Detachment by Alyson Dobson

And here is Dobson's creative piece as promised. Not quite as 'blood and guts' as Moran's, more an exploration of voyeurism, raising big questions about the morality of a society where surveillance makes individuals passive rather than active.

Enjoy...

Detachment

It is precisely 13:02, when the door swings open and you walk in.  You have ‘walked in’ at this time everyday for the last six hundred and fifty six days. You make a beeline for your usual spot next to the panoramic window, and angle your chair in order to improve your view. What you can see through the blurred drizzle I’m not exactly sure, you probably wish there were wipers.  I imagine these 12ft high windows with windscreen wipers protruding down from the top, like the ones you get on a bus, the little half-moon which they clear fails to improve visibility.

Today your seat is free, but I can recall two occasions when someone was in it. The first time, you stood behind them, not speaking but your eyes pierced into the back of their head. Eventually they moved and you took up residence.  The second occasion, just last week, was different; a group of people were haphazardly strewn across your general area.  You took one look at them and quickly left.  I got the impression you don’t like chaos.

The rain continues trickling down the window. May? More like bloody November. The sun had stuck its head out this morning so there was the odd opportunist who had decided not to wear a coat, more fool them; a little bit of sunshine and out come the flip-flops, the shorts and the bare arms. 

You remove your anorak, hanging it carefully over the back of your chair, then, you take your cling-filmed sandwich from your bag and place it neatly on the windowsill.  Next to it you place a red packet of crisps, a small orange and an unopened bottle of water; all in an immaculate row. You also take out a book.  It’s the same book everyday and the bookmark doesn’t move; the book is just for show. You never have any intention of reading it; it’s your cover story.

I know that over the course of the next 56 minutes, in between your daydreams, you will methodically consume your lunch, fully finishing one item before starting the next, until you have a neat row of rubbish. You overhear snippets of conversation, which merge into one nonsensical sentence:

‘She fancies…don’t ever go…the shit out of him…to Egypt right…it freaked me out…if it still doesn’t work…cos basically, right…email me and let me know…bugger off…the toilets up here…you twat…what appears on the screen…are blocked…did you see the latest…?’

The din of voices disappears into your background and you disappear into your daydream, staring vacantly out of the watery window.

*

The window overlooks a car park and, from your vantage point, you are able to observe the orchestrated sequence of pedestrians, parkers and leavers. Today they are all in perfect formation, following the arrows, no-one out of step. Some days you get the idiots who can’t read the road markings, either that, or they think cause they’re in a flash car the signs don’t apply to them. The wind carries a siren and the screams and squeals of children playing in the nearby park.

You un-cling your sandwich and begin, book poised…

You observe some of the coatless, flip-flopped ones dashing across the car park, in an attempt not to get wet. Even in the earlier sunshine it wasn’t that warm. Your attire is much more sensible.  Come rain or shine, you wear a dark pair of trousers, what I imagine to be a plain t-shirt (it’s difficult to tell as it’s always covered by a checked shirt), an anorak and polished black lace-up shoes. There are those out there who are still sporting scarves and gloves; far more appropriate, I think you’ll agree.  Then there are those dedicated ‘followers of fashion’, the best ones to watch.

You observe a boy in the bottom corner of the car park.  Although a long way off, he appears to be on the phone, you lean a little closer to the glass, trying to get a better look.  He is gesticulating dramatically and as no one else is in his vicinity one would hope he’s on the phone, either that or he has some sort of mental problem.  He is wearing a baseball cap, positioned neither the right nor wrong way round, baggy jeans which start half way down his bottom, and a dark hooded top. This ‘look’, and the suped up red Peugeot 205, which he’s just kicked, puts him into the ‘boy racer’ category.

You notice the car park attendant clocking off for his lunch; a cheery chap who always has a pleasant word. Regardless of the weather he wears one of those oversized hi-vis coats, today is no exception.  He has a round face and looks like a Grandad, grey around the edges. He gives a nod and a wave to his mate and ambles over to his racing green Rover. Once in, he begins to faff in the way older people do…seatbelt on, check the mirrors haven’t readjusted themselves, tune in the radio to Classic FM or Radio 4…no, that’s not faffing, it’s meticulousness, an admirable trait.

