Thursday, 13 October 2011

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.)

(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!


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

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