Living Newspaper: A Counter Narrative - Edition 2

A WELCOME FROM THE AUNTIES

By Mark Ravenhill

We miss you.

Oh boy how we miss you.

We thought you’d finally be here today but now – These long months.

These long months we’ve been thinking about you.

Wanting to hold out our arms.

Pull you in to us.

Your breath.

And if you were to smell of skunk or wine or – Well, we would forgive you my darling.

Because we miss you SO much.

We are your Aunties.

Each and everyone of us.

Some of us knew your mum, some of us lived in the flat above, worked in the ward that time you …

Is anyone of us actually biologically related to you?

We’ve checked and we can confidently say : no.

No worries.

We’re bigger than biology.

An Aunty is the biggest thing in all the world.

Our love for you goes on and on and on.

That’s why we can tell you: you could have dressed a little smarter.

Your hair is … original.

And should you really be going out with them?

Oh to hold you now, to hug you now, to kiss your warm forehead would be ..

Well, soon, soon, soon, my darling.

Soon.

All these months we’ve been on the Whatsapp And the Insta The facebook The tik tok (only one of us on the tik tok) And we’ve shared photos of you, kept each other up to date with your goings, comings, your life You’ve made us so proud If only you’d eaten a little better And more.

Eat more.

A big butt Round cheeks That’s what your Aunty loves the most Normally slip you a fiver when I kiss you hello.

But – in honesty – even if I could, I can’t.

Even for Aunty the money has gone.

But love in abundance.

Abundant love to you.

I pray that’s enough to see us through to better days.

Come in my darlings come in !

Only on the screen, we know, but still …your home is our home!

TORY SCUM Intro Choir Scum… Tory Scum ,Tory Scum Tory Scum… Tory Scum ,Tory Scum Tory Scum… Tory Scum , Tory Scum Tory Scum… Tory Scum.. Its for the Best So we don’t create De pendency, Hunger Gives you drive.. a special Clarity..

Famine isn’t new to our Legacy… Its Always been the route to our SuPremecy.. Standing On the backs of people just like You and Me.. Grand IDeas of what we’ve done and what we Used to be?.. Glossing Over our history of slavery, as we worship Churchill and we rewrite history Verse Scuse me, sorry pardon?

How can you pour scorns on Us?, We We wouldn’t know crime if we never went Hungry, These MP’s don’t wanna feed these Kids they don’t care about none of our hardships Who spends 50k on Take a Way is the question you should be asking?

Wont blink twice for the kids but Shakespears got you on the TV bawling?

Dont piss me off I aint buying that like The sun newspaper in the morning;

They paint us as villains but they commit Crimes and we get left with the charges And if you cant see you better open your Eyes cos right now this narratives harming..

These MPs literally lie in your Face.. Then go on TV and start laughing Would you find it funny if your son got Stabbed and Theresa was out here dancing?

Said austerity’s over but that’s a Lie cah Kids are in the ends still starving; You must think that were dumb to believe that Drill is the reason kids are still barking See we come from a place where you gotta think Quick there’s no time for ooin and aarin; And if it’s on top pray that you don’t get caught cos these ambulance times are alarming; They wanna try blame drill slap man with an Order and brush it under the carpet; Tell Theresa Our memory’s long and we ain’t forgetting about Grenfel darling; Verse Oh My goodness gracious…

Aunty I keep telling you don’t be Lieve everything that you read in the papers You gotta realise these same M Ps hold stakes in these publications They’re blurring very thin in the Middle of where the media and the state is The things that you’re reading aren’t im Partial and that’s what makes it dangerous; They’re only showing you one side of the Story its basically disinformation Its not what you read.. its how it was Written to influence the way that you frame it; And that’s just you, think about What happens when you do it to a whole nation..

Too many headlines shown as Facts when they’re claims that are actually baseless; 350 mill for the NH S but 3 years later we’re still waiting; Kids cant eat but They’re tryna tell You its the statues that need saving?

There already poor but taking the free Travel is sure to restore greatness!

Forget their news, you see this

News? Its too real for some to take in They’ll say we commit crime but they wont tell You about how they closed the police stations When we speak up about what’s going On they just censor our YouTube pages …We spend out whole lives trying to be Heard but only in death we’re famous .. they’re shameless Verse Hold on Hold on please Aunty… ... I grew up and I watched you work, I know what you’ve done in this country.. You done jobs nobody else Wanted and still got treated unjustly Seen you mistreated based on your Race the road has been more than bumpy I know what they say about me but I’m On your side I just need you to trust me Pardon my French but right now I Need you to open your eyes to the fuckery Jamaicans came to help after the War But now we’re getting sent back abruptly?

They lied and said I was British like Then but now it em they you wanna dump me?