You finish your sandwich and place the rubbish on the windowsill.  You open your crisps, placing them on your lap, book poised…

The rain seems to have stopped, and the sun is breaking through.  The rays reflect off the glass and partially obscure your line of sight, so you re-align your chair and check back on Boy Racer; he is no longer gesticulating and has lit a cigarette.  He climbs into the 205, perhaps not the best idea given his seeming temper.  It is quite probable that even though he is stationary, he is continually pressing his foot on the gas, revving the engine in true ‘boy racer’ style.

You spot a girl unsuccessfully wearing leopard print leggings and a tight low-cut black top. She is teetering across the car-park in 6 inch heels, swinging an oversized ‘I love PB’ hand bag. She’s still got her brolly up; it matches her leggings. Her cheap stilettoes don’t cover up those two tyres round her middle; perhaps she should’ve invested in a few loose fitting cardies instead. I imagine, no, I hope, you think the same.

Leopard Print suddenly turns her head to the right, presumably in reaction to a noise.  You follow her look across the road to a super-skinny arty looking young man.  He is donning skin tight red trousers, a knitted tank top and shirt combo and white pumps. He has floppy hair. He’s not quite reached the road, Leopard Print waits, waving across to him.  They clearly know each other, perhaps they’re lovers… Why is it that couples are often made up of one large and one small person? Surely it would make more sense for similar sized people to be together.

You and I are very similar.

You finish your crisps; the rubbish is placed next to the cling-film ball. You begin peeling the orange in a slow circular movement which requires 2 hands…

Suddenly Boy Racer is on the move reversing rapidly from his space.

Grandad is also on the move at a somewhat andante pace, having already positioned his sun visor and replaced his prescription lenses with tinted ones.

Boy Racer flicks his cigarette out of the window, narrowly missing a small child. He ups his tempo: allegro, verging on presto! He is getting closer to you, close enough that you can see his number plate and the anger in his eyes.

Red Trousers has reached the road.  He and Leopard Print are fixated with each other.  They do not feel the need to check for vehicles; they meet in the middle of the road and do somewhat more than embrace each other. It all seems very false, very much for show.

Grandad looks right - looks left - looks right again - clear.  He cautiously pulls out as Boy Racer rounds the corner to Grandad’s left. The action is building to a crescendo!

Diminuendo.

               

Passers by: paused. No one moves.  No one does anything. 

You spit out a pip from your last orange segment, cleanse your hands on an antibacterial wipe, and unscrew the water bottle top. You sit back in your chair, book poised…

Grandad is leaning out of his window, but his head seems to be bent too far towards the ground.

Beyond his car, in the centre of the newly tarmacked road, is a puddle of leopard print, black and red.  ‘I love PB’ is dismembered, lying a few feet away.

Boy Racer has left the scene. Following a side impact on Grandad, he swerved around the Rover, taking out the oblivious ‘lovers’ on the way.

There is now a huddle of people pressed against your window.  No one knows what happened or how it happened.  The din of their voices is now back in your foreground:

‘Oh…what the…my God…fuck?...oh my…who is it?…God…oh shit…that…Jesus…looks like…fucking hell…what the…?’

And so the shocked expletives continue.

You continue to ‘read’ your book whilst admiring with envy the stillness of the scene outside.  It looks so peaceful; the orchestra of parkers and pedestrians is stopped, just for a moment.

Then it starts again, slowly at first…

A few passers by begin edging cautiously towards the scene, just to be nosey, whilst some just walk past – oblivious.  A couple have got their phones out.  Grandad, Leopard Print and Red Trousers do not move.  Busybodies are arriving; where’s everyone coming from? They’re like flies surrounding shit.  Everyone wants a piece of the action. But, as you and I both know, the action has already taken place.

Within 4 minutes the pace has picked up again and the car park is a monstrous hive of chaos. Cars can’t get in. Cars can’t get out. Pedestrians are now frantically running around without purpose or direction.

You glance at your watch, 28 minutes to go.  You will leave at precisely 13:58. By 13:35 you will have finished sipping your water. This gap allows time for digestion.

You’re back looking through the bleary glass.  Grandad’s mate is coming out of the attendant’s hut; he walks calmly over to the accident but when he realises who is involved, he almost collapses in the road.  I’ve never seen a grown man affected like this before.

