'Natural Disaster' by Roisin Gallagher

We will all experience grief at some point in our life. 

That raw, aching, sadness when someone we love so dearly is taken from us.

In ‘Natural Disaster’, Roisin Gallagher expresses so clearly that feeling of loss, without using many words.

The set, her father’s shed, is a symbol of her dying dad. It is wonky, lopsided, full of holes and susceptible to storm damage.

And the storm comes.

The storm, symbolising his illness, is so howling, so terrifying; it’s like a scene from a horror movie.

Roisin, on her knees, writing in the soil, is trying to remember everything about her dad before the storm takes the shed.

Descriptions of how he looks are narrated over the loud speaker using sound effects that are both hypnotic and eerie.

His coat, his trousers, his hat – are hung on pegs, as though to represent that her dad is still standing there with her.

His welly boots, a symbolic representation of his hard-working, sturdy stature, feature throughout.

And mid-way, a tiny welly boot is produced, an inkling that there is another character in this story.

The storm progresses. The rain beats down heavily on the shed; the storm is battering her father.

She rushes around, trying to prevent the damage. She uses plant pots to try to catch the leaking water. But the flood rises and rises and rises – until suddenly, she is drowning. Drowning in her grief.

Using physical theatre, fantastic sound effects and lighting, Gallagher depicts this drowning scene to perfection. And in that murky darkness, I can feel her pain. I can feel her despair. I know how horrendous she must have felt in her grief.

And then, we hear a recording of her late father’s voice. I feel a tear spring to my eye and roll down my cheek. Then more tears as we sit with Roisin and listen to those recordings – those fragments of time spent with her father that she wanted to document; for fear of forgetting.

We are led to a memory of the funeral – her standing there; tray of sandwiches in each hand, listening to the clichéd platitudes of those attending. ‘Great service, at least he’s at peace, do you want an egg and onion sandwich, yes the flights are very expensive at this time of the year’ – All those empty, meaningless words when actually her face is saying ‘I’m grieving, I’m in agony, I don’t care about fecking egg and onion sandwiches’.

She is ‘shocked’, ‘shocked’, ‘shocked’ – punctuated by gun-shot sounds and sharp body movements. The sound, design and physicality of this piece allows Roisin to express her grief in a way which words can’t. Perhaps that’s why there’s such a limited script.

The shed represents her grief – sitting in it, lying in it, screaming in it, and then eventually walking away.

The child’s tiny welly boot makes a re-appearance – reminding us of the circle of life. There’s a little one to look after. There are giggles; cuteness; a smile on her face; a reason to put on her heels and try to walk on.   

'Natural Disaster' by Roisin Gallagher was performed in The MAC, Belfast on 15 - 16 March 2019
Tinderbox Theatre Company 
Writer & performer - Roisin Gallagher 
Director - Patrick J O'Reilly 
Producer - Jen Shepherd 
Set & Lighting Designer - Ciaran Bagnall 
Sound Designer - Isaac Gibson 
Stage Manager - Seana Green 
Set Construction - Matthew Forsythe 

'Wasted' by PintSized Productions

I am sitting in the American bar right beside the stage. An audience sits drinking their Sunday afternoon pints about to watch ‘Wasted’. Two actors are in front of me. Two chairs. Two spotlights. The music begins. Immediately we are thrown into a nightclub scene. The two actors are drinking, taking selfies, dancing. As the title suggests, they are wasted.

It is fast, vibrant, energetic. We move through scenes with great speed – the bar, the taxi, the club. We even move from character to character quickly – one minute we are watching two female best friends, next the actors switch to two male friends. Thrown into the mix, the characters change to a mother, a bouncer, a Policeman. All the actors have are two chairs and two spotlights. But with fascinating direction and choreography, one hour of two actors and two chairs becomes so much more.

We have Emma and Kate, best mates on a night out. They bump into Oli and Charlie, and the four progress from a few drinks in the bar, to drinking games, to a taxi, to a club. There’s a scene where Emma falls and is picked up by Oli. Oli examines her bloody foot, only to find that the blood is actually spilled Strawberry Daiquiri. Shannon Wilkinson (Emma) portrays a highly realistic drunken girl – even her facial gestures are down to a tee. Then she manages to switch to the laddish Charlie, which she pulls off effortlessly by the way she cranes her neck and she way she swaggers.