Somehow someway I know you’ve gotta See the audacity right now is outrageous; The windrush deportations don’t only affect your generation; Deport all the elders, starve all the Kids and and put the rest on observation; Mass genocide is crime but None of them are Gunna go down to the station They just do dirt and hide behind You when they caused this situation How can you stand by and just watch when they’re doing this to people whom you’re re lated; They’re eating well meanwhile we’re Fighting for the small crumbs at the table; ... you fucked up the day and then made Marcus Rashford have to stand up and save it.. you Pagans Chorus Hello hi may I take your order; If reality’s not Exciting try some wings with a side of Trauma; Wash it down with some

Truth, It tastes way batter plus who needs Water? And if you’re still feeling Hungry Why not try some protected borders Hello hi may I take your order; If reality’s not Exciting try some wings with a side of Trauma; Wash it down with some Truth, It tastes way batter plus who needs Water? Anyway Dinners Matt, he’s got it on Tap money hoarder

Choir Scum… Tory Scum ,Tory Scum Tory Scum… Tory Scum ,Tory Scum Tory Scum… Tory Scum , Tory Scum Tory Scum… Tory Scum..

SPLENDID ISOLATION – A CARTOON

BY MARK RAVENHILL

At first we see a large caption: ‘Every nation for itself, and God for us all; balance of power; respect for facts, not for abstract theories; respect for treaty rights, but caution in extending them.

England not Europe.’

George Canning, British Foreign Minister, 1815

Then we see, two figures.

A typical modern day British couple.

One of them is reading a text message.

FIRST FIGURE: What does it say?

SECOND FIGURE: You have been contacted by Brexit track and trace. You must isolate forever.

We hear a drunken karaoke singer : Celine Dion’s version of All By Myself. This lasts for ninety seconds.

During the song, an Amazon driver delivers huge boxes marked ‘toilet roll’ until the couple are obscured from view.

As we leave, we pass a huge steaming turd on a velvet cushion. A small Union Jack is planted in it.

“Blood for Breakfast”

by Yasmin Joseph

Scene One The dim light of a winter morning. The sounds of a city stretching awake. Frosty engines coughing into action, trains, feet sleepily making their way from muscle memory. By contrast A, B and C feel distinctly awake… full of life, each with heaps of papers ready to hand out to passers by.

A. 7am.

B. Hot off the press.

A. Warm like fresh bread.

C. What’s on the menu today?

B. I dread to think.

C. Might not be too bad.

B. Can’t see why it’d be any different.

C. Well go on…

A. Let me see...

A checks. She moves through stories with sound and colour.

Hmm… Colonial runnings, pervert royals, Nigella, talking dogs, landlords, Boris doing clown tricks in a crushed shirt. Angry toupee, apologies, a studio flat in someone’s sock- zone 1. Chartered flights, Britain’s very short memory, wickedness, a slither of hope, children being inherently good, children being deprived by sociopaths, tampons free in ScotlandC. -Good for them.

A. Someone bursting into flames at the thought of more than two genders, Football, a baby boom, Stormzy’s face being used for every Black man, a new brand of vegan sausages, seasons changing - hotter, longer, Mother Nature getting volatile, capitalism sleepily peddling us to our doomB. [To C.] -Told you.

A. A slither of hopeC takes it triumphantly. A moves on with regret, wishing we could stay with hope for a few seconds longer.

Then… lots of pointed fingers, pointed missiles, guns, truncheons “we can’t” “we won’t” “we didn’t” “it isn’t” Cressida Dick. Deny deny deny.

B. So the usual then... Blood for breakfast?

A. Yeah but only the “necessary”. War Heroes. Poppies, Wreaths, medals, Massacres. The “totally unavoidable”. Disciplinary lashings from the mother country. The collateral. No real fanfare. The soft and malleable, bones easier to crush and wash down with their coffee.

C. What’s the special?

A. Us. Pause.

A girl.

Beat.

No footage.

Pause. These facts hang in the air for a moment. They all wonder what to do next.

B. Where?

A. On her way to school.

C. Why? A. Officer said she “smelt like cannabis” C. And nothing?

A. [Shakes her head.] Just witness accounts.

Pause.

B. What else?

B nudges A telling them to keep pushing forward with the other stories.

A. What do you mean what else?

B. I mean what else is going on?

A. You sure?

B. Move on…

C. Move on? Is there something wrong with you?

B. Nah it’s just nothing new. It’s just depressing man. If I had a penny for every time…

C. Well you can’t just bury your head in the sand.

A. A little girl on her way to school…

C. You can’t just ignore it.

B. But I can’t keep circling the drain either. I can’t just be driving myself mad…

Beat.

A video… that might get us something. People in the street, people tweeting, talking. A cold statement. An inquiry in twenty years time.

Beat.

A blurry picture… maybe. Some audio… maybe. Even then there’s that wiggle room.

“Whose voice is who’s?” “Is the scream in pain? Is the scream in fear? Is the scream in violent rage?”

C. With a knee between your shoulder blades and a chipped tooth, I’d think all of the above are valid.

B. But with what we have, we can do nothing. That’s the point.

Beat.

If I was there then at least it could be two of us, on the floor. I can’t protect her but I can show her she’s not alone. But right now I can do nothing. And that kills me. So rather than dying a thousand deaths, can we just move on.

Beat. A is disappointed, C is horrified. B hardens to stop from absorbing their shame.

After some time and cautiously at first… A moving through stories with colour and sound again.