You finish your water, carefully replacing the lid and repositioning the bottle on the window sill.

There’s an interfering sort of bloke starting to direct the traffic.  He’s relishing his role, having already acquired a fluorescent waistcoat. I imagine he’s telling people in a somewhat delighted tone that the road is closed due to an accident, even better, a fatality. Some of the motorists look decidedly displeased at the inconvenience this has caused them, whilst others abandon their vehicles and meander over to the scene for a look.

A pretty blonde girl is rushing over to Leopard Print and Red Trousers; her reaction signifies that she knows them. Actually, no, wait, she only knows him.  Dismissing Leopard Print she rolls Red Trousers onto his back. She observes him and strokes his cheek. Her touch, like her, will be soft. 

I long for a touch like that. 

His head lies in a small pool of red. She holds his wrist, 30 seconds pass. She drops his limp wrist and is now straddling him, beginning compressions upon his chest. Then she holds his nose, parts his lips and kisses him. She continues to repeat this pointless process, over and over. Onlookers watch with dumb hope, but no one offers to help.

Even through the glass, you can hear the faint screams of the sirens rapidly getting louder and louder. They enter by the role-relishing traffic director.  He must be ecstatic to tell the police a highly embellished version of events…but what exactly did he see?  He is quickly removed and replaced with an officer. Another police car arrives and the officers stroll up to the main event, assess the situation and hold radios to their mouths.  Blondie continues her compressions.

The fire service arrives, but you missed this as you were fixated on her, watching her going up and down.  I bet you wish you were Red Trousers, just for the thrill, for the view.

The place is swarming with uniformed people, however they don’t appear to be doing much, just directing traffic, taping off the area, getting people to move back, the usual, expected stuff. Then, they too begin to stand around and watch.  There isn’t really anything to watch.  Apart from Red Trousers being forcibly moved, the scene is as it was, perhaps the red puddles are slightly larger than they were, but other than that, nothing.

Another look at your watch: 13:47. Two ambulance crews arrive.  They simultaneously go to Grandad and Leopard Print.  The passers by and those still pressed against your window seem to hold their breath as one. After only a couple of minutes, Grandad’s crew walk away, Leopard Print’s follow. At this, people in the crowd appear visibly shaken and hold on to one another for support; some place their heads on a neighbour’s shoulder, and others fall somewhat dramatically to their knees. 

Both ambulance crews approach Red Trousers.  One crew detaches the now exhausted blonde from his torso, whilst the other crew attends to him.  Your eyes follow Blondie to the ambulance; she’s weakened by her efforts. The things we do for love. They wrap her up in a tinfoil blanket and she sits on the back of the ambulance, watching.  A police officer, armed with note pad and pen is approaching her. The flood gates open.

Back to Red Trousers, they’re still there, still working on him. He’s got a mask on and the paramedic is sticking a needle in his arm. Another ambulance has arrived; they’re bringing over a stretcher.  The watchers are getting excited at this glimmer of hope, pointing, waving their arms.  You, like me, probably think they’re stupid.

Only two minutes left; it’s been eventful. Back to normal tomorrow, I hope, just me, watching you, watching them.

What are you doing? You move closer to the glass, you’ve seen something.  I follow your eyes to the top of the car park. You’ve spotted Boy Racer, minus his car.  He’s crouching, clearly not wanting to be seen by the others.  He must have come to check for damage. He’s also watching, and you lean back into your seat.

At 13:57 you put on your anorak, remaining seated.  You pick up your bag, replace your book and collect your rubbish.  At 13:58 you head for the door, dropping your rubbish in the bin on the way.

*

I’ve been watching the swing doors in eager anticipation. I wonder if you’ll ever arrive early, or leave late…where do you go?  Who are you?

At exactly 13:02 you arrive. There is no rain today; we will both have a clear view.  You assume your usual position and follow the routine, but instead of the book you produce the local rag.  The headline reads:

THREE KILLED IN HIT AND RUN

 POLICE APPEAL FOR EYE-WITNESSES

Innocence by Cara Moran

This week we thought we'd give you some examples of our creativity, in the form of a couple of short stories.  The first one, below, is by Cara and for those of you who know Cara it may take you by surprise.  The inspiration for the story came from Cara's friend who was prepping, boiling and blending summer fruits. Her hands, as you would expect, 'were blood red and sticky'...

