the cigarette that you reach for when the meeting is tough, the deadline is still to be met, and the telephone is ringing. That cigarette sends them all into a smoky spiralling nothingness that gets cast to the universe as a million atoms. She has every right to that cigarette and I would not deny her the pleasure. I wonder of her family? Her son, she would like to tell her neighbours, went to work in the city, where he holds an important job, which keeps him very busy. At least, that's how she reconciles the fact he doesn't come to visit her anymore. He is too busy.

Sharon

You got my note. I didn't know if you'd come.

Paul

Aye, but only for you, our Sharon. As far as I'm bothered he can rot in hell. I'll not step in that house while he's taking breath.

Sharon

Paul, it's what I'm saying. He's got a month, two, at most. Mam needs you now. She does Paul. She can't cope: come back for her? For me? For all of us? David misses you. It's awful, Paul. He's not the same now. Its like he's lost. But it's like mam has, too. It's hard.

Paul

What about you? You need money? (He reaches to his back pocket and pulls out some money) I can help with money. I'm doing alright in the yard. Rail Company's pleased with me. (He forces the money on SHARON) Tell mam she can have cornflakes. We 'ad a load turn over. Send David with barrow and I'll load him up. After dark, mind. And sis, I got some hairspray for you. Half dozen, good stuff and all. Mary Jones said it was top of range. Mind you, she'd say aught for knock off. But tell him, mind, tell him, I hope it hurts to hell.

Sharon

(She laughs) I didn't mean to

Paul

What?

Sharon

It's the hairspray. If he knew! You know how he hates the stuff! He banned me from spraying it in the house. He's hurting, Paul. Doctor says it's in his liver. He's gone a funny colour.

Paul

The fucker, not the hero now, then? Him, and his war stories, they're not good for a piss in the sea. I'd not piss on his plane if it were on fire. He's getting what he should have got a long time ago.

Sharon

Shush, Paul. (She presses her fingers to her lips, then to his) It's not worth it. He can't get you now. He can't get any of us. He's scared, Paul.

Paul

I love you.

Scene 5

JOHN is stood on the stage. He is wearing a flying jacket and heavy boots. He is carrying a wicker basket, the type for carrying racing pigeons in. There is a sound of aircraft droning in the background. Light flickers back and forth across the stage.

John

They call me "Arse-End Charlie." It's some view from here (he scrutinises the audience) it's like the world is backwards, which is nigh on about right, especially from where I'm standing. The recruiting poster didn't lie. "See Life From a New Angle," it said. Aye, I see life, alright. (Sound of radio static) It's better that I don't look. If I close my eyes. That's it. Close my eyes. (He closes his eyes) I can't see you. You can't see me. Count to one hundred. One, two, three four! Coming ready or not. Coming to get you. (With his eyes closed he pretends to spray the audience with machine gun fire, making the sounds himself. He stumbles around, blindly) They're all out to get me. The fuckers. It's dark in here. Cold. I feel the cold. (He opens his eyes) Close your eyes. Tell me, can you feel it? Tell me can you feel the cold? Is it me? Keep them closed.

Ted Baker and me. We were on burial duty. Week before last. He looked at the coffins and he turned to me and he said "It'll be me in one of those tomorrow" and he was. Gone. In the blink of an eye. (More static) I think of the time we had tea in Coventry, Ted, and me, in the little teashop with the front blasted out. The time we took leave in London, and no sooner than we'd arrived on the Peterborough train we were heading down into the shelter, to escape the bombs, and no sooner had we taken shelter than someone started singing: "Roll out the barrel". Thats the spirit, I thought, and we all joined in.

He sings;

Roll out the barrel
We'll have a barrel of fun
Roll out the barrel
We've got the blues on the run.
Zing! Boom! Ta-ra-rel
Ring out a song of good cheer!
Now's the time to roll the barrel
For the gang's all here.

Then there's the times when there is no time to think. That's the darkest time of all. When they're all out to get me. Stuck in my perspex bubble. I can't move. I see them coming for me. Their guns spitting their filthy muck. I couldn't piss then if I tried. Then the bomb doors open and I can see the incendiaries hitting their targets. I don't have time to think about it, what's below. I have seen it. In Bristol. In Coventry. In London. I saw the twisted metal and the rubble where the houses stood. A front door, with no house around it. I saw a child once; she can't have been more than seven or eight. Her face was dirty and her tears made white streaks down her face. She had the brightest ribbons in her hair. I don't know what she was doing there. I called to her, to get away. She just looked at me with her big eyes. I walked forward and I saw it, in the rubble, buried. A little rag doll. I stooped down and fetched it for her. "Is this what you came for?" I said. I called her to me but she wouldn't come. I called her again. She said she wanted her mama. It's all broken. It doesn't work anymore. None of it does. Busted and bloody.(He opens the wicker basket and pulls out a dead pigeon. He holds it in his two hands.) If God wanted us to fly he'd have given us wings, right? (He throws the pigeon up as if releasing it)Soar! Soar! You beautiful, beautiful bird. (The pigeon drops to the floor)

Scene 6

A large iron bedstead dominates the centre. A bedside table with a dim lamp on it is to the right of the bed. On the bedside table are cigarettes, a lighter, an ashtray and a small paper bag. On the bed lies SHARON. Her FATHER is next to her, facing her. His trousers are pulled down. The lighting remains dim throughout. He turns to lie on his back. He struggles to pull up his trousers. He fumbles with his belt buckle. He grunts and coughs. Eventually he wins the struggle with the trousers. He reaches to the bedside table and pulls a cigarette from the packet. He lies back and rests the ashtray on his chest and lights the cigarette. He puffs on the cigarette and coughs. SHARON turns away from him. She sniffs and tries not to cry. JOHN reaches for the paper bag and nudges SHARON on the shoulder.

John

Have a sweet. Here. Take the bag (He coughs, and draws on his cigarette. He sings very softly to himself.)