Thomas Martin on the other hand, who originally plays Oli, immediately switches to best friend Kate, and we need no explanation. He can act girlish, feminine and like a sympathetic girlie best friend. Then straight away he can switch straight back into his male character who is being grilled by his mother on what he got up to the night before.

How Nuala Donnelly pulled together this feat of choreography and direction is beyond me.  It is fast, tight, and non-stop. This play does not stand still. And yet for some reason, you never lose grip of who is playing who and what scene we are on. The actors pull it off perfectly.

The scenes jump back and forward as we start to learn the events of that wasted night. Emma lost her phone, her wallet, her keys and her friend Kate. Oli is there is pick up the pieces. To literally carry her home over his shoulder.

But then the following morning comes, and along with it, the hangover. Emma’s dread as she awakens and feels rough. But worse than that, did something happen last night? Was there sex? Does she even remember anything?

And this is where the main tension of the story lies. Did Emma and Oli have sex? Emma was too drunk to remember. Did she even consent to it? eg. Was it rape?

Therein lies a storyline which in some ways should feel like a talk to young people, and yet it doesn’t come across like that. Interwoven within the dramatic storyline are lessons to be learned. What would happen if Emma reported Oli? What would the Police say? How would the interviews take place? What are the consequences for this alcohol fuelled evening?

This play has everything – powerful, emotional scenes – when Emma is crying to her friend and can’t remember anything. Comedy and light-heartedness – the early evening, the selfies, the hanging off the bar ordering drinks. Information and education – all young people should watch this play and come away with lessons learned. And physical theatre – how can only two chairs tell so many scenes? It’s because of the way the two actors bounce off each other, move, twist, exchange roles and genders. It is clever, it has perfect timing and it is entertaining.

What was also interesting about the writing of this play (written by Kat Woods) was that my sympathies for the two main characters switched back and forth. I never really knew what was going to happen or what the outcome would be for Oli.

The final scene left me with tears in my eyes. A hugely powerful hard-hitting yet entertaining play. This is one I will not forget.   

~ 'Wasted' by Pintsized Productions was performed in the American Bar, Belfast on Sunday 24 February 2019.

Rambert 2: Mixed Bill - dance review

What happens when you want to review a dance piece but you feel majorly unqualified to review it? The review below happens.

I remember studying Rambert Dance Company as part of my University degree which was more years ago than I care to admit (alright then, 24 years ago).

So when I saw that Rambert 2 was performing at the MAC, I begged a friend to go with me, knowing in advance that I’d love it. Thankfully she loves contemporary dance as much as me, so we drove to the MAC with high expectations.

We were informed that the show was split into 3 parts – the first part, followed by a short 5 minute break; the second part, an interval, and the third part finale.

First part opens. What I immediately observe is the youth of these dancers. Rambert 2 is a new group of the world’s best dancers. I learned that 800 auditions were whittled down to the 13 we have on the stage in front of us. And 13 hugely young people they are. These kids must have been dancing from the minute they left the womb, devoting every evening and weekend to dance. Every movement is perfect, every contortion of their body is athletic; these are young people who are hugely gifted in their field; it is a joy to watch.

Coupled to this is the amazing music which is loud, dynamic, vibrant and youthful. I almost feel like I’m down at the local Thompsons watching kids who are so in tune with the music, I would almost blame it on chemicals.

And then there is one girl who stands out even more than the others. A spotlight of white light shines down on her. I’m wondering if it’s to represent her death and ascendance to heaven in the storyline. Next she dances in the middle of a group of the others. The group have the same repetitive movements but she dances and weaves inside and through them with all the skill and rebellion of a unique loner.

As if the first part wasn’t so flipping amazing enough, it just gets better with every stage of the production. By the third part, we are watching insanely talented dancers who are on their actual tippy-toes for what seems like ages – doing what seems like some sort of tribal dance. I am beyond wondering what story the dance represents. Now I am simply mesmerised by these hugely talented humans. How can the human body do so much? How do these athletic vessels live their lives? They must be training morning, noon and night. They must live and breathe dance.

When watching this production, it suddenly doesn’t matter if I’m not qualified enough to review it. It doesn’t matter if I’m not interpreting the story in the way the choreographers planned. All that matters is that the combination of the pulsating music and the movements of these talented human bodies is so completely mesmerising that I could sit and watch them for hours. It doesn’t matter what thoughts run through my head, or how therapeutic I find this to watch. I’m sure that every single person in that audience had different thoughts running through their head; their own interpretation and their own enjoyment. All I know is that it bloody worked! All I know was that it was amazing!  