Innocence

Her hands were blood red and sticky; a knife lay on the counter.  There was a knock on the door.

‘Shit,’ she said aloud and looked around for something to wipe her hands on.  The person at the door knocked again, longer and louder.

‘Ok ok, I’m coming.’ 

Kath surveyed the mess in the kitchen, grabbed a towel and made her way to the front door, closing everything behind her as she went.  When she reached the front door, she took a deep breath and opened it.  Standing in front of her was a little girl from down the road holding a box. 

‘Can I help you?’  Kath positioned herself in such a way that made it clear she had no intention of inviting the girl in.

‘I’m raising money for my school…can I have some money, please?’

‘Oh…sorry…I haven’t got any money in the house.’

The girl looked surprised at Kath’s response and shifted awkwardly on her feet.  Kath could sense the girl’s uneasiness and smiled down at her.

‘I promise I’ll give you some money if you come back tomorrow.’

She moved and closed the front door abruptly, hoping the girl would get the hint to go away.  Kath stayed where she was and looked through the peep hole in the door; she watched the girl walk down the path.  When she’d gone through the gate and was back on the pavement, Kath breathed out and made her way back into the kitchen and the mess she’d left behind.

Standing in the doorway, she took in what was in front of her.  Knives lay discarded around the room.  A saw was lying in the middle of the floor.  Most shocking though, was the smell that hit her.  It filled Kath’s nostrils and took her breath away; even after all these years, the stench of a decomposing body never failed to turn her stomach. 

‘Get a hold of yourself,’ she said aloud as she moved into the room.  The odour would remain in the house for weeks after the body had been disposed of, but that was the least of Kath’s worries at the moment.  Disposal of the corpse and the clean-up of the murder room were more important right now.

Working methodically, Kath moved around the kitchen bagging up the body, part by part.  Within 30 minutes, she’d managed to place everything into black bin bags and piled them up by the back door.  She’d have to wait until dark before moving them into the shed at the bottom of the garden. 

The body in the bag was the third person Kath had killed this year; her seventh in total.  It wasn’t like she enjoyed killing people.  She had no control over her actions when the voice in her head was at its strongest; the voice which had been with her for the last ten of her 42 years. 

The murdering had begun with small animals and insects; ‘Nothing wrong with that’, the voice had told her.  ‘Everyone kills spiders and ants and beetles.’  Within a couple of years though, the spiders and ants and beetles had become neighbours’ cats and dogs.  Three years ago, Kath killed her first human.

She always made sure that the people she killed wouldn’t be missed by anyone as it meant there was less attention when they disappeared.  The last thing she wanted was for a major police investigation.  She didn’t fancy answering questions and being under suspicion because she knew the victim.  Picking ‘nobodies’ made things a lot simpler; the voice liked things to be simple.

*

It wasn’t until much later that Kath felt it was dark enough to move the bags down to the shed.  During the intervening three hours, Kath had thoroughly disinfected the kitchen, cleaned and returned the knives and saw to their usual hiding places and even managed to catch up on the goings on in ‘Eastenders’.  That was the thing; as soon as the killing process was over; Kath returned to her usual self and continued living a normal day to day life.  No one would ever suspect that the middle aged woman living at 67 Red House Lane led a double life.

As she opened the back door, the noise made next door’s cat jump off the fence, startling them both. 

‘Bloody thing,’ Kath muttered as she stepped out and made her way down the garden.  Using a wheelbarrow, she dumped the bags in front of the shed door; she reached into her pocket and found the three keys needed to unlock the padlocks that hid her secret.  Once unlocked, Kath began her routine.  Light switched on.  Bags placed next to the chest freezers.  Door closed and bolted.  It was as though she was operating on auto-pilot.  Freezer lid opened.  Bags untied.  Piece by piece moved from the bag, into the chest, joining the umpteen other frozen body parts that had accumulated over the course of three years.  Quite a collection, really.  Kath smiled to herself as she closed the lid.  She then performed the earlier routine in reverse and five minutes later, was back inside the warmth of her house.