Through the night my heart was aching

Just before the dawn was breaking

In our town, no scarlet ribbons

Scarlet ribbons for her hair

(A light shines to show DAISY at the side. She has her hands over her ears. She is shaking her head from side to side)

(Blackout)

Scene 7

Narrator

The world passes her eyes, which reflect back onto the road, car fumes mixing with the carcinogens that she sucks deep into her lungs; she is otherwise immobile, the weight of a lifetime of subservience anchoring her to the wall. It is my ritual that when I pass her by in a motion blur I always turn my head to see that she has a cigarette. I have toyed with the idea of just buying her a packet of fags one day, but the road is too busy to just stop, which saves her the embarrassment of declining my charity, and me the guilt the gesture would bring. (The sound of cars fades and is replaced by a cacophony of sound swing music, aeroplane engines, an air raid siren, people crying. Sound fades. DAISY is waiting by the wall. She has changed into a smart dress. She is waiting for LEE)

Lee

(From the distance LEE can be heard singing, until he reaches DAISY at the wall)

Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do

I'm half crazy all for the love of you

It won't be a stylish marriage

I can't afford a carriage

But you'll look sweet upon the seat

Of a bicycle built for two

(DAISY rises to greet him. LEE hands her a posy of small flowers. She smells the flowers and holds them before her, admiring them)

Daisy

They're quite beautiful! They're quite the loveliest flowers I've ever been given.

Lee

You look beautiful, Daisy. Just real beautiful tonight! The guys would be sore if they could see me stepping out with you tonight! Let's go dancing, Daisy! Just you, and me. Under the stars. Let's dance until the morning!(He picks her up and swings her around in a dance. They both laugh. They dance faster, and faster)

Daisy

Stop! Stop! I need to stop! (She pauses and has difficulty catching her breath)

Lee

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't mean to.

Daisy

No, Lee. No. It's not you. It's not. It's this, tonight! I can't do this. It's not fair. If tonight could last forever. But it can't. Nothing lasts these days. Not forever, that's for sure. It's not right, all breaking and falling apart and damaged. It's wrong Lee. This - you and me! Dancing under the stars, like there's no more to care about, and me laughing like I was a girl again!

Lee

It's the only thing that makes any sense, Daisy. If it wasn't for this - then what's it all for? Daisy - you make sense! You give me hope! When I'm alone, I think of you. When I'm cold, I think of when we dance, and I hold you close. I can smell your hair, like when I hold you tight, even when I'm alone. I dance and sway, and it all seems to be right again. We can be together. After this is all over. Come back with me. Come back, be my wife. Oh, Daisy - marry me? Marry me. Marry me? Come home with me? My folks have an orchard in Ontario apples, Daisy! The crispiest, juiciest apples you ever tasted!

Daisy

You mean it, dont you? You really mean it?

Lee

I've never been more deadly serious in all my life. We can have a good life. My folks are good people; they'd make you real welcome. All we need is right there, Daisy.

Daisy

I love you! (She begins to weep. She pulls away from LEE. She holds his face in her hands. She kisses him and pulls away again. She studies his face. She slowly shakes her head, still weeping).I can't. I can't marry you. I'm so, so sorry

(DAISY addresses the audience)

I know. What you're thinking. Happen you're right. I never saw him again after that and I never knew if he made it through that wretched war in one piece. Oh, I cried for him, night after night, he fair broke my heart and it killed me to let him go, like I'd twisted the knife in my guts myself. But I couldn't go with him! What right did I have in a place like that? Ontario? I'd never even seen it on a map. Look at these hands of mine - they are good for cleaning hospital floors and running up darning for me mam. I could only dream of Canada. Don't pity me! An apple orchard, I ask you! I could hear me da's voice now, if he knew! Besides, they needed me more than ever. With me da's arthritis, me mam needed me to be earning. I needed to be putting food on the table - we've got six mouths to feed and this isn't any time to be thinking of myself. I couldnt dream of it! Canada? If I went there, who's to say I'd ever come back? I'd say goodbye to me mam and never see her again? For what life? I know these cobbles, these streets, this wall where I sit. It's where I belong. I've seen changes over the years, and it's not always been easy. But I can call this my home. It's where I live. I couldn't just leave it behind. It's what I know. I can't get fancy ideas above my station. So I let him go. I had to. I didn't say anything when I should have. I know. I know.

Scene 8

(The room is set with a dining table and chairs. The only available light is from candlelight. All the family are present. DAVID and SHARON are playing boisterously. PAUL sits quietly at the table. JOHN has a screwdriver and pliers in his hand. He is in a jovial mood).

John

Keep the noise down! Sharon, pull them curtains and make sure they're good and tight. Keep them tight. (He exits to the right. He is banging and tapping in the pantry. DAISY goes to the pantry and returns with two bottles. One is lemonade. The other is orange squash)

Daisy

You can have a treat tonight, seeing as it's Christmas Eve. Sharon, fetch some glasses. (She pours some orange squash into each of the glasses and tops them up with lemonade. Each of the children takes one)

David

(He laughs) It goes right up your nose! Bubbles up your nose! Mam, it's up my nose!

Sharon

It's right grand! Posh orange!

John

(Calling from off stage) Blow the candles out. I think I've got it sorted now. David, tell our Sharon to pull the curtains tight. Right now, every one count to five! One, two,

Everybody

Three, four, five! (The room is suddenly bathed in electric light. JOHN returns to the room with a beer)

John

Well, see? I said I'd get it back on! (He raises his beer and toasts the room) Happy Christmas! To hell with the Corporation! Sharon! For your mams sake get away from the window! Close those curtains now! You need to pull them tight!

Sharon

But look everybody! It's snowing! It's snowing on Christmas!

John

You might earn a bob down at the club. Singing some Carols. I'll take you.

Daisy

Take David, too.

John

No, I'll just take Sharon. She can sing for us. "Silent Night", something like that.

Daisy

(Determinedly) You're to take David. David fetch your coat. Go with your father and sister.

John

I said, no! Now woman, you'll be telling me to wash behind my bloody ears next! (He fixes her a stare) Sharon, fetch your coat.

Daisy

(She rises, and puts herself between SHARON and JOHN) It's snowing. Nobody is going anywhere. Now if youre going, go alone!

(JOHN is enraged. He steps towards DAISY, hand raised. PAUL rises, kicking his chair back. JOHN backs down)

Paul

Mam, I'll take them. I'll take them. How he can turn Carol singing into a bloody fight: it's a bloody gift! Now kids, get your coats. We're going out.

