Actually, I wrote 29 plays. The Literal Challenge people, who organise the 28 Plays challenge, ask participants to submit a test piece. That can be a Word document with “Quick Brown Fox” written on it, or a play, anything that will test whether you can get through the submission process (which is simple to do, but… always test). I wrote them a very short play about people’s reaction to hearing that I was attempting to write a play each day, from scratch.
We had a wide variety of briefs. I looked forward to 22.00 each night, cheering like it was Christmas, then fretting because I couldn’t think of anything to write. Sometimes I started to write late at night, and once (during the worst of the storms) finished just after 4am and submitted it immediately, in case the power went off again.
I have spent the last four weeks writing about – what’s going on tonight, the Bible, nihilism, city life, librettos, musicals with no music, writing to a set opening line that was seriously barking mad and writing to ten set rules that dictated the number of words to the line, among other things. Last night’s brief was the worst. I didn’t write a word until 1pm today.
But, I’m done. As of 4pm today, I have submitted 28 original plays. What do I get? Listening to my fellow idiots on Zoom last night – they’ve come away with RSI, fury, an appreciation of some utterly odd subjects and at least three decent play drafts to draw on in future. Plus an offer from a participant to take up any play that fit their criteria, and I think all of us had at least one play that would fit.
And at 4pm we were cooking a celebration meal. We moved into this house from 11am on 28 February 2002, twenty years ago. We had the gubbins from a three bed house and a double garage, a dustbin full of pondwater and fish, two Landrovers and five motorcycles to move. I drove my bike up from our old house to this one, and was sent down to collect the key. And was refused. Because the money had not been registered as having been transferred, the vendor would not release the key. I drove back to the house to relay the bad news and found that my enterprising brother in law (who was our emotional and transport support that day) had let himself in through the Rottweiler-sized dog-flap and taken the front door off the hinges, so that the removal van could lug our furniture in through the front doorway. By 3pm, the removal men had all but finished, and I was kneeling by the phone to take the message from the estate agents that we could collect the keys now. How they thought we could pick up the phone INSIDE the house when they had refused to let us have the key is another matter. I suspect they’d driven past the house (a mile from their office) at lunchtime and seen what a cheeky person could do with a dogflap.
We love living here, and we’re now just getting on top of the garden and the house itself. The roof’s good, the windows are sound, the render’s solid and the chimneys are lined and topped. We have a working oven and working stoves, a good woodshed full of seasoned wood from the garden itself and a gorgeous floor in the living room. More to do, but comfortable living. Cuttings from Dad’s roses are thriving in the garden and the veg plot is ready for the year.
Twenty years. Two census entries. A decent social circle. And excellent neighbours. The perfect set-up for a play just before everything goes horribly wrong. Life’s good. All we need to do now is keep it spinning.
Julia Chalkley 