*

Just as Kath sat down to have her lunch; there was a knock on the front door.  Taking a quick bite from her sandwich, she went to see who it was.  Standing on the doorstep was the girl who had called yesterday evening, asking for money.  Kath had completely forgotten she’d told her to come back today.  She smiled at the young girl, trying to make up for her rudeness from yesterday.  The smile seemed to settle the girl and she visibly relaxed.

‘Oh hi,’ Kath said.  ‘I’d forgotten you were coming back.  I’ve got some money for you today though, so don’t worry.’

As she said this, a cat darted in through the door, making both her and the girl jump.

‘Oh, Storm!  I’d wondered where you’d got to!’

‘That’s your cat?’ the girl asked.  ‘She’s been playing in our garden but we thought she was a stray ‘cos she didn’t have a collar.  She loves being played with.’

Kath still felt embarrassed about her behaviour towards the youngster yesterday and realised the cat could be the perfect way to make up for it.

‘Do you want to come in and feed her?  She seems to like you!’  As she said this, Storm was weaving her way in between the girl’s legs, clearly wanting to be made a fuss of.

‘Would that be ok?  I love cats.  One of ours went missing last year and we never found it.  Ziggy was my cat.  I loved her lots.’ 

A look of sadness passed across the girl’s face as she bent down to stroke Storm, making Kath start.  She thought back to her victims from last year.  There had been a few cats mixed in with the humans, but she never thought about the killings after they’d been done.  She remained completely detached from the things she killed.  The voice had always told her that remaining cold and distant was the best way to behave.  They were dead.  There was nothing she could do now.  They couldn’t be brought back.  End of.

The sight of the girl making a fuss of Storm sent a chill through Kath.  What was happening?  She’d never felt like this before.  Guilty.  She didn’t like it.  It unsettled her. 

‘You alright?’  The question snapped Kath back into reality. 

‘Yes, yes.  Sorry.  Was just thinking back to when Storm was a kitten.  That’s all.’  She tried to smile but the look of pain on the girl’s face had disturbed her.  She couldn’t shake the image from her mind.

Kath moved to allow the girl into the house, with Storm leading the way into the kitchen.  She closed the door and followed them. 

‘Get a grip, woman,’ the voice told her as she moved through to the back of the house.  ‘You’ve come too far to start getting emotional.  I won’t let you.’

*

The girl, who Kath had discovered was called Emily, hadn’t stayed for long, much to Kath’s relief.  She’d given her £10, smiled and waved her goodbye and was immensely relieved when she was finally alone again.  Just as she’d done yesterday, Kath watched Emily leave through the peep hole in the door.  When she was certain she’d gone, Kath locked the front door, went into the sitting room and sat on the sofa, staring into space.  She still couldn’t get rid of the feelings of guilt and she couldn’t work out why she was feeling like this over a bloody cat.  It made no sense.  She couldn’t even remember what the cat had looked like.  She’d never had any feelings of guilt or remorse before.  So why now?

Over the course of the next week, the feelings slowly subsided and before long, another week had passed and Kath hadn’t even thought about Emily or her cat.

Kath continued to live as she’d always done: rarely speaking to her neighbours, rarely leaving the house, rarely making contact with anyone in fact.

*

It was precisely a month after she had first visited, that Emily returned to 67 Red House Lane.  Kath was in exactly the same situation.  Blood splattered the worktops.  Knives lay haphazardly around the kitchen. 

The knock on the door made Kath jump.  She remembered what had happened last time she was interrupted.  That couldn’t happen again. 

She remained motionless but could feel and hear her heart beating.  She hoped whoever it was would realise no one was in and leave.  No such luck. There was another knock. 

Again, Kath stayed stationary, this time praying whoever it was would go away.  A drop of blood from the knife fell down onto her shoe.  Kath didn’t even notice it.

Another knock.  Another desperate prayer for the person to bugger off.  Another drop of blood fell, this time onto the floor.

No knock followed and Kath breathed out in relief.  She lowered the knife onto the worktop and took in what was in front of her.  The knock had interrupted her flow and she had to try and remember what bit came next. 