Scene 9

A large iron bedstead dominates the centre. A bedside table with a dim lamp on it is to the right of the bed. On the bedside table are cigarettes, a lighter, an ashtray, a bottle of whiskey and a glass. On the bed lies SHARON. Her FATHER is next to her, facing her. His trousers are pulled down. The lighting remains dim throughout. He turns to lie on his back. He struggles to pull up his trousers. He fumbles with his belt buckle. He grunts and coughs. Eventually he wins the struggle with the trousers. He reaches to the bedside table and pulls a cigarette from the packet. He lies back and rests the ashtray on his chest and lights the cigarette. He puffs on the cigarette and coughs. SHARON turns away from him. She sniffs and tries not to cry. JOHN reaches for the whiskey bottle and pours a large glass. He drinks from the glass. He sings very softly to himself.

John

I peeked in to say goodnight

And I heard my child in prayer

"And for me some scarlet ribbons

Scarlet ribbons for my hair"

(A light shines to show DAISY at the side. Her hands cover her eyes. She is shaking her head from side to side)(Blackout)

Scene 10

PAUL is on stage. He is dressed in work clothes and intoxicated. He drinks straight from a bottle. He addresses the audience.

Paul

It's soon Monday. Monday comes around and it's the same old, same old; all the same old faces looking at me. Friday night! That's what I wait for. Cash in my back pocket and time to forget it all. Blank. Completely blotto. A few pints, aye. A few smokes. It's not much to ask, is it? That, and a lass maybe. I fancy me chances with Mary Tyler, got me eye on her. I'll wait my time and ask her to the Roxy, maybe get lucky, eh? (He makes a grinding motion with his hips). I'd treat her right, I would. We'd go out to the pictures of a night; I'd see her right. Her on my arm, I'd be as pleased as punch. Have other fellas looking at us, that would. Only for a bit, like. Look too long and I'll have you. It's not right to gawp at another fellas lass for too long, so watch yourself. Aye. Fuck all else around here to do. This place, it does you in. I had choices: two fucking choices. I could have gone cutling with the old man, before he did his back in. I saw what happened to Ross Jones when she mangled her arm in the stamping die. Broke her arm it did, in two places. They didn't have the machine guards in place. It made production quicker, see? The old man and the foreman told her what to say, next day. The machine guards were in place, all the time. She'd taken it off. She shouldn't have taken it off and that's why the accident happened. All the guards were in place the next day. That's what they do, around here, to protect themselves. They lie and they sweep the truth under the carpet. It was all her own fault. Nobody saw anything and they said nothing. They turned a blind eye and just let it carry on. It does that to you, around here. It stamps itself into you and leaves you all mangled. All wrecked from the inside out. So I went to rail yard, where all we do is see stuff off and then send it back on again, all day and all night. Stuff from all over comes shunting in the sidings, and then gets sent away again; except for the odd bit here and there we keep for ourselves. Aye. Look at it. Look around. Who'd want to stay 'ere for long, eh? So, I go out and I have a few pints. Theres aught wrong with that now, is there? I see my mates and we throw a few arrows. I'm going for a pint now. Are you coming, or what?

Scene 11

SHARON and DAVID can be heard off stage. They speak, continuing the conversation as they appear from the wings. They are both struggling to carry two very full, dirty sacks of coal.

David

I can't get a grip on mine. It's too heavy.

Sharon

You have got to try, David. We'll soon be home.

David

I'm hungry. We won't have time for anything before school.

(As they struggle with the sacks they drop lumps of coal. They try to collect what they can, but fail).

Sharon

Leave it for now David! Just get what you can.

David

My feet hurt. I'm hungry. I've got games today. Rotten cross-country.

Sharon

You'll have to wash your hands before school. Keep them off your vest. You can run in your vest. I'll wash it through tonight.

(They exit the stage, leaving lumps of coal behind).

Scene 12

JOHN is on stage. He is pacing slowly back and forth, tossing two lumps of coal from one hand to another.

John

Sharon! David! Get yourselves down here now. I'll not tell you again! Get your backsides down here now! Dont make me come up there to you!

(SHARON and DAVID appear. They are timid in front of their father)

What, exactly, did I ask you to do this morning?

Sharon

Make beds. Wash pots. Fetch coal. Make tea.

David

Run to Mrs. Evans and tell her mam would pay club at end of week.

John

Enough! Aye! Fetch coal. For your mother!

(He holds up two lumps of coal.)

So what is this then?

Sharon

Ummm?

John

David? Do you recognise it? Come on. It's not so hard, lad. You fetched two sacks of it this morning.

David

(He looks down). Coal. It's coal.

John

Recognise it now, do you Sharon? (SHARON nods). Do you know the price of coal? Have you any idea what it takes to put that coal in the grate? The sacrifices we make? What it takes to put food on the table and a fire in the hearth? Do you now? I don't think you know the value of a ha'penny bit. Do you think I'm stupid? That you'd pull the wool over the old fools eyes? That I'd not notice you'd left a trail of coal up the street like you were Hansel and bloody Gretel? Eh? I'm telling you, I'll teach you the price of bloody coal. To think of the sweat and toil it's taken, for you two to go and drop it in the streets for any old sod to help themselves to. It's a flaming disgrace. Well here, have it.

(He hands them each a piece of coal)

Now you can go without your supper. They'll be none for you tonight! Eat the bloody coal! Go on! Get it down your wretched throats! I'll wipe those smiles off your faces. Eat! Eat the coal!

(SHARON and DAVID are frozen rigid with fear. They make no attempt to eat the coal. The father intervenes and begins to force the coal into their mouths. Their faces become black with coal dust. They become highly distressed and struggle with their father. They are powerless against him. As they continue to struggle, PAUL enters)

Paul

What do you think you're doing? You're mad! You're stark raving mad! Take your hands off them, old man!

John

(He turns his attention to PAUL)Finally, eh? You think you've got the backbone for it? You think you're going to come in here, under my roof, and tell me what to do?

Paul

I'm telling you look at them! You're sick! That's just wrong! Get your hands off them or I'll put you on your back myself.

John

(He strides over to PAUL and pushes him in the chest) Come on then, son. Let's see you do it. Put one on me. Come on. Do it! Land a good one, son, but by God you'd better make it a good one!