Rambert 2: Mixed Bill - played at The MAC, Belfast on 22-23 February

Check out a trailer for Mixed Bill here

Theatre script - "Home~Work"

A friend reminded me about this short play that was put on in the Black Box a couple of years ago. It was fun to read back through it and remember how the actors breathed life into it on the stage. I thought I'd post the script here so do feel free to have a nosy :) It's about a woman, who works from home, noticing another woman who lives across the road. The other woman also works from home. But it seems her work is slightly more interesting than hers, given the number of males coming and going from her house every day...

Home ~ Work

By Rose McClelland

Part One – The Neighbour

(Monologue - to be performed by an actress aged 25-40)

Twenty minutes. I watched them that afternoon. 

Beer belly man left, a smile on his face and a spring in his step. And five minutes later, another guy turned up. Five minutes! I began to wonder did she not give herself time for a quick shower, or a quick change of her knickers for that matter. No, five minutes later client number two arrived. He wasn’t bad looking to be fair. A bit of rough and ready if you like that kind of thing. (I like that kind of thing). A builder-type. In his thirties. He arrived in a white van. It even had the name and phone number of the company sprawled across the van. ‘No job too hard’, the van bragged. (Quite). ‘Busty Boilers’. (Top anonymity here). I was half-tempted to open the door and call “Yoo-hoo! Over here!’ He would look around and I’d be all jokey and flirt and say, “Want it for free over here mister?” but then I thought about it and I thought, I’m in my pyjamas and I’ve no make-up on. Probably not the best look. I also thought – say he’s paying her fifty quid for a quick 20 minutes, I’d need at least a meal and a glass of wine to warm me up. I would even stretch to a boojums and a can of coke but it’d still take longer than twenty minutes. And time was clearly of the essence for him.

While Mister Builder was in, I did the dishes and tidied the kitchen. I couldn’t resist the pull of the window though. The magnetic draw of the drama was too much.

Sure enough, twenty minutes later, Mister Builder bounced out, a spring in his step too. I began to wonder about her services as a professional. Clearly she was very good at what she did if the smile-o-meter was anything to go by. Twenty minutes for a shag and a smile. You had to hand it to her. Last date I went on, it took him three hours to build up the courage to kiss me and then when I discovered he kissed like a frog on a heart attack, it felt like a terrible waste of an evening.

Oh! There’s client three! My word. Tall. Slim. Nice clothes. Very fancy car. This guy was seriously a catch! I began to feel a little jealous. Three times action in one lunch break compared to my [….. pause as though counting…] in how many weeks. [Shrugs shoulders]. Okay, months.

Very intrigued about tall guy. What on earth was he doing paying for sex? Surely he could have anyone?

Then again, I reasoned with myself, say fifty quid for twenty minutes – end result – a shag. Probably tons cheaper than dinner, wine, movie – repeat for at least three dates before she feels it’s okay to have sex. It’s a maths game.

And if we’re still talking maths, she’s had a total of five clients in one lunchtime. Say fifty quid a pop – that’s £250 for one lunchtime’s work.

I think I’m in the wrong job.

I wanted to meet this ‘Lady of the Night’. I wanted to find out ‘why’. Why did she end up in that job? What lead her into it? Did she have a drug problem? Did she have childhood issues? But of course how could I do that without being nosy? I couldn’t exactly say – ‘Oh, I live across the way from your house – I was just wondering if I could borrow a cup of sugar – oh and by the way – what is it that makes you want to work from home as a prostitute?’ Not a very polite opening gambit is it?

Hmm.

However, I did think we had a lot in common. She worked from home, I worked from home. Both of us slobbed around in our pjs (except when she was in her dressing gown). Neither of us had to deal with office politics. Or the commute in the rain. Or getting out of bed before five to nine. So much in common.

But then my entertainment ended. She moved out.

I saw her load all her stuff into a van bit by bit. There was a man helping her. Builder type. I wonder did she pay him in kind. They loaded up the van. She took one last look at her apartment, and she got in her car and left. She looked a bit desolate; like a bird being shoved out of the nest too quickly.

The cul-de-sac seemed very quiet after she left. My friend joked that I should set up a new Lady of the Night business. ‘After all, there’s a gap in the market now’, he laughed.