A. Mullets making a comeback… Jamaican’s seeking to patent the phrase “Jerk”, 5G, Sex might be illegal soon. No deal, big deal, meal dealC. -No I’m sorry.. but I… I can’t. I can’t just gloss overB. -Gloss?

C. Yes. Gloss.

B. -A tree falls down in the middle of a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

Beat.

A. Yeah… Yes. It makes a sound. You know it makes a sound.

B. How do we know?

A. It’s physics or some shit.

B. But by their logicC. Their fucking logic, give me a break /as if that’s something to reach toB. Can you prove it? / Did you hear it?

C. That’s a stupid question.

A seeks to calm C.

No… Beat.

Their logic is inhumane. Their logic is no logic. So why play along?

Beat.

Your “blood for breakfast.” Streams of us mangled and compromised beamed into their foreheads before Lorraine’s even finished the round up. Carting us out and serving us up with their cereal.

Beat.

Quenching the nation’s insatiable thirst for every gory detail about how they brutalised her. “How many seconds did she spend a breath away from the next life?” “How did the witnesses cry?” “Was it soulful?” “Show us the blood on her collar?” “Show us the blood that swam from her little mouth to mix with the concrete” “Did her hair cushion the fall?” “Did they search her bag? What did they find? Weed? Or her books?” “Give us her skin and her bones and then we can deliberate… then we can decide if she is in fact a child. If her body tilted to just the right degree of vulnerability, maybe then we can start to discuss the maybe’s, the possibilities, the perhaps’s…

Beat.

It’s traumatising for us and it’s sick. It’s not sustainable.

B. It’s evidence.

Pause. A flashing to a brighter colour now.

A. Joy… Now that’s something we can all agree on. Something essential. After it all, having somewhere to escape. Saturday… 3pm. Re-runs of the top five Come Dine With MeC. -Here’s a question…

C calmly begins to gather the papers into a heap in the centre of the room.

If a Black man is murdered and we don’t see the footage of him begging for his mother with his last breath, do we skip a global movement? Do we just ignore the way the bare facts on paper could chew at our insides. 8 Minutes and 46 seconds. Or do we let them loop it. Over and over again. Punctuation for their Black squares. The feeble reward of “check in texts” and empty promises.

B. We take whatever drastic measures necessary to wake people up.

C. And just like our brains acclimatise and learn to snooze alarms, by next week they’ll need a new tune.

Pause.

B. Look at where we are… Where we’re standing. Right now. Sloane Square.

Pause.

To state the plain truth here is to sour the mood and ruin dinner. The truth is impolite.

Beat.

We’re cutting through coded language, omissions, denial. “Lawful killings” “No foul play” “Sudden illness” How many times have we seen the body, with our own eyes.

Heard it fall, with our ears and that was not enough. So what do you expect me to do with less?

Beat.

She’s alive.

C. And that’s the pinnacle of life for us is it? Surviving?

B. …Sometimes… yeah sometimes when the options were few and far between. Just putting my key through the door, that’s had to be enough, C looks at B and A, deeply dissatisfied. She continues her work still heaping the papers.

The pile is impressive now.

A. What are you doing?

C stands back to admire her work.

C. Shifting the narrative to our advantage.

C strikes a match and throws it, the heap goes up in flames. A and B look on in surprise.

Creating change that feels material for once, and isn’t at our expense.

We hear the crackle, it’s soothing now. A, B and C lit in orange light. They commune around the fire.

Keeping us warm… if these are good for nothing else.

Romy & Me by Ruby Thomas Perhaps there is the sound of a heartbeat growing very, very slowly underneath the monologue. It should be almost inaudible until the very end.

Morning wake up anxious breathe walk tube café talk plan.

We are going to a pub by Downing Street. When we get a phone call, we will walk up the road, lie down and lock ourselves to each other in front of the gate. we are doing this to help a group of young people protest climate change. we hope not to get arrested.

Somewhere else in the city, my sister is finding out she is pregnant.

Walk pub wait breathe anxious toilet. empty bowels.

Phone call walk police vans, two of them, are they usually there?

Lie down.

Lock on.

Police in my face. Red beard. Angry. Aftershave. Don't look. Listen. Concrete cold. Hard. stand.

Fuck.

Arrested.

Obviously.

Stupid.

Policeman doesn’t look me in the eye.

Police van.

Tally chart scrawled on the wall of the van. Wonder what they’re competing at.

Drive.

Holborn station. questions.

Am I on drugs?

Am I pregnant?

He says he’s meant to take my jewellery but I look ok, so can I just not self-harm with it, yeh?

Phone call.

Solicitor.

Cell.

White tiles. plastic mattress. No windows. Bright light. Metal toilet.

Ask for a book. “what genre? we’ve got loads.” um…“Something light? A romance maybe?” the policewoman is kind, like a midwife is kind. No nonsense.

Sit in cell.

No clock.

Time stops.

Time flows.

So weird. doors slam Man shouts. my solicitor still hasn’t called.

I’m so stupid I’m so stupid I’m so stupid What was the point?

Tiny protest, no one saw.

Fucking hippies.

Smug. Privileged. Of course you can afford to get arrested.

True.

Why did I do it?