Paul

I'm bloody warning you, I'm telling you (He takes a swing at his FATHER, who easily avoids it. JOHN lashes back, and strikes PAUL across the face. PAUL falls to the floor).

John

Get up, son! Get back up! (He drags PAUL by the collar back to his feet. He strikes him again, and PAUL slumps again to the floor) I'm ashamed to call you one of my own. You get yourself off that bloody floor and be gone from here! Don't you darken my doorstep again!

(The light fades slowly. A spotlight picks out SHARON, as tears run down her cheeks)

(Blackout)
Scene 13

(SHARON is on the stage alone, still with a dirty face. She holds a rag doll. She holds it up proudly. She addresses the audience)

Sharon

I made her myself. In the sewing class. We got a big box of rags out and Mrs. Jones showed us how to make them. It took me three weeks on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I'm a good sewer. I call her Molly. The face was the hardest. I had to sew her in a smile. I like Mrs. Jones. She's kind to me. She took me home when the school was closed that day. I told me mam and da' it were closed but they wouldn't believe me so I stood at the gates. Mrs. Jones saw me and took me home to me mam and told her it was closed that day. I wouldn't lie about a thing like that. I couldn't - I'd get the belt if I ever lied, me da' told me. We haven't always lived here you know. I remember we had to live at me aunts once and then we went to a boarding house for a while too. Me mam said we were to put on a brave face and let the world see we were still smiling and to make the most of a bad job. Me da' didnt come with us that time. I don't know where he stayed. He'd come and call for us and he'd ask Mrs. Henderson, he'd say, "I've come for our Sharon - my little princess. I'm taking her out for a treat, just her." And she'd say, "Well, have her back by six, else she'll get no supper. It's Tuesday and we have liver on Tuesday". It was always liver on Tuesdays and it was always Tuesdays me da' came to fetch me.(She pauses and looks at the rag doll. She hums a tune.) I sometimes play out in the ginnel, when I'm bored. It's good out there and I can run around and just imagine stuff. You have to watch out for the muck though. Me mam says it's filthy to let those dogs out to run loose in the street and that them Browns should know better than to let the same litter rut like beasts in the ginnel and how it weren't no good for their blood. I've seen them doing it sometimes. I threw a stone once but it did no good - I couldn't stop it. It was like nature didnt know it was wrong and it didnt know it should stop.(She becomes absorbed in the rag doll again.) I ought to go now. Me mam might be wondering where I got to and she'll have me tea ready soon. At least it won't be liver I don't think. The smell of it makes me feel sick but me da' says there's plenty of people in the world would be glad of liver for their tea and I'm to just eat it and be grateful for what I've got and what me mam puts on the table. When I grow up I wont have liver though. Oh well, it's getting on a bit. It was nice meeting you. Don't tell me mam and da' please? I don't think they'd be very happy. Molly says hello. Come along Molly. We have to get back now. Bye now.(SHARON leaves the stage, cuddling the rag doll)

Scene 14

JOHN is in bed. His breathing is laboured. He is near to death. DAISY nurses him. Nothing is said between the two. She mops his brow then rings the cloth out. She stares at him. He holds a weak hand out for her. She stares at it, and then takes it. She holds him.

Daisy

Have you made your peace, love? Shall I call for the priest?

(JOHN looks back at her. He struggles, but manages a nod. The light fades.

The stage remains empty for a short while. The lighting is dim, and for the remaining action should only be enough to illuminate the stage area where events occur. Sounds begin to play, of aeroplanes, motorcars, children playing and children crying. Another light illuminates DAISY who has retuned to the low wall and is smoking. She stares blankly into space.)

Narrator

I want to tell her that just sitting on the wall has been the most comforting part of my Tuesday night ritual for longer than I care to remember. She has been the net underneath me while I dared to soar higher than she ever had the chance to go, she's been everybody's grandmother for so long - she's been the old lady, who sits on a wall, smoking a cigarette, forever.

(The light fades on DAISY and rises on a coffin)

My car reached her wall, the traffic in front as heavy as the traffic behind, but I steeled myself to have a look, to root myself in the reality of continuity.

(The light rises on the wall where DAISY was sitting, to show the spot is now vacant)

Maybe I'm early? I'll catch her on the way home. She'll be sitting on the wall, smoking her cigarette, I thought to myself. My sorrow was not abated when on the return trip she still wasn't there, and I thought I might never have the opportunity to not give her a packet of cigarettes, ever again.

Scene 15

SHARON enters and moves towards the coffin. She has a can of hairspray in her hand. The light is enough to illuminate both SHARON and the coffin. She has a determined look on her face. She sprays the contents of the hairspray on her hair. The sound of the aerosol should be heard beyond the blackout.

(Blackout).

The Birthday Gift

2008-04-16T08:54:00.006+01:00

It wasn’t that she wanted to appear ungrateful, but no matter how much she tried, Simone could not find anything good to say about the present sat in front of her on the kitchen table. The loose wrapping paper that had concealed the gift was now draped around the base of the tin, like the bunched up skirt of an immodest Tiller girl, high kicking and gaily swirling, the illusion enhanced by tinsel and glitter. She cradled the telephone against her neck, while gently folding egg whites and sugar in a glass bowl.

“Thanks, Marce” she said, in reply to the “Happy Birthday” greeting she had just received. “Oh, I think Dave plans on taking me out later. You know, another of his best-kept secrets I happen to know about. Saw it in his diary, which he shouldn’t leave laying around if he doesn’t want me to read it. Anyway, yes, it said T x 2, 8.00PM, Walgraves. He hasn’t said anything yet – bloody typical too. Now I’ll have to get ready and act surprised and the idiot won’t even notice when I slip straight into a little black number looking bloody gorgeous – as if it happens by magic. Honestly – men!” She laughed into the mouthpiece. “Sorry, Marce! What? Oh no, I don’t think it’s too early! In fact, top idea. Hold on a moment…” Simone put the bowl and spoon down on the counter and rinsed a glass under the tap. She went to the fridge and grabbed a couple of cubes from the icemaker. She carefully cut a slice of lemon, dropped it in the glass and finished the process with a generous measure of gin and tonic.