But then I decided my skanky days of working from home in my pj’s are over. I think I’ll go back to office work. I think I’ll get new high heels and fancy suits and doll myself up in make-up. I think I’ll have a nice routine structure of 9-5. Plus, there’s plenty of men to eye up in the coffee dock. Who knows, maybe one of them will take me out for a quick boojums?

Part Two – The Client

(Monologue - to be performed by an actor aged 35-50)

Twenty minutes. That was the slot she allocated me. It was her special deal, she said. 

Twenty minutes for fifty quid. I suppose she assumed I was one of her cheap-skate clients. The builder types. With the Sun newspaper rolled under one arm and a can of Special Brew in the other. But I wasn’t her typical client. Money isn’t an issue for me. It’s time. I don’t need a three hour slot. I’m in a rush.

I get a six thirty flight most mornings. Meetings from eight thirty onwards. Meetings as late as eight at night. Client dinners. Head hits pillow. Then it’s up an’ at ‘em next day all over again. I employ a lot of people. I generate a lot of tax. I’m not a waster you know.

Okay, I’m being defensive, I know. Look, it’s the biggest cliché in the book. Lonely hotel rooms. Stressful hours. No time to socialise.

But really, don’t judge me.

I’ve no wife. No kids. No girlfriend tucked away that I’m cheating on. I’m just a single guy. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m just away from home a lot.

Yeah, I guess I’m lonely.

Some might say I’m a good looking guy. Tall. Nice clothes. Nice car. I suppose I appear a ‘catch’. But I’m never in the same place long enough.

I’ve tried the online dating thing. Do you know how hard it actually is to get a date off one of those things?

You send her a message. She replies. You get a bit of banter going. And then she suddenly stops. Blocks you. For whatever reason, I don’t know.

Or say you actually get to the stage where you arrange a coffee date. You keep the banter going. You walk on thin ice. You make sure you don’t say anything which she’ll misread or suddenly block you for.

And then, just before the coffee date, she suddenly cancels. Claims a sudden cold. Or a sudden important meeting. Or the death of her pet hamster. Or just doesn’t bother contacting at all. So you’re sat in a coffee shop, wasting valuable time.

The list goes on. Say she does turn up. She’s two stone heavier than her picture. Or ten years older. Or just the same, but less… sparkly.

Once in a while, a miracle occurs. She turns up. She looks good. There’s good banter with her. But that’s it – just a coffee. Do you know how many dates it takes to wine and dine a woman into bed? And how much money? Too much. Don’t get me wrong, I’d be happy to do it, if I was in the same town for long enough. But I’m not. One week it’s Belfast. The next it’s Dublin. Then it’s London. Sometimes even New York at times. What do I work at?
Er… client confidentiality here?

So in Belfast I now see Sasha.

London; it’s Tanya.

Dublin; it’s Eva.

Yes, it’s weird. Yes, it feels strange. Especially when they remind you that time’s up. That’s harsh. Do you know how much pressure it puts on a guy to perform on time?

It’s a bit like the time I went to a counsellor. Just when we were chatting great and I thought we were getting on well, she looked at the clock and said, “Well that’s the time up for today”. I was in the middle of a big confession. It felt like a slap in the face. I never went back to her after that.

But I do go back to Sasha.

And Tanya.

And Eva.

I did ask Sasha once if she wanted to be my ‘only one’. My courtesan – I think is what it’s called.

She laughed in my face. “Your girlfriend, you mean?”

Well no, I said. I explained the terms. She’d come with me. Accompany me to each town. Be there on my down time.

“That’s a girlfriend”, she persisted.

“Well if you want to call it that”, I told her.

“And sit around all day waiting for you? No thanks”. She said it with a smile to show me she was joking. But I liked that about her. A bit of spark. She wasn’t afraid to argue back.

I’m working on her. One of these days she’ll succumb and be my one and only.

Part Three – The Escort

(Monologue - to be performed by an actress aged 25-35)

Twenty minutes, I told him. It’s just fifty quid for twenty minutes. They always take the twenty minutes option. Even if it’s one hour for one hundred, they’ll still take the twenty minutes. Suits me grand. It’s easier to get them in and out again (pardon the pun). If I can bunch three or four clients into one lunch time, then that’s me done for the day and I can relax.

It’s like I’m in actress mode, I tell myself. All actresses have to perform. My performance is just a slightly different genre.