A noise outside made her look up and what she saw made her scream.  It was Emily.  Standing outside the kitchen window.  Looking in.  Rather than screaming though, Emily smiled.  Both stood staring at each other; Kath in bewilderment, Emily in amazement.  Getting caught mid-cutting process had always been Kath’s worse fear, and now it had happened.

Not quite sure what to do, Kath attempted a smile.  Maybe she can’t see inside.  Maybe she’s smiling because she’s found me.  Thoughts ran through Kath’s head as she tried to make sense of the situation.  A half dismembered body lying in her kitchen and a young girl standing outside, looking in.  What the hell was she going to do?

Emily moved from the window towards the back door and Kath watched as the handle moved downwards.  Shit.  She couldn’t remember if she’d locked the door.  She hadn’t.  Emily walked in. 

Kath was frozen to the spot, completely unable to move.  Emily looked silently around the room, taking in everything in front of her.

‘What you doing?’

Kath had no idea how to reply.  She opened her mouth but nothing came out.

‘Are you making dinner?’

Again, Kath’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

‘Can I help?  I haven’t got anything to do and I’m bored at home.’

This time Kath’s mouth opened in shock.  Here was a young girl, maybe 10 years old, asking if she could help ‘prepare’ dinner.  How could she not realise what was going on inside the kitchen?

‘I help my mum with dinner normally, so I know what to do.  I promise I won’t get in the way.  What you making?’

How do I reply to that? Kath asked herself.  And what do I do now?

Without realising what she was doing, Kath moved to the kitchen door and reached for a spare apron.  She passed it to Emily who smiled and put it on.  The situation was beyond surreal, but Kath had stopped trying to analyse it. 

‘I’ve just about finished cutting the…the…meat,’ Kath managed to say.  ‘Do you want to help me tidy up?’

Emily nodded and smiled again.  She looked genuinely happy to be here. 

*

For the next hour, the two worked together to tidy the kitchen.  Kath still couldn’t believe what was happening.  Emily chatted away, oblivious to what she was really doing.  Fortunately for Kath, most of the body had been placed into black bags before she’d been interrupted.  The odd pieces of flesh that had been left out could easily be mistaken for steak. 

Kath glanced up at the clock and noticed how late it was.

‘Don’t you need to be getting home for dinner, Emily?  It must be past your tea time.’

Emily shook her head and continued to spray the disinfectant.

‘Nope.  I ate before I came round to see you.’

‘Won’t your mum be wondering where you are?’

‘Nah.  She knows I’m here with you.  She said she’s happy for me to be here ‘cos she trusts you.’

Kath raised her eyebrows as she wiped where Emily had sprayed.

Another hour passed before the kitchen was completely clean.  The bags had been piled into a heap by the back door, ready to be moved when darkness arrived. 

Kath, who had managed to calm down over the last couple of hours, had actually enjoyed herself.  The voice, which usually appeared and kept her company whilst she chopped and tidied up the body, had disappeared, much to Kath’s surprise.  It had been nice to spend time with someone else and to have a conversation.  She hadn’t realised just how lonely and isolated she’d become. 

By the time Emily left, it was dark enough to move the body down to the shed.  Kath threw the bags into the wheelbarrow she’d left next to the back door and wheeled them to the bottom of the garden.  When she reached the shed, she pulled out the keys, unlocked the padlocks and entered.  The usual routine followed and ten minutes later, she was sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea. 

*

Months passed and Emily became a frequent visitor at Kath’s.  She clearly enjoyed helping Kath clean up the murder room.  She never asked any questions about where the bin bags went after she left and Kath never told her.  There was no need to complicate things.  They worked slowly, talking to one another about every day, mundane subjects.  It didn’t really matter what they spoke about; it was the company that Kath enjoyed.  It was a relief in some ways to know that someone else knew what she was doing, but that they wouldn’t tell anyone.

It was their third clean up together and were just ten minutes into the process when there was a knock on the door.  They both froze.  They looked at one another in silence.  There was another knock.  Emily opened her mouth but Kath shook her head, silencing the girl. 

They carried on standing.  Kath was waiting for another knock.  It didn’t come.  She breathed out and relaxed.  Emily did the same but the look of terror on her face remained. 

Kath gave a reassuring smile to Emily.  It was as much for her own sake as Emily’s.  Why couldn’t people just leave her alone? 