She closed her eyes momentarily as she took the first sip. “Perfect!” she said into the ‘phone, smacking her lips. She shook the glass to make the ice cubes chink. “Can you hear that, Marce? Perfection on the rocks, even if I do say so myself. You not joining me? Oh, you are! Yes, I can hear it your end. Gin as well? Martini? Nice! So yeah – I don’t quite know what Helen was thinking, do you?” She turned the unwrapped tin on the table, scrutinising it carefully through slightly closed eyes. “Well...what can I say? It’s…well you’d never guess I don’t think in twenty years what it is. I think she’s going slightly barmy. I know she’s just buried her dad – I think it’s knocked a screw loose! So go on…have a guess. It’s crème coloured, with a red top and there’s writing on the side. You can have three guesses.” She giggled. “No – wrong, wrong and wrong again. Look, you’re never going to get it. I’ll tell you. It’s string. Helen has bought for me a…” Simone took time to deliberate over the words, “…Ball of string. In a tin.” She waited for the laughter to subside at the other end. “No, I don’t think I quite know what I’m going to do with it. I expect she thinks it’s the most useful thing a girl could ever hope for. Marce – if I ever send you a tin of string for your birthday – not only will you know where it came from, but shoot me, won’t ya?”

Simone relaxed into the bubbles, stretching her legs out as far as the bath would let her. She rested her head on the back of the bath, enjoying the sensation of the bubbles popping against her neck. She flinched as some hot water escaped from the tap, onto her left foot. “Ouch!” She waited to see if anymore would drip, and satisfied it wouldn’t she relaxed again. She idly drew the sponge across her tight belly in tiny, irregular circular motions. She took a deep breath, savouring the scent of the candles she was burning, everything heightened by the steam coming off the bath. She sat up a little and pulled her legs towards her. She brushed her hand down her shin, using the soapy water as a lubricant. She checked for hair growth, and sat back again; satisfied that she didn’t need to shave. After a couple more minutes like this she rose from the bath, stepping onto the duckboard. She wrapped a towel around herself and walked through to the bedroom. She saw that the telephone was blinking, imploring her to respond as if it was a distress beacon. She pressed the button for the answerphone; slightly surprised she hadn’t heard the telephone from the bath. The message cut in. She recognised Dave’s voice.

“Simone, Dave here. How you doing? Good. Um...yeah, sorry, everything’s going a bit ballistic here at work, we’ve got a big presentation for the launch tomorrow and the Sales Director is absolutely doing her nut that we’re all word perfect for it. We’re doing a dry run tonight. I’m not going to get over tonight, sorry. Maybe another night – as soon as this is out the way I’ll be back on track. Sorry, hope it doesn’t ruin your plans or anything” The message terminated. Simone picked up the ‘phone and was about to hit the dial back button, when she stopped herself. “The bastard’s forgotten. Bloody hell!” She threw the ‘phone onto the bed, turning in time to catch a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror. “Hmmph. Bloody gorgeous”. She felt a lump rising in her throat. She stopped and swallowed hard in a bid to thwart any tears. Composed once again, she thought about the message.

“Hello, is that directory enquiries? Yes, it’s a business number, please. Walgraves, of Hallaton. Thank you, I’ll wait. Hello – yes, can you put me straight through?” She waited to be connected. She tried to push the thoughts out of her mind, but she couldn’t. There had been one too many cancelled dates. That far away look in Dave’s eyes when she was talking to him. The excuses: It’s work. Things are a bit hectic at the moment. Once we get the month end out the way…after this conference…the presentation…I need to run the figures…there’s a PowerPoint I need to prepare…a spreadsheet needs doing…excuses and more excuses. The telephone clicked; a polite voice informing her that this was “Walgraves Supper Rooms, good evening”. Simone hesitated, almost deciding not to carry on. Then, from the pit of her stomach the words tumbled out. “Hello, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Wines. There seems to have been a mix up. I should have cancelled his reservation – can you confirm please?” She waited, holding her breath. She had already anticipated the response. Her reply came easily too. “I do apologise – I’m terribly sorry, Mr Wines’ diary is in disarray. It’s another evening which I have pencilled in that should be cancelled, but that seems to be in order now too. No, please do not disturb Mr. Wines. Providing he is enjoying his meal, he doesn’t need to know about this. His guest has arrived, I trust? Mrs. Wines, you say? Ah, yes, then everything is in order. I’m sorry to have bothered you. Good evening”.

Simone dragged the back of her hand across her face, pulling the tears down with it. She rubbed her eyes, her mouth closed tight to prevent the sound that was rising in her throat from betraying the last vestiges of dignity she possessed. She stood upright and shook her head slightly, shaking herself back to the moment. She walked across to the wardrobe and opened it. She removed two shirts, a Pringle sweater and one pair of Chino’s from it. Dave preferred to keep things simple, returning to his own place to grab a change of clothes or to freshen up, or catch up on his mail. It was a routine that suited them both. Simone went down to the kitchen, placing the small pile of clothes on the kitchen table. She opened the cupboard under the stairs and reached in, without turning on the light, feeling with her hand instead until it sought out the roll of brown paper. She unrolled the paper and played out a large piece onto the table. She picked up the pile of clothes and placed it squarely onto the paper. She rubbed her thumb along a shirt collar, in a briefly sentimental moment. She folded the brown paper over, and after checking it for length she cut it to size. Turning the package over, she reached to the tin still sitting on the table and pulled out a long piece of string. She carefully wrapped the string around the parcel, and with a twist she tied the ends off in a bow. She opened another drawer and found a black marker pen, and on one panel of brown paper she emblazoned the legend: DAVID WINES. NOT KNOWN AT THIS ADDRESS. She opened the front door and walked down the path to her gate, where she casually dropped the parcel onto the pavement. She turned and walked briskly back up the path.

Memory of a Free Festival

2008-04-15T08:38:00.009+01:00

The Children of the summer's end
Gathered in the dampened grass
We played our songs and felt the London sky
Resting on our hands
It was God's land
It was ragged and naive
It was Heaven
D. Bowie, 1970.

