Metamorphosis TWENTY THREE

Day 23

‘Jump’ by Kerrie McKinnel

And so we jump. After so long

spent talking – the hours,

days, weeks, months, years

of discussion – we’re here.

And I’m still not ready.

‘He has to go to school one day.’

‘But we could home educate.’

‘What about work?’ Work:

the only constant throughout the last five years

of nappies, soft plays and carpets turned into rainbows

by plastic toys, discarded clothing and chocolate stains.

(At least, I hope it’s chocolate.)

We allow ourselves this summer as if it is the last:

as if life will change forever in August;

as if he will become a different child once he has 

the weight of a school backpack and black plimsoles.

Six weeks of sunshine,

forty-two afternoons in the garden,

before the debatably inevitable.

And so we jump.

Move over, Mr Bond........

THE INVISIBLE WOMAN (excerpt) – by Laura Rimmer

DOROTHY PIPE (‘DOT’) IS IN HER KITCHEN PREPARING THE TEA.

DOT (TO AUDIENCE)

So they offered me the job. Counter-terrorism. Undercover surveillance. I mean,

who’s going to pay any attention to a granny dressed head-to-toe in Per Una at

Marks and Spencer? Nobody, that's who. And that's the key. That's what Jerome

says. That's my M, by the way. It's not like in the films, we don't have an M or a Q.

We have a Jerome. He's a good looking lad. If I were twenty years younger. But I'm

not so we can have a little flirt, you know? And it's safe. A safe flirt. Anyway Jerome

says I'm doing a great job. They provided the mac. I think Jerome would like it if I

dyed my hair beige, blend in even more, but you've got to draw the line somewhere,

you know? Bad enough I look like Inspector Gadget. As far as the family is

concerned, I'm getting to be quite the floristry expert. God knows how many flowers

they think I'm arranging, by rights I should be surrounded by the buggers. And not

one of them has thought to ask why I never bring my floral creations home with me!

Anyone’d think they didn't listen to me! Anyway. A fella we were after -- a bad fella, a

key member of that cell I told you about -- we caught him. Joint effort, they said, but

special praise had to be reserved for little old me. What did I do? I tracked him.

Usually in these kind of situations, they might send in a young, glamour-type, you

know, as a honey-pot. I'm more treacle. Sticky black treacle. Once I've got hold of

you, you'll not be able to get rid of me. So I got hold of him. Infiltrated. Got a job

working as a member of his household staff -- I cleaned his toilet. Talk about pube

palace. He never suspected me. Too busy running away from my Marigold hands,

covered in his shite. That's the way to do it, you see -- no, I don't mean run around

wearing fluorescent rubber gloves. Just be what they expect. If they're only expecting

a cleaning lady then that’s all they'll see. Take it from someone who knows. So now

he's been captured and locked up for the next eighty-eight years. Job done. It was

on the front page of the paper, too. Stu brought it home, tucked under his arm the

way he does every night. I was dying to say: 'Do you see that story, there, about that

terrorist who's been apprehended? That was me! Me, Dorothy Pipe. I'm the one who

apprehended him, Marigolds and all'. But of course I didn't say that, and then Stu

took the paper up to the loo with him and the next time I saw it, it was all creased

and...well, it was only fit for the bin. It's online, though. It'll always be there, online. A

permanent record of the time I did something for the good of this country, the time I

did something that wasn't for or about my family. And that felt good, let me tell you.

Because, I’ve been thinking a lot about something lately, and I'll tell you what it is.

Stu, Susan, the kids, Nanna -- they all take me for granted, each and every one of

them. And you know why? I've always let them. I didn't mean to. I didn't plan it. It just

worked out that way. I was already pregnant by the time we got married, and with

Stu out working, it just seemed easier for me to do everything else. He doesn't class

all this as working, you see. He thinks he does the hard stuff. Perhaps if he'd ever

had to do any of it, it’d be different. Perhaps if he knew how shite it makes you feel

when your family turn their noses up at your cooking, or scrape it all into the bin --

your hard work literally being thrown away -- perhaps if Stu had ever had to do any

of that he'd appreciate me more. But he hasn't, so he doesn't. And isn't it a bit unfair

of me to expect him to change now, at his age? It'd be like asking him to build an

igloo, or a website. He wouldn't know where to start.

NANNA (OFF STAGE)

Dot! Dorothy! I need the commode!

DOT

(CALLS) Coming, Nanna. (TO AUDIENCE) Eat your heart out, James Bond.