Write a play about the government cuts disproportionally affecting women. You’ve got a weekend. Go on, off you go.
No sweat, easy.
By Saturday night I had a brilliant plan, as to how I was going to fake my own death. I’d bought an Argos lilo, had a ticket on the night ferry to Amsterdam, and had created Marcel. Marcel is plank with a massive nail through the end of it, and would be deployed mercilessly in the event of a shark attack. So long cruel world.
"Hola, donde es el arbol de coco? He has llegado desde Inglattera y estay muy hambriento."
That means "Hello, where is the coconut tree? I’ve come from England and am very hungry." What could possibly go wrong?
Turns out DFS Ferries have a policy about planks with nails in over a certain length. Nazis. An ugly scene ensued. I was released on Sunday evening with no option but to write the bloody play. Bugger! My hair’s not long enough to get a good grip on to pull out, so I plucked some off my toes with tweezers. This worked wonders. Why hadn’t I tried that before? The play flew out of me, like a famished tiger charging at a lost toddler. I typed so hard my fingerprints are now blobs.
On Monday we got some actors wrapped up in a decorative basket. They’ve been lovely, and have proved essential to the making of the play. They seem to think the play’s ok. But you never know with actors. They’re actors, they might be acting. Why don’t you come on Saturday to see for yourselves?
And if you throw rotten veg at the actors then you’ll have Marcel to answer to.