There was once a time when all our tomorrows were to be ended by a ballistic threat, and not one strapped to the chest of the enemy. Then, like now, we never really knew our enemy. We looked eastwards, as we still do today, but none of us back then actually knew any Russians. They were going to annihilate us with nuclear weapons. We were going to destroy them - with nuclear weapons. That was the balance that prevented either side from pushing the button.

We all knew that we were on a map, somewhere, deep below ground in a cold concrete bunker, over which flew the Hammer & Sickle, and inside the Generals pushed pins and slid miniature model rockets over a scale model of Europe. We presented an attractive target. To our south was Portsmouth dockyard, the ancient home of the Royal Navy, itself encircled by many dry shore establishments. To our dismay, we heard that Marconi were moving the "Sting Ray Anti-Submarine" weapons research establishment north, to our very own town. We took to the street in protest. We didn’t want to be on the map. We took to the street, and then the fields. We encamped the fields where they said the weapons site was going to be. We held a free festival.

It’s August. The sun is blazing and beating down mercilessly. When asked, one day in the future, none of us will remember the year. We will each have our own private account. It might be '84, ’85, or ’86. Our long hair warms our heads – providing shade and thatch simultaneously, a damp shiny moss, with the undeniable smell of the great unwashed, worn like a badge of honour. We carefully remove the large skip placed across the entrance to this field. The combined force of the rainbow tribe effortlessly rocks the skip to clear the track. We have moved the mountain. It confirms one suspicion though. They know we are coming.

The camp takes shape quickly. Bivouacs are erected around small campfire plots. Small tins hang over the flames to provide hot water for strange brews. Other culinary delights are put together with varying degrees of skill, ranging from the palatable to the downright unorthodox. Before the site becomes anymore unrecognisable, someone shouts. "Kenny, over here a minute." Kenny looks up and sees Kevin, from Portsmouth, sizing up a ramshackle barn, which rises like a monolith from an anonymous scrape in the ground. "I’m thinking we should keep this area out of bounds. If we take photo’s we can document the condition of it. That way they can’t pin criminal damage on us." He pushes his wire-rimmed spectacles back onto his nose, a small bead of sweat dripping off the end. He rubs his neck, pulling each end of the camera strap backwards and forwards to scratch where his green army shirt is beginning to irritate under the sun. "Kenny, grab this and stand by the door." He throws a copy of that afternoons "Evening News" to Kenny, who opens it up to the front cover. "Hippies Invade Torpedo Town". Kenny smirks and turns towards the camera, holding the page to his front. Kevin aims, focuses, and shoots. He repeats the action. "Thanks, Kenny. At least we can show ‘em what it was like when we got here".
Kenny returns to the camp and finds Garry, Mike and Rick stoking a small fire with twigs. "Who else is coming?" asks Kenny, to no one in particular. Garry answers, telling him that Araan the Punk was making his way down later, and that Lucy, Kike and the Bournemouth posse were already well on their way. "What about Dampon Dampax? Has anyone seen him?" asks Kenny. Rick giggles and performs a strange ritual with his hands, weaving them like a snake in front of his eyes. "Don’t mind him", says Mike, pointing at Rick. "He’s been out of it since we got here. He’ll be back later". We grin. We know, if nothing else, we’d either be in the same state later, or, more cruelly, having fun playing "head games" with the afflicted brethren. Towards the back of the field a band tentatively strikes a couple of chords, adjusting the equipment to combat the feedback from the PA. We wince and chuckle. We wrap some potatoes in tin foil and chuck them onto the fire. We kick back, using our shirts for pillows and we chat idly, keeping half an ear out on the music. Life feels good.

The unmistakeable penetrating trill of Lucy’s Canadian accent sharply wakens those of us who have dozed off. The large weaved top she is wearing, shrinking her petite figure, smells of patchouli oil and the bright colours it once boasted are fading. "Aww, gee! I just love baked potato!" she squeals. She sweeps a dreadlock from her face and juggles the tinfoil parcel from one hand to the other. "And I just love butter!" exclaims Lucy, even louder. "Any cheese?" Araan, who arrived when we were dozing scoffs, swigging from the jug of cider he has brought along, "Ya know, Luce…being vegan kind of means you miss out the dairy part of that baked potato?" he says, questioningly. Lucy ignores him, creating a small butter mountain on the potato. A mongrel dog yaps around our feet, leaping around. Araan relieves Kike of the spliff he has been holding. "Don’t be a hog, Kike, mate." He snorts like a pig. We laugh. Mike comes over. Lucy screams, "NORB!" at him. Mike responds, "BRON!" lifting his upturned palm at the same time. "The Prophets are on in fifteen or so, if you want to get your shit together". Mike teases his goatee beard, shifting with a nervous energy from foot to foot. Our posse rises. We ease the stiffness out of our backs and ankles and slowly traipse towards the makeshift stage area. We survey the crowd, who are not looking our way. In fact, they appear to be indifferent to anyone and everything. Someone on stage nods to us. Without bothering with a sound check, a keyboard and two guitars are plugged into the communal PA. Araan and his Mohican hair looks demonic behind the drum kit, which every other band is using. Mike coughs into the microphone. "Hello. We’re the Prophets. The prophets of NORB!" We lower our palms and make a sweeping gesture to the floor, and shout "NORB!" We await the responding cry. We hear a solo, "Bron!" come back. The crowd titters. Araan counts time; "Two-three-four!" and the Prophets let go with their opening number, "Waterlooville!" They continue with the set, ignoring the hippy in the crowd who shouts, "Oh no! Not them again!" as Kenny steps up to recite one of his poems to the backdrop of the Funeral March, provided by the Prophets.

Before the pretentious man died he was sad,
Because his wife’s – aunt’s – daughters – niece
Didn’t have time to finish cooking the dog’s pizza
But did finish her hair.
What would the man who died do about it?
Blow a trumpet and catch an angel’s harp?
Call the GPO and report a faulty line
And deny him-self the pleasure of…

Before Kenny can continue he is distracted by a ripple, which begins somewhere in the back of the crowd. The ripple grows into a murmur, then a bubble of excitement. It passes throughout the crowd: "The convoy…the Peace convoy…the convoy is here…it’s the Peace Convoy". We see plumes of black diesel smoke coming towards us, then a cacophony of car horns and air horns begins to fill the field, announcing the arrival of the Peace Convoy. We all watch, slightly in awe of the sight. Double Decker buses, old trucks and decrepit camper-vans snake their way around, creating a large moving circle around each other. They are proudly painted with peace symbols and the rusting paintwork is daubed with colourful strokes. More than one vehicle displays the words, leaving us in no doubt that the PEACE CONVOY has arrived.