I think I did it I thought I did it For the young people and their protest. hope. future. but really. is it for them or for me? point to someone, say “you’re the future”. then sit back and go on destroying that future. irony.

Every toy you buy, every nappy, every outfit, adds to the landfill they will wade through. not even them. some other kid. somewhere else. anxious. focus.

Calm.

Why did I do it? because I couldn’t do nothing.

But is this “something”?

Should probably quit writing and dedicate the rest of my life to climate change.

Third sector.

Or maybe retrain as a lawyer? Give away all my money?

But realistically I’m not about to become Jeff Bezos. and what about joy?

Slide.

Bang. hatch in the door.

“You alright in there?”

“Yep.” Every twenty minutes they check I’m not dead.

I’m so lucky I’m so lucky I’m so lucky Time stops.

Time flows. weird. no clock. no change in light.

Imagine doing this for years.

People do.

I’m so lucky I’m so lucky I’m so lucky I’m so stupid I’m so stupid I’m so stupid Finally. solicitor. brown room. old desk. he talks thinks I should plead ignorance. shows me a video on his phone of his son in Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat. what the fuck?

I just want to leave.

smile politely.

Interview.

Detectives.

They look like Incels.

Mean but true.

I smile.

I am so so painfully conscious of how lucky I am in this moment.

The fact I am middle class, white, female sits in the room like a fifth person.

They are almost apologetic.

They joke.

One tells me about his uncle’s amateur dramatics. I don’t think they get many actors in jail. nervous sweating.

“I just turned up” “I just lay down” “I didn’t think you could get arrested for that” “I’m so sorry, I’ll never do it again.” free friends waiting. young protester waiting. (vegan flapjacks. obviously.) hug partner drink pint adrenaline. a few days later my sister tells me: a baby.

I am so painfully, inarticulately happy. irony. two weeks later. lockdown. all trapped. more irony. but still, so lucky. nine months. belly grows. baby grows. nervous excited surreal I meet her. she is the smallest, sweetest sliver of hope. she smells like fresh bread. has a quiff like Tintin.

I am completely obsessed and I don’t even know her yet. how can you not hope?

Is it an act of hope to have a baby? is it an act of hope to get arrested? or are we just stupid? are we just lucky? sometimes this is all I can think about. but mostly Morning wake up anxious breathe walk tube talk plan Start again.

The heartbeat grows overwhelming.

DEMONSTRATION DEMONSTRATION

By Anchuli Felicia King As the audience enter the space, the PROTEST AUNTIES sit in fold-out chairs, drinking beers and nattering in a discombobulating mix of Cantonese and Mandarin about their nieces and nephews. Loud eighties Cantopop blares on the speakers.

These are Asian protest aunties. They are seasoned disobeyers, and they prep for the long haul.

They’ve got visors. They’ve got bum-bags. They’ve got legwarmers. They’ve got snacks and gigantic water bottles and everything else you might need to occupy an airport for three weeks.

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 has the megaphone. PROTEST AUNTIE #2 has the signs. PROTEST AUNTIE #1 is draped in a flag. The room is covered in protest symbols: the two-finger salute from Thailand, the flower of the Free Hong Kong movement, the BLM fist etc.

Upon noticing the audience, the AUNTIES SNAP TO ATTENTION. And they ORGANIZE. They round up the audience, shouting at them to get into formation. PROTEST AUNTIE #1 tries to make the megaphone work.

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 Aiya, how’s this thing work – PROTEST AUNTIE #2 Girl, it’s the button – PROTEST AUNTIE #1 Don’t crowd me, I got it. (megaphone) Nieces! Nephews!

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 That’s a bit binary – PROTEST AUNTIE #1 Niephews! (off the megaphone) Fuck me, that’s loud. (analog shouting, hyping them up) Welcome to the Demonstration Demonstration!

Eighties Cantopop strikes up again. The PROTEST AUNTIES get hyped up.

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 Time to listen the fuck up! Pay the fuck attention!

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 We’re not saying take notes PROTEST AUNTIE #2 Oh, we’re not saying that?

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 Notes are not compulsory but TAKE. NOTE. You hear?

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 Yeah! Take! Note!

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 Or we will (megaphone) fuck you up!

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 Not that we condone violence!

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 We condone disobedience but strictly if it’s disobedience of the civil kind!

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 And if you disobey your aunties, okay, you are fucking uncivil! Ergo WE CAN AND WILL FUCK YOU UP. PROTEST AUNTIE #1 This is tough love Asian parenting, okay! We are not fucking around!

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 Demonstration Demonstration One! PROTEST AUNTIE #1 Lachrymator agents!

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 You got your OC, you got your P.A.V.A., your CS, your bromoacetone.

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 Generally known as: PROTEST AUNTIE #2 Tear gas!

PROTEST AUNTIES hold up either canisters or spray cans.

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 Exposure to tear gas may produce: PROTEST AUNTIE #2 Pain!

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 No, girl, you gotta list the symptoms.

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 Oh, sorry. Teary eyes! Blurred vision!

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 Irritation of the nose and mouth! Itchy skin! Respiratory distress!

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 What else? That’s right, niephews! Literal death!

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 And what is the first line of defense against the most severe effects of a lachrymatory agent!?