Sometimes I take a drink to relax myself. Or a tablet. But generally I depend on my acting skills to kick in.

Stage One – Meet and greet. Big smile, pretend I’m delighted to see him (no matter what he looks like).

Stage Two – Initial set-up. Get him comfortable, ask him what he’s looking for. This is my “pretend I’m a physio” role – pretend he’s just here for a massage.

Stage Three – the actual act. This is the hardest part (oh dear, there I go with my puns again). But this is the part that’s a blur. I’m on auto-pilot. My head is fuzzy. I’m thinking – fifteen minutes top, then it’s over. I’m thinking money.

And then it’s over.

Stage Four is easy – taking the money – bye bye, do come again. (puns, how many?) And it’s done.

I only have to do four of these a day and that’s two hundred pounds made. I only work two days a week. Two days a week – lunchtimes only. It means I have a lot of time off.

Of course I don’t tell people about my job. I’m only telling you because …. well, you’ve sussed me out.

And I know you’re judging me. That’s okay. That’s why I don’t tell people.

Oh, I know what you think. That I must be on drugs. Or have childhood issues. Or how I must be a homewrecker.

You’re probably worried your boyfriend is seeing me on the side. I’m sure he’s not. The guys that come to me are the guys who can’t get it elsewhere. I like to see myself as a sort of ‘sex worker’. I’m releasing tension. I’m preventing sexual assault.

But the truth is, I couldn’t bear an office job. I’ve done it before. The long hours. The horrible commute. The standing in the pouring rain waiting for a bus at seven in the morning. The office politics. The bitchiness. The griping.

When I was too stressed in my office job, the doctor told me I was depressed. Depressed/ Stressed – whatever. He gave me pills and sent me on my way. I retreated home to my safe sanctuary. The pills made me feel like I was sinking down through the carpet. A bit like in Trainspotting. Maybe I do fit the druggie prostitute stereotype after-all.

Anyway, off sick, I hatched a plan. I’ve had fuck buddies in the past. I know how it works. Home, quick shag, they disappear. They might re-appear. Same cycle. I might as well get paid for it.

And the hours are fantastic. The perks of the job. Roll out of bed by eleven a.m. Quick shower. No commute. Finish work by two. Rest of the day to myself. Stress free.

Of course there are the down-sides. Say I’m at a party and someone asks me what I do, I can’t say, “Oh, I work from home as an escort!” Because they’d judge me. Like you might be doing now.

So I say I’m a legal secretary. That shuts them up because it’s so bloody boring.

The other downside is that I can’t have a boyfriend. Apart from the obvious – he’d be jealous of four men a day trooping through his living room, I honestly wouldn’t have the energy to have sex with him. It’d be like a busman’s holiday.

And then of course there’s the future career prospects. I’ve no pension. The minute the wrinkles or sagging appears, my career is over. And then when I do try to get a job in my local Tesco’s, my CV is non-existent.

Don’t get me wrong – of course I get jealous. When I scroll through Facebook and I see the perfect lives and the husbands and the two point four children and the hidden sub-text of security and pension and unconditional love – yeah, of course it looks nice.

But it’d be good if I could get one of those courtesan jobs. One of my clients has suggested that recently actually. He’s good looking too. Tall. I don’t have to do the blurring out thing when I’m in stage three with him.

But I think he was joking. I joked back with him. I said I’d cost him a fortune. Fly me to every town with him? Wait for him all day and be available with he’s ready? Next he’ll be wanting me to do his Tesco shop for him and bear his two point four children. I was joking with him but of course, secretly I was delighted. Holding my breath in fact. Perhaps if I put up enough of a chase, he’ll finally seal the deal.

In the meantime, I’ll just keep slapping on the wrinkle cream and enjoying my daily lie-in.

(END)

"Home~Work" was performed in the Black Box theatre, Belfast. 
It was directed by Colm Doran and performed by Vicky Blades, David Paulin and Mary Frances Loughran.

The Man Who Fell to Pieces - Tinderbox Theatre Company - Theatre review

Oh. My. God. I have just returned from the theatre and I am a hot mess. I don’t think I’ve ever been moved to tears as much as this whilst watching a play.

‘The Man who fell to pieces’ is a play about depression. It is emotional, touching, raw and powerful. Somehow, it also manages to be funny.