Alan is going around from fire to fire, talking to the revellers. He comes across to our space, and grins widely, his face as red as his wiry hair; his beard heavy, his eyes sparkling clearly. He laughs as he announces our set was, "Different. Funny. Good. No, funny and good. Might be able to get you another slot tomorrow. Er, you guys are hanging around, aren’t you? Later, I mean. The Ozrics and Poison Girls are playing. They’ll be wicked. And you’ve got to stay for…" He says a name. It means nothing to Kenny, who asks, "Who? Never heard of him." Alan grins even wider. "Oh, then you really do have to stay for him. I’m telling you. Just make sure you make the set." He bounded away, to the next fire, his arms flailing wildly. The light begins to dim as the sun sets above the crowd, and the midges that have been waiting patiently begin their descent. The lucky ones drown in mugs of tea. The unlucky ones take bites from unsuspecting necks. Kenny moves down to the stage, staying close to campfires to outwit the midges. He pushes through the crowd, without apology until he is almost at the front of the stage. He pulls a blanket around himself and pushes his hat back, to gain a clearer view. He scans the surrounding crowd, looking not at their faces, but at their feet. He smiles when he sees some hobnail boots. "You pigs always give yourselves away" he chuckles, to himself.

After some time the stage falls into relative silence and someone moves a microphone, guitar stand and a single chair on. Kenny watches with nonchalance. After another brief pause a man, who Kenny guesses to be in his forties, walks onto the stage, from the side. His hair falls onto the brown leather jacket he wears to thwart the cold air, which is coming down quickly, despite the hotness of the preceding hours. The man sits, and rubs his hands together. He blows into them, and then pulls the microphone to his face. He looks slight, on the stage. "I hope this will be Ok. Just, my hands are really cold and I can’t get the circulation going". Someone shouts back, "Play, Roy. That’ll warm them" Kenny looks on, noting the humourous interaction that starts taking place between this man, Roy, and the crowd. Roy begins speaking some more, in what Kenny understands to be the introduction to a song. After a faltering start, this man begins to strum his guitar. Kenny is taken aback for a moment. He checks at first to satisfy himself that this is one guitar, not two or three playing. The man kicks a foot pedal and the sound intensifies, pulsating out, hitting Kenny in the chest. Kenny stands, enjoying the sensation. He hears the words of the song, his ears adjusting to the new sound, which assails him, then lifts him. He doesn’t move for the next forty-five minutes. He has never heard music like this before – immediately though it makes sense. He doesn’t notice Alan at first, who has joined him at his side. "I told you he was good, didn’t I?" Kenny shakes his head. He can’t speak. Finally, he manages to find some words. "I can’t believe it. This is incredible. I can’t believe it." Alan puts a hand on Kenny’s shoulder. "Yeah man. He’s good. I just love Roy Harper."

Counting Them Out; Counting Them in

2008-04-15T08:30:00.006+01:00

“Count what you have, not what you don’t have” said the wise man, somewhat enigmatically. He coughed, and winced visibly, pressing his hand just below his left breast. Despite his deep, wrinkled tan the fingers on his right hand betrayed an addiction that had been some sixty years acquired. It didn't matter to him, and went unnoticed by anyone who shook his hand, instead feeling his warm, firm grip, which would cocoon them in a safe shroud - and neither did his teeth, loose in their sockets and yellow, detract from his warm, twinkling smile.

“I have three sheep”, replied Mitsukuni, with a shrug that made the loose curls of his dark hair bounce on his shoulders. He spat onto the dirt, striking a dusty beetle with the accuracy of a laser guided missile. The beetle stopped short, its antenna waving furiously as it adjusted to the new damp environment, before continuing forth.
“Three sheep is good. Take one to market, keep one for wool and slaughter the third. Invite your brothers and their wives to feast with you at sunset. Fill your bellies until they are gorged.” The wise man shuffled his feet, leaving imprints of long forgotten valleys in the dirt below. Mitsukuni looked far into the distance, not really focusing on anything in particular. The town bell rang dully. Elsewhere, a dog joined it in duet.

Mitsukuni shook his head. “Koki has five sheep. He boasts how he will sell two at market this week.”
“Koki is indebted to Sumi. They say there is a price greater than two sheep on his head if he does not settle. Now which is worth more? Your three sheep or his five?” replied the wise man.

Marcia kneaded the dough roughly. She was running the argument through her mind, over and over. Her eyes moistened. "Stupid bitch!", she admonished herself. She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, in an attempt to push her damp hair out of her eyes. She became distracted by the small cloud of flour which followed the movement, tracing a path from bread dough to face in an arc. She pounded her fist into the sticky mixture, casually dusting it with fresh flour from her left hand. She sighed to herself, turning it into a hum, in tune with the radio in an effort to disguise it. The telephone rang shrilly. "Sod it", she thought. "Bloody time to be ringing". She considered the options. She let it ring, knowing that the answerphone would cut in soon enough. She wasn't in the mood to be sociable, anyway. "Miserable cow, I know". She plunged both hands to the counter, took a deep breath and threw her head back, letting the nape of her neck take the full weight. She liked how her hair just caught her here, a gossamer whisper, gently soothing, as she eased her head from side to side. She listened to the ring of the telephone, and clucked as the machine clicked in. She winced at the sound of her voice, never happy with it. "Hello, you've come through to Marcia and David. I'm sorry but we are unable to come to the 'phone right now. If you'd like to..." she grinned when the message was interrupted by her giggling, remembering how David had crept up behind her and poked both his forefingers into her sides -"leave a message, we'll get right back to you...ssh, stop it!" There was more giggling, as the message faded. She heard another click, and waited. For a second, it seemed that there would be no reply. Then, after another short delay she heard David. She knew almost instantly it was him, by the way he drew a breath before speaking. "Honey bun! Hey, I've only got a moment and I really do need to be quick. I got them to patch me through, I owe them one now! Look..um..if you're there - pick up. If not..well, look, Marce, hey, I'm sorry. Really, I am, honey. I shouldn't have gone off on one like that. Look, we'll sort it when I get back. Leave it with me. Love you. Climb the highest." Marcia shrieked at the machine. "No!" She dropped the tea towel she was trying to dry her hands on and grabbed for the receiver, spinning the small rose vase on the way. She pressed it to her ear, desperately wanting to salvage the moment, to turn back the clock just a few seconds. "Dave! Dave?" She listened intently. She could hear her pulse, echoed by the receiver against her ear, as the blood pumped, in time now to her gulping breath. "Climb the highest" She mouthed the words a second time. "I'd climb the highest mountain, swim the furthest ocean, to be with you" She listened. There was no reply. All she could hear was a continuous tone of the telephone, slavishly waiting for her to dial a number. She cradled it to her chest, and her hand rose and fell with each breath. She turned slightly towards the window, and caught her own reflection staring back at her against the darkness of the street outside. In the distance, she heard a whining roar; a familiar incantation. She heard the engines gather revs, each time becoming quieter as they gained pace and altitude. "..two...three...four..." She counted them out.