THE PROTEST AUNTIES HOLD UP: MASKS. PROTEST AUNTIE #2 Some of you may be familiar with this form of facial covering!

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 This covering is similarly effectual in a public health crisis of an epidemiological nature!

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 The second line of defense is MODEST ATTIRE. PROTEST AUNTIE #1 We’re talking as much COVERED SKIN as POSSIBLE. PROTEST AUNTIE #2 This is NOT your Saturday night out in Camden, niephews!

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 The revolution is not the time to show off your sexy new romper!

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 Now if we are exposed to a lachrymator agent, what do we do!?

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 & #2 WE MAINTAIN PERSONAL HYGEINE. Throughout the next section, the PROTEST AUNTIES aggressively mime washing.

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 We remove contaminated clothing and immediately dispose of it!

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 We remove contaminated institutions and immediately dispose of them!

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 We bathe our bodies in soap and water!

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 We bathe our bodies in the blood of our oppressors!

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 If our eyes are burning, we wash them with plain water for 10 to 15 minutes!

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 There’s no comparable metaphor, that’s just good advice!

The PROTEST AUNTIES shift: PROTEST AUNTIE #1 Demonstration Demonstration Two:

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 Riot Shields!

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 If a morally bankrupt monarchist and/or fascist bastard advances towards you with a riot shield, do not attempt to grab or take hold of it!

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 The sniveling colonial-institution-upholding cuntbag will likely have a baton in their free hand! And that trash-heap pig of a counter-revolutionary fucknugget may attempt to strike your delicate little fingies with said baton!

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 Niephews, the revolution needs your delicate little fingies!

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 We need your delicate fingies to pry open the gilded gates of those who would hoard your power and wealth!

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 To finger-fuck the pawns of corrupt genocidal misinformation-spreading regimes!

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 Wait but surely finger-fucking is a good thing. I mean I quite enjoy being finger-fucked after sufficient foreplay. Although actually now I’ve got the peri-menopause, I’ve been having issues with dryness down there.

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 Girl, me too! (remembering the niephews) We’ll talk about this later. Where were we?

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 Right. What do we do instead of grabbing a riot shield with our revolutionary fingies??

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 We HOLD. THE. LINE! PROTEST AUNTIE #2 We HOLD THE LINE and we PUSH! The protest aunties adopt a pushing stance / mime pushing with their whole bodies.

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 Push with the full weight of your body!

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 Push with the full weight of your spirit!

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 It is only polycarbonate!

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 Polycarbonate cannot withstand the will of the people!

The protest aunties have pushed to their full might. Maybe they fall down. They dust themselves off and move on to: PROTEST AUNTIE #1 Phew. Okay. One more. Demonstration Demonstration Three: They pant.

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 One second.

They pant and collect themselves.

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 Demonstration Demonstration Three.

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 Fear.

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 No matter what happens during the course of a demonstration – PROTEST AUNTIE #2 You need not be afraid.

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 There is nothing to fear from a demonstration.

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 Because to demonstrate is to prove that something is true.

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 To demonstrate together is to prove that something is true for all of us.

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 And the greatest enemy to fear is truth.

A beat.

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 Damn, that’s deep. Who said that?

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 I did.

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 No, but originally? Like a philosopher?

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 No, me! Just now!

PROTEST AUNTIE #1 Aw, you are so full of shit! This is just like the time – And the PROTEST AUNTIES devolve back into Mandarin / Cantonese squabbling as they settle back into their chairs. MUSIC rises and the audience is led out.

NOTE: In case you don’t have the good fortune of having an Asian auntie, they dress like this:

Whatsapp Aunty by Tife Kusoro

Welcome, welcome. Enter. Enter.

Come. Don’t worry, in the presence of God we are all members of the same household. I see you people have all decided to wear your masks – don’t worry about me, I don’t need one; the Lord is my PPE. * Welcome to my lockdown prayer fellowship. You came, meaning you are some of the very few who received one of my WhatsApp messages and did not block, ignore or report.

You are not like my son, who started blocking my broadcast messages in April, back when I began alerting my people on whatsapp to the facts of the matter: that this virus was created and released small small so that they can keep us inside away from all the hidden nonsense that they are doing. Evil is at work. When we get sick, they can install their 5G without telling us what it will do to us. When it is finished, they will say no more using cash, they will say it is because of the bacterias, but that is what they will use to control all of us. You think they don’t know what they are doing? They can easily remove those of us they don’t want with this virus. Think about the kind of people that are dying most.

Why did they tell us not to gather in groups of more than six? Why six? Six-six-six?

The number the antichrist uses to control? Me, I don’t know. Will there be microchips in their vaccine? Me, I don’t know, but they cannot force me to collect it.

Too many of you people nowadays are so quick to call the very simple things unbelievable and ridiculous that when the truly unbelievable and ridiculous things are paraded in front of you with microphones as truth, you are so blind that you follow without question.