The pair resumed their cleaning.  Neither said anything.

Ten minutes passed and there was another noise which made them both stop suddenly.  What now? Kath thought.  Then she realised what the sound was.  It was the latch on the side gate being opened.

Imagine if Shakespeare's characters were real...

On a wet Thursday in London the Head of the American Fan Club and I, took a big red bus to World's End Place - home of the intimate Chelsea Theatre.

We had opted for a bit of fringe theatre over the West End and were very glad we did...

The Shakespeare Conspiracy was not only witty and thought provoking but brought Shakespeare bang up to date.   The premise of the play is that Shakespeare's characters are real and that the RSC, under the Artistic Direction of Oberon, is a branch of MI6! Shakespeare's villans have been locked up in the RSC 'fiction' world for over 400 years and only the last surviving descendant of William - a mere travel agent called Martin, can determine their fate.   

Faced with the decision between releasing the villans, led by Iago and his 'sister' Lady Macbeth or sealing up the divide between fiction and reality forever, Martin chooses to free the villans, thus potentially causing the end of the world! 

The play asks whether fiction is actually reality, or is our reality fiction and therefore how do we know the difference between the two? In a Matrixesque speech Martin suggests that Iago will end the world by taking away imagination because without imagination there is nothing. He fears that iconic plays such as Waiting for Godot will be ruined because  Godot will turn up 5 minutes in 'and they'll all be down the pub singing Danny Boy', not quite what Beckett was going for! Ironically this speech is purely Martin's imagination! 

The quick wit and comic timing of Benedict and Beatrice (straight out of Much Ado) together with some very well executed sword fights and an eclectic mix of Shakespearian characters and lines made this a fantastic watch. Loved that Capulet and Facebook were in the same line!

When Oberon told Martin about the idea that fiction could be reality, it reminded me of an earlier blog post: 'Feeling Philosophical', where I asked 'if fantasy does become reality what happens then?'  We now have our answer... the villainous characters in our fantasy will attempt to end the world by shutting down our imaginations - if you can't imagine the fantasy and the fantasy is the reality then there will be no reality!  Or will there??

Things to plug:

Panto season has begun at The New Wolsey Theatre in Ipswich with Sleeping Beauty - we've got our tickets - have you?

As essay writing kicks off contact the Black Cats and keep an eye on our Facebook and Twitter pages for some fantastic offers this side of Christmas!

P.S I was going to blog about a problematic toilet situations at USC but decided that you, like we deserved a better 'pissing' experience!

The Sunday night blog project!

Here we are, a little later and a little shorter than planned...

There has been much Procrastination and Distraction this week following a little visit from the founder of BCC's 'American Fan Club'. P&D occurred in forms of lunches, laughter, comedy shows, coffee, chocolate, shopping trips and an introduction to HootSuite!  Why did no one tell me about this marvellous App sooner? It enables me to manage our tweets and Facebook statuses simply and with ease... anything to save time is wonderful in my book.

So I teased you earlier in the week with the promise of a Spotted Dick blog...

On a little shopping trip we discovered Spotted Dick chocolate bars - of course we laughed immaturely because this is the only time you are allowed to put those words on a bar of chocolate without causing offence.  In America they don't have Spotted Dick (the pudding), therefore this was quite a novelty, and the 'American Fan Club' founder bought 12 bars for stocking fillers (not a typo - the shop assistant thought we were bonkers - no comment).  Imagine on Christmas day morning finding your stocking has been stuffed with a novelty Spotted Dick! 

I will leave you with that lovely image, safe in the knowledge that you are thinking about Great British Puddings!

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Feeling Philosophical

Sadly there are no silly stories this week as we are attempting to be little bit more intellectual! (We can but try) So...

This week saw one half of the Black Cat's (Cara) collaborating with the lovely Emma Kelly on a theatre review. Here are their thoughts on the intriguingly brilliant 'Stories from an Invisible Town' at The New Wolsey Theatre:

Diverse, unconventional and…there are too many adjectives to describe this oddly charming theatre show.  First shown at the Pulse Festival in Ipswich this summer, ‘Stories from an Invisible Town’ last night returned to the New Wolsey Theatre, this time as part of its UK tour.