We are only ten minutes into the show and already the tears are running down my cheeks. It’s the part when John, who is having difficulties communicating his feelings to his fiancé Caroline, share a tender dance. I can feel the pain between them. The music, beautifully composed by Katie Richardson, adds to the emotion, making the atmosphere in the theatre palpable. I can see several audience members hastily trying to wipe a tear from their eyes.

I meanwhile, am a hot mess. The tears are flowing effortlessly and I’m completely absorbed in this wonderful play.

All four actors are incredible, the music is beautiful and the set is clever. The physical theatre, the dance and the words that this production uses to describe depression are very cleverly put together.

And did I mention the humour? How can the tears be tripping you one minute, and the next you’re laughing out loud.  

One in four suffer from depression. Surely that means that almost everyone is affected by it – if not directly themselves, than by a family member or loved one.

Having suffered from depression myself, maybe this is why this play resonates so powerfully with me. Because how can you explain what’s going on in your head when on the outside, you appear fine?

That’s why the physical theatre and dance worked so well with this show. The framed pictures of him collapsing represents his mind collapsing. The bag of bits on the kitchen table a metaphor for his scattered mind.

But let’s not forget that humour, the typists in the telesales office, with their pretend typing and their ridiculous masks. The overbearing boss with his head inside an expanding picture-frame.

When we’re hearing about the writer, how he walked those streets for miles, how he felt like if he didn’t stop walking, he would surely jump, his courage and bravery astounded me. The tears were back. How can someone use such incredible pain, pain that we normally hush hush away, and create something so beautiful? Something that will surely touch many people’s lives.

Afterwards, when the lights had gone up, the atmosphere in the theatre was visible. It was as if people couldn’t move, as if they needed to sit for a while and digest what they had just seen. People sat on, people talked, people hugged. There was a shared connection.

I am truly privileged to have watched this production.

I wonder if this will return for a third time. I wonder if it will go on tour around UK and Ireland.

I do hope others get to experience this very special piece of theatre.

"Date Show After Dark" - Bullitt Hotel

Do you ever sit in a bar or restaurant and idly watch a couple sitting nearby? Do you find yourself wondering a little about their background? Are they on a first date? Are they in a long-term relationship? Have they just had an argument and now they’re struggling for something to talk about? 

I do it. All the time. 

Are you a people-watcher like me? Nosy, I mean, curious?

‘Date Show After Dark’ is the perfect performance for a people watcher. Imagine you could sit near a couple, watch what’s going on, wear headphones, and hear every single word they mutter into their discreet microphone?

You’d overhear the couple who are having an argument. The one where the girl is jealous because the waitress is flirting with her date right under her very nose.

You’d overhear the phone-call where one girl is talking about her anxiety about her ever-more distant boyfriend. And then you’d even overhear the distant boyfriend sinking a few beers with his best mate and saying what he really thinks about said girlfriend.

And if all that wasn’t enough to whet your curiosity, then you’d even follow a lady up in the lift to her bedroom and hear her thoughts as she goes. You’d get to have a peek inside her hotel room as she fires clothes into her suitcase. You’d make a mental note to yourself that the Bullitt hotel rooms are absolutely gorgeous and you really must think up an excuse to book yourself in there some night- preferably with some hot date?

Then, as if it wasn’t going to get intimate enough, you’d then go inside the bathroom where an actress (completely naked I might add), is showering and preparing for a date. You’d hear her stream of consciousness as she nervously gets ready.   

No actually, it gets even more intimate, because then you’re back in the bedroom and this time you’re watching a sexy scene unfold!

Just as the couple reach their heights, you’re back out in the corridor and following a laundry guy. He’s one of the actors of course, but meanwhile a ‘real’ customer is swiping her card and opening her hotel room, watching you and the remaining headphone-wearing audience with curiosity and a wry smile.

You’re then in the bar, watching as a woman anxiously awaits a date. She’s an actress too of course but out of the corner of your eye, you spot a ‘real’ woman who actually is waiting for someone. Truth is wonderfully blended with fiction.

The timing of this performance is perfection. How the director has choreographed such a cast of characters, with three rotating audiences to all come together at the end is beyond me.

After the performance, my sister and I went for food at a local eatery. I noticed a young woman nervously wave over at a guy. Her make-up was perfection and her outfit spelled hours of planning. I could tell by their awkward body language that this was a first date. Now, where was my headphones and their microphones when I needed them?

Date Show After Dark runs from 11-19 October 2018 at Bullitt Hotel, Belfast