My son told me I should ‘shield’ instead of going outside on the road – I said, no, the Lord is my shield. He told me I should stop inviting you people for fellowship, that I am in the vulnerable group – I said, no, the Lord is my fortress. He told me to stop fasting, that I am making my immune system weak – I said, no, the Lord is my strength. But when my pregnant daughter-in-law caught the virus, he started acting like my whatsapp messages were what caused it. He stopped coming, he didn’t even let me see my grandson, like I would give him the virus. Saying don’t I know that people are really dying? I know people are dying. My own friends have died. We all have to die, but when I die, they cannot make me die alone. *

This is why this thing that I have to tell you is crucial… this truth I have called you here to hear, I cannot transmit it through WhatsApp anymore. It is far too dangerous a truth.

Why could my son not come and see me for so long? Why could you not see your own mother, or your own grandfather? The truth is, it is not because of any virus.

We have been strategically kept from that invisible thing, the uncontrollable and powerful thing that happens where two or three or ten or fifty or three hundred or five thousand are gathered.

They can call me ridiculous but they cannot deny power of a coming together or a laying on of hands. That is why I will never let them stop me. Will you? * It’s true that my son started blocking my broadcast messages.

But, are you surprised that not even two months ago, when he wanted me to join all my people with all his people to listen and gather and walk all the way to Westminster with our hands raised, he was the one who asked me to use WhatsApp and press send.

That day, we all walked close to each other, young and old, close like you and the person next to you. Close enough to each be a link in a chain, close enough to feel the ground shake because of the march of your neighbour’s feet. Close enough to each other to feel the power in every person.

My Freedom Loving Nan Tom Fowler

1.

Dial tone.

Nan

Hi Jess.

Jess

Alright, nan? How are you?

Nan

Fine, yeah. Just watching this Tiger King thing on Netflix. Been watching it all day actually.

Jess

Proper binging it, nana.

Nan

Yeah, well. (Beat.) There’s not much else to do, is there?

Jess

No. (Beat.) No.

Nan

(Beat.) I mean I walk the dog once a day, but – I mean, otherwise…

Jess

Just Netflix and chilling.

Nan

Exactly, yes. (Beat.) Exactly. (Pause.) Anyway, how are you?

Jess

Fine, yeah.

Nan

Your mum said you’re on furlough.

Jess

I will be, yeah. From Monday.

Nan

And? I mean, how do you feel about that?

Jess

Yeah, fine. I mean, you know. My manager said it’s not reflective of, like, job security or anything, so –

Nan

More time to write, I guess. If you actually do any.

Jess

Alright, nan. I will.

Nan

Well good, then. (Beat.) That’s good. (Pause.) And otherwise?

Jess

Otherwise, yeah. I mean I’m quite angry, actually. Generally.

Nan

Are you? Why?

Jess

Because. The government’s just fucked it, haven’t they?

Nan

Jess!

Jess

Well, they have! I mean… you do know I canvassed for Labour, don’t you?

Nan

Yes.

Jess

Right. So, I’m personally never going to think the Tories have our best interests at heart.

But… well, I mean they’ve known about the virus since bloody January.

Nan

Okay but – they didn’t know, did they?

Jess

Didn’t know what?

Nan

Well, how bad it’d really be.

Jess

But – they should’ve done! Other countries did. I mean, look at Kerala! As soon as the health minister found out about the virus, she started building the infrastructure to deal with it, whilst our government, did the opposite.

Nan

Yes, but – I mean there’s still so much we don’t know, isn’t there? I mean I was reading that they think there’s different strains of the virus. You know, that maybe some countries – like South Korea and New Zealand – have a much weaker strain that’s easier to deal with, whilst other countries – like us and the U.S – have a much stronger strain, and maybe that’s why we’ve been hit much harder than… well, than those lesser countries.

Jess

(Beat.) I mean I don’t think that’s true.

Nan

Well, we just don’t know, do we? We just don’t know.

Jess

(Pause.) Anyway. You been able to visit Paps yet?

Nan

Oh. Uh – no, not yet.

Jess

Oh.

Nan

No. They’re talking about doing garden visits soon though, so.

Jess

That’s good. (Pause.) I’m sorry I never got to visit him, before it all…

Nan

No…

Jess

I will though. When I can.

Nan

I know. So will I.

Jess

(Pause.) Anyway, I should probably – you know… go.

Nan

Yes, of course.

Jess

But – I mean I’ll call you soon, yeah?

Nan

Yeah. Whenever you like. (Beat.) I’ll be here, won’t I?

Jess

Yeah. Yeah. (Beat.) Well, bye then.

Nan

Bye. Bye now –

Call ends.

2.

Phone rings.

Jess

Hello?

Nan

(Singing.) Happy birthday to you –

Jess

Oh.

Nan

(Singing.) Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Je-ess… happy birthday to you.

Jess

Thanks, nan.

Nan

S’alright. (Beat.) Where are you? I can hear traffic.

Jess

Oh. Yeah, we’re just walking back from the um BLM protest.

Nan

Oh. (Beat.) Well. Let’s hope there’s not a spike in cases.

Jess

Stop it, nan. No one said that about the bloody V-day street parties or the Cheltenham festival, did they?

Nan

Well –

Jess

This is important.

Nan

I know, I know. I’m just saying.

Jess

(Pause.) Anyway. (Beat.) How are you?