Hugh Hughes tells us from the very beginning that ‘Stories from an Invisible Town’ is not a ‘real’ theatre show and his baffling yet entertaining mixture of presentations, film and radio go some way to making this show distinctly different.  Produced by Hoipolloi, and in association with The Junction in Cambridge, ‘Stories from an Invisible Town’ allows the audience a privileged look into Hughes’ ‘memory project’.   Joined on stage by his brother and sister, Delyth and Derwyn, as well as Jerry and Tom who provide music and technical support, Hugh takes the audience on a Snowdonian ride into his childhood memories, mixing the very funny with the very poignant.

At various points throughout the performance, the audience were left wondering how much of what they were watching on stage was rehearsed and how much was improvised; a feature of many of Hughes’ performances.  Despite erring on the side of unconventional, Hughes’ play remained relatable and up-to-date throughout.

The laid back mixture of well-timed comedy and compellingly executed poignancy created a totally fascinating and enjoyable watch.

Go here for the tour list:

http://www.hoipolloi.org.uk/our-work/stories-from-an-invisible-town/

There is also a fun interactive website, great for procastination, as if we need an excuse: www.invisibletownstories.co.uk

After reading the review and chatting with Cara and Emma, I had to ask - was it true?  Or, more to the point, did they believe it to be true?  They were undecided, but yes it did seem true.  The review states that 'Hughes tells us from the very beginning that ‘Stories from an Invisible Town’ is not a ‘real’ theatre show'...

This got me thinking - how can we as an audience know if something is true or real- just because we are told it is or it is it? In today’s society we are constantly playing with fantasy (the film, the play, the book) and reality, we want the fantasy to be as real as possible. But if fantasy does become reality - what happens then?

I could bore you with a million waffly answers (ok, not quite a million, but a million sounds impressive), however, I'll leave you to reflect.

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Foxes that lunch!

And so it is Friday... time to relax at the end of another week.  Not for us, spare a thought for us poor students - nope we're not partying - we're working! Sorry, enough of the 'woe is I stuff' let's get down to the real deal...

Lunch is normally a quiet affair, eating our pre-clinged, somewhat soggy sarnies, and exchanging meaningless banter whilst enjoying timeout from brain expansion.  Today we were joined by one of our more 'mature' friends - who always has a fun story...

She'd been away to France last week with a group of 'girlies' and, whilst waiting for a train, they'd decided to use one of those automatic public toilets.  You know the ones where you pay to get in and it tells you if you haven't flushed the toilet in 15 minutes you will die - or worse the door will open and you will be exposed to the world! Anyway, so first lady uses the loo - no problem out she comes, relaxed and relieved, and holds the door open for second lady to enter (here is the fatal mistake). Second lady enters. A few minutes pass, and a nice orderly queue begins to form, but no sign of lady number two.  Her friends begin to hear a faint tapping noise and realise it's coming from inside the toilet, they manage to get the door open and out comes second lady, looking rather bedraggled and smelling of disinfectant - much to the amusement of the queue. It transpires that when she  had sat down, she was plunged into darkness but thought 'well, I know where everything is I'll continue'. What she was not prepared for was the disinfectant shower which projected from the walls. The moral of the story - always pay to use the loo - it's worth it to not smell of eau de pine fresh.

So following the anecdotal story we continue to chat, moving onto a discussion about a farm cafe breakfast and just as our friend says 'they open early for shooting parties' in walks a fox! You couldn't write this, even if you tried.  He was a rather dapper fox, in a pin striped suit, he sat at the next table and cool as you like, as though it was the most normal thing in the world, ordered a coffee! He was then joined by an 'arty' type - I suppose this could explain the irregularity of the situation.  Or is it only irregular because we have not expanded our mind enough to make it acceptable? That's one for the philosophical amongst you.

Anyway enough about our fun filled day...

Here comes a blatant plug: 

If you just happened to stumble across this page without being sign posted to it - hurrah! And thank you for reading. This blog has an ulterior motive, (I know, even blogs taking on personas and becoming deceitful) to promote our little business Black Cat Copy-editing. You can find us on Facebook and on Twitter @bccediting.  We are a student led editing and proofreading service for assignments, dissertations, publications, journal articles, websites, CVs - I think you get the general idea.

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