Everyday Edits*

Last month, Everyday Edits brought hope into my life.

Today, that hope died.

T: Teacher-Mama
C: Child

Act I
(Morning. Room of ordinary house. Papers, books, fabric offcuts scattered everywhere.)

T: Here's your Everyday Edit! (Picks torn paper from floor.) Whose is this? Oh! It's yesterdays! Did we go through it? I don't think we did. Let's do it now. Then I can give you today's Everyday Edit!

(Entire house drains of all human life except Teacher-Mama, spotlight centre stage, clutching torn paper to bosom, still radiant with hope.)

Act II
(11am. One child sat glumly at dining table. Teacher-Mama lays down torn paper.)

C: That's not mine.
T: No matter! I'll talk through yesterday's edits. Then we can complete today's Everyday Edit!
C: I can't write on this. Its not mine.
T: Don't write on it. I'll talk you through the edits!
C: I want mine.

(Audience can take lunch while 'mine' is found underneath sofa.)

Act III
(2pm. Dining table. Now with remnants of half eaten lunch.)

C: That's not mine.
T: Yes it it! Your name's on it!
C: Someone's written on it
T: No they haven't.
C: Yes they have.
T: No they haven't.
C: Yes they have.

(Entire audience can help themselves to free vodka.)

Act IV
(5pm. Dining table. But I wish I was in a field somewhere a long way away.)

T: Right! Let's go through Yesterday's Edits!
C: I haven't got a pencil.
T: Yes you have!
C: No! That's not my pencil.
T: Does it matter?
C: Yes! I want my special editing pencil. The one that propels.

(Lights dim slowly. Hope finally dies in Teacher-Mama.)

Act V
(7pm. Monologue of despair. Darkened room. Dismembered propeling pencil on floor. Teacher-Mama scrabbling at a pack of Uni 0.5 HB NanoDia Blended Hi-Quality Leads.)

How do you open the damned propelling lead packaging? HOW DO YOU DO THAT! IT SAYS OPEN HERE AND THE DAMN THING WON'T OPEN. WHY WHY WHY!

DAMN THOSE EVERYDAY EDITS.

* In the spirit of education, I have left you some edits.