Nan

Fine, yeah.

Jess

Mum said there’s been some cases in the home.

Nan

Oh. Um.

Jess

Is Paps okay?

Nan

Yeah. Yeah, no, he’s fine I think.

Jess

That’s good.

Nan

But… well, they’re having to keep him and the others separate – you know, separate from the ones that do have it. In a separate part of the home.

Jess

Right.

Nan

Which is difficult, obviously, cos half of them – like Paps – don’t even know what’s going on, so.

Jess

Yeah, no – of course. (Beat.) You saw him though, didn’t you?

Nan

Yes. A few times actually. In the garden.

Jess

And? How was that?

Nan

Nice, yeah.

Jess

Good.

Nan

Yeah. No, it was… nice to see him. (Pause.) What about you? Has the consultation process started yet?

Jess

It has, yeah. I’ve got a call with HR tomorrow where I have to justify my job, basically.

Nan

Oh. Well, your Paps had to do that loads of times.

Jess

Did he?

Nan

Yeah. No, you’ll be alright. Whatever happens.

Jess

(Pause.) Anyway, um – I’m with people so I should probably –

Nan

Oh yes, of course. Well, um, have a lovely birthday.

Jess

Thanks, and I’ll – uh – speak to you soon.

Nan

Yep, okay then. Bye.

Jess

Bye.

Nan

Bye now –

Call ends.

3.

Dial tone.

Nan

Hiya Jess.

Jess

Alright, nan? How are you?

Nan

Okay, yeah. Well, a bit fed up actually.

Jess

Yeah?

Nan

Yeah. But you know, getting by. (Beat.) How are you?

Jess

Alright, yeah. Yeah, no. (Beat.) I’m fine.

Nan

Are you?

Jess

Yeah. Yeah. Why?

Nan

Nothing, just… well. Your mum said you’re on antidepressants, that’s all.

Jess

Oh.

Nan

And I just… Well, I just wanted to check you’re okay.

Jess

Thanks but – I am.

Nan

Well, good, then. Good. (Beat.) That’s good.

Jess

(Pause.) I started my new job. Selling Christmas trees.

Nan

Oh, yeah. And, how’s that?

Jess

Fine, yeah. I mean it doesn’t pay much but still. Over six hundred people interviewed, apparently. That’s why they interviewed two people at a time.

Nan

What?

Jess

I know. Well, it’s all the job losses, isn’t it?

Nan

Well, yes although I was reading that seemingly the scale of job losses has been massively over-exaggerated.

Jess

Alright, nan.

Nan

I mean, I know you lost your job but –

Jess

Yeah, no. (Beat.) I mean I think you’re wrong but yeah. (Beat.) Anyway. How are you feeling post-lockdown two?

Nan

Oh. Good. I mean, I never saw the point in the first place. Not in us down south doing it, anyway.

Jess

Why?

Nan

Well, because. (Beat.) It was all the North’s fault, wasn’t it?

Jess

Nan.

Nan

What?

Jess

The reason we had to have a second lockdown is because, one, the government opened everything back up way too early –and two, because the Test and Trace system is a joke, being run by mates of the Tories who have no experience running anything similar.

Nan

Well yes but… where’s the evidence that lockdowns even work?

Jess

What do you mean?

Nan

I mean, it didn’t work the first time, did it?

Jess

But – it did work the first time.

Nan

Did it?

Jess

Yes. Deaths went down massively. And they’d’ve increased again if we hadn’t locked down this time.

Nan

I don’t know. (Beat.) I just think the British people are too freedom loving to accept the rules. You know, we’re too freedom loving so we break them. I think that’s the problem.

Jess

Do you?

Nan

Yes.

Jess

You think we’re more freedom loving than New Zealand, who dealt with it better and are now, as a result, more free?

Nan

Yes.

Jess

Right.

Nan

Because the British people are more used to being free.

Jess

(Pause.) Have you been able to visit Paps?

Nan

Not in a while, no. No, it’s – too cold for garden visits now.

Jess

Course, yeah. (Beat.) Are you okay?

Nan

Yeah. Yeah, no. I’m fine. (Beat.) I do get lonely but I’m fine. (Pause.) I saw Bright Eyes released a new album.

Jess

Did they?

Nan

Yeah. (Beat.) I took you to see them, remember?

Jess

Course I do. It was my first gig.

Nan

Was it?

Jess

Yeah, I was thirteen.

Nan

Oh, yeah. I just remember all these sad-looking teenage boys looking at me, confused as to why there was a sixty-year-old woman behind them.

Jess

(Laughs.) Yeah. (Beat.) That was fun.

Nan

(Beat.) Yeah.

Jess

(Pause.) Anyway. I’m getting cold so I should… But, I’ll call you soon, yeah?

Nan

Yeah, any time. (Beat.) I’m still here.

Jess

I know. (Beat.) Well, bye then.

Nan

Bye. Bye. (Beat.) I love you.

Jess

(Beat.) I love you too.

Call ends.

GOLD

by Chen Si’an translated by Jeremy Tiang

CHARACTER Lin

Female, 27 or 28

SETTING Lin’s home in Beijing TIME The present A soundscape incorporating fragments of the news in Chinese and English. The voices gradually layer on top of one another. Lin enters, in the middle of a conversation on her mobile. The news fades when she says her first line, but we can still hear it.