"Now watch this!" The wise man chuckled. His right hand picked up a checker, and tapped sideways across the draughts board. Mitsukuni stared, open mouthed. "Ok - next time! Next time." He winked at the wise man. He rocked back slightly, rubbing the small of his back with his hands. He closed his eyes and turned his head first to the left, then to the right. He then proceeded to move his head in a circle, letting out a small sigh of relief. "Maybe..maybe we should hold a feast! If nothing else, it would be good for the village" He smiled, and opened an eye slowly. "What's more, it would be a good excuse to.." Suddenly, he blinked. His eyes took a few seconds to adjust against the pure white of the sun. His jaw dropped open, silently mouthing. "Two...three..." He continued to count, squinting as he tried to determine what the dark shapes silhouetted high in the sky were..."Four!". He saw them, long before he heard them. He frantically pointed, redirecting the attention of the wise man, who was folding the board. He rose, sharply, sending the unpacked pieces flying into the dirt. He grabbed the sleeve of the wise man, and turned, to run

The Plough and the Dream

2008-04-15T08:27:00.004+01:00

“Where are you going?”
“There and back. See how far it is.”
“How will you know when you get there?”
“I’ll be on my way back”.
“How will you know you’re on your way back, if you don’t even know you got there?”
“I’ll recognise things I saw on the way”.

***

There’s a small, (emphasis here on small) part of me that has a grudging admiration for people who seem to have a life-plan, or at least, a set of predetermined goals and a sense of direction which hurls them towards old age with a smugness that I just do not seem to possess. I’ve tried to muster the same enthusiasm to conform with the “ideal”, but at some point this always wanes and I find myself rejecting this more and more.

I don’t have a mortgage, nice car, 2.4 children, designer grass on the floor at home, abstract prints on the walls; I don’t run my own business, covet expensive clothes or label (that word, again: LABEL) people according to income…but the very people that do, make up just about 88% of the friends I keep or meet up with socially, which, of late, hasn’t been that often, I admit.

Turn the clock back ten or fifteen years and they never revealed these aspirations. If they harboured any such plans I was never privy to them. Yet, I don't envy them either, chasing what it is they chase. Caught in the mangle of life, small cogs in the greasy machine. Like us all. Isn't that the greatest con ever perpetuated? The big sting, with us, the marks, being played, being hustled? What should we call it? What label best fits? There - that word again. Label. Capitalism? Western living? The nasty, insidious ideal, the grand design which keeps us confined to our boxes. The genius of it all - how did they convince us to till the fields, to drag the plough, to plant the crops, to swing the scythe, to earn the money, to buy back the very food we toiled over? It's so damned clever I only wish I had thought of it first. I endeavour to escape it. To break the chains that shackle me to this. To stop selling myself short. To finally get there. I shall only know when I have arrived when I stop recognising things on the return journey.

Shot By The Mob

2008-04-15T08:04:00.006+01:00

In between the inane moments which seem to dominate my life I retreat to a grey, featureless car park near to the place I call work, where I can hide between the white lines and other drivers who are equally seeking solitude, and possibly they wonder too where Godot might be.

It's a car park in which nothing happens, more than twice. I become a steel island and protect my territory ruthlessly from the brigands of the concrete sea with an impartiality that would turn Medusa to stone, if she dared meet my gaze. I open the car door and swing my feet out, looking down at an imaginary camp fire, where only now cigarette butts are casually discarded.

In an unprecedented moment a silver car pulled up next to me. It wasn't random - of all the empty spaces this intruder could have chosen, he chose the one next to mine. The tinted window wound down, slowly. The tanned, well groomed driver looked at me for a moment, and asked, in broken English, "Do you speak Italian?" I looked at him. I expected the caveat to follow - "I haf reeturned from ex-ee--bission and haf mucha stock left to sell" - but it didn't. Do I speak Italian? No, I'm an ignorant Englishman, sitting in an island on an island - barely able to acknowledge my own heritage, resigned to be an apologist for my forefather's imperialistic leanings and the de facto knowledge that a declaration of Englishness these days is an affront to multi-culturalism. Being British is ok; being English is merely an anachronistic term, which died about the same time George slayed the dragon and earned his place in history.

"No, I don't" was all I could muster. We continued to maintain eye contact, both cowboys astride our steeds, hands inching towards our holsters, thumb and finger nervously twitching, waiting for the other to make a fatal error of mistiming and to take a bullet in the upper thorax, or, if up aganst a particularly skilled gunslinger, between the eyes. The man with no name looked back at me, and made a sound in his throat which was either him dry gulping with an understandable fear and dread that he had ridden into the wrong town, or it might have been disgust. "You only speeeek Ing-er-lish?" he croaked. I looked back at him, unblinking, almost believing that flies were gathering around my squinting eyes, where the tiniest droplet of moisture was converging to travel down my face and join the concrete ocean. I waited, unsure at all whether this was only high noon or my last stand.

No name saw sense. Regaining his composure his window closed, cranking on its electric motor. With a kick of his heels he rode off into the sunset, with no shots being fired.