Regular readers will know that I like to refer to my dog Jessie every now and again, and indeed the process of writing this play brought to mind something that happened to Jessie in the garden once, while I looked on through the kitchen window, powerless to help: A piece of poo had somehow become entangled on the long fluffy hairs on her hind quarters. She couldn’t quite see what had happened but her slightly bewildered expression and peculiar shuffling gait betrayed that she knew that something was not right.
Now please don’t distress yourself – she remedied the situation, without my intervention, by walking around, as dignified as possible, until the poo dislodged and the natural order was restored. (The poo, for those of you interested in such things, was a small, firm object that left no trace of itself after the event and was not transferred to the soft furnishings in the house).
And so it was with this play – I had a plan, and all sorts of notes, and I’d got a rough draft down on paper. I had gone through all the motions - but something just didn’t feel right, you know?
However, I persevered. And now it’s at that lovely Antiques Roadshow stage where you suspect it’s probably just a comfortable piece of old junk but you are secretly hoping that someone will spring up and declare it a rare and valuable masterpiece – and you wouldn’t disbelieve them if they did.