LIN. You don’t have to keep sending me specialities from home, Mum, I can buy anything here in Beijing. Yes, I can get fish balls. Mm-hmm, pork floss too, top quality stuff. Uh-huh, even Buddha-jumps-over-the-wall. Really, I’m not bluffing. I place an order on my phone, and an hour later it’s at the door—much cheaper than you posting it.

Pause.

LIN. I knew you were going to bring that up. Stop reading that rubbish in your WeChat groups. Do you really think there are all these insiders with privileged information, giving out their valuable secrets in OAP WeChat groups?

Pause.

LIN. Stop talking. I don’t want to hear about those “well-connected” friends of yours, I’m just going to say one thing: I absolutely do not agree to you spending all that money on gold. Gold isn’t very liquid, you can’t turn it back into cash quickly. A war? If there really was a war, what good would a few gold bars do? Would you get a hammer and chip some off to buy rice? Why are people your age so obsessed with gold?

Pause.

LIN. You what, American dollars? That’s even worse. British pounds? Please! You just don’t get politics at all.

Pause.

LIN.

How is this not politics? Everything is political. Choosing a currency is political.

Pause.

LIN. I’m not shouting, I’m very calm. I know you don’t trust the mainstream media now— I don’t either. But that doesn’t mean you should put all your faith in WeChat groups.

Pause.

LIN. You really believe they’ve dug an escape tunnel under Beijing, leading all the way to the sea, for when the world war kicks off? You actually believe that?

Pause.

LIN. A year ago, you thought moonshine and boiled fishwort could kill the coronavirus.

Six months ago, you believed the pandemic was a biological weapon the Americans came up with to destroy China. And now you think World War Three is about to start.

Pause.

LIN. My money? You know perfectly well what I spend it on—rent, food, clothes, that’s it.

What, just because I’ve got no money, I have no right to talk about how you’re spending yours?

Pause.

LIN. Why do I feel you’re hiding something even bigger from me? Be honest—why are you buying that much gold? Is this some sort of scam?

Pause.

LIN. Oh really? One of your friends can get me a ticket for the secret tunnel? So I can escape with the others when it opens? But we have to pay for it with gold bars? Oh my god, Mum. You’re doing this all for me?

Pause.

LIN. It’s been a year, do you realise, Mum? A year since COVID started. This winter has lasted a whole year. I don’t believe anything any more.

Pause.

LIN.

Yes, I still believe you.

Long pause.

LIN.

All right, go ahead. If that’s the only way you’ll stop worrying, buy it.

A moment. Lin wearily hangs up. She turns to face the audience, looking into the camera.

LIN. The next afternoon, Mum phoned several times in a row. She’d gone to the bank first thing in the morning to buy the gold, but the teller said they weren’t opening any new individual goldtrading accounts, because of the pandemic, the international political situation and so on. I didn’t believe her at first—I thought this must be some sort of scam. But then I went online, and sure enough, that’s what was happening. Mum was in a state. The whole thing was utterly confusing. I gripped my phone tightly, as if I were trying to cling on to a ticket.

The news soundscape gradually increases in volume, louder and louder, until it’s almost unbearable.

Then all of a sudden, it stops.

END.

The Blank Space

by Ryan Calais Cameron Everything written as such is to be read Everything written as such is dance or stage direction (Everything written as such is the title of a song and a means for transition)

MORONKE: Here – at this final hour, in this quiet place, this empty space filled with heavy hearts a plenty – Where Brothers and sisters gather to bid a final farewell NTONGA: Where what was once our brightest hopes pass on, now gone from us forever. For Justice is where you worked and where you struggled and fought – where your heart was– and it is, therefore, most fitting that we meet once again – In justice for justice, just us, – to share these final moments with you. For Justice has never been gracious to those who have loved her and have fought for her, even to the death.

MORONKE: Verily, verily I say unto you, unless a seed falls into the ground and die, it abides alone; but if it dies, it bringeth forth much fruit.

The artists take a final breath and fall Hold the gaze of the audience (SIREN SONG) Born out of rebellion. The artists are re born discovering themselves their skin, who they are and who one another are with awe and adventure Then (TOO FAR GONE) The artists use this space to celebrate the life of Oluwatosin Salau MORONKE: Oluwatoyin Salau is a Yoruba name, meaning “God is Worthy to be praised.”

At 19, She was a passionate activist for the Black Lives Matter movement. She spent her last days calling for an end to police murder and white supremacy.

NTONGA: A model, artist, hairstylist and makeup artist. She loved plantains straight off the stove so hot they would burn her mouth. She loved music from Summer Walker to Marvin Sapp and was glued to the Erykah Badu vs. Jill Scott instagram live battle! She tweeted…

MORONKE: “Music was really my parent growing up my art ‘boutta b phenomenal.”

Phenomenal…

NTONGA/ MORONKE: Phenomenal phenomenal!!!

DANCE BREAK in celebration of Toyins life Music stops abruptly.

NTONGA: One of