@jksees

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This is what I think of the world.

Afterglow – it was fine.

Whenever I head to a theatre, I want to be transported to another world. It doesn’t matter whether that’s a loft in one of the greatest cities in the world, or a make believe land full of rainbows. For a couple of hours, I want to find myself lost in a narrative, yearning to be a fly on the wall or invited to be a part of the production.

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Fell – a true Cumbrian coming of age.

We descend into the theatre, and immediately meet Jake, played by Tom Claxton, before the first act begins. He is fidgeting with clothes around the stage, appearing to wash them in a stream before picking out dirt and hanging them to dry. Already, we have been transported swiftly to a location somewhere in the Cumbrian hills.

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Squidge – an unlikely hero.

Lights up, and immediately we’re confronted with interactive theatre. I think to myself, ‘oh god, no’ and begin to worry about what we are in for over the course of the next hour or so. But this is all simply an introduction to Squidge, the show’s unlikely hero. This premiere, ‘Squidge’ is the brainchild of Tiggy Bayley and directed by Selwin Hulme-Teague and appears to take place in an undisclosed town somewhere southern England.

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Self-deprecating, reflective and glorious.

From the title (‘All The Men Are Going To Hate Me’), I had conjured images of a monologue tirade directed firmly, deservedly, at men, but instead this work in progress by Maria Telnikoff is self-deprecating, reflective and glorious, in its wit-led and – at times – almost slapstick performance.

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Two wooden forks.

Over the weekend, we took a trip down to Brighton, somewhat spontaneously after Don had planted the seed a few days before. We’d gotten up late, headed to London Bridge to jump on the train, along with provisions to snack on along the way.

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A bag of coffee beans.

My partner travels often for work. One week, he’ll be summoned to attend an event in South East Asia, and the next a conference in Africa or a workshop retreat in South America. Jetting from London, his (our) home, and back in fleeting bursts. Sometimes weeks, often days, he’ll return and we will be reunited, whether for mere moments or months before his next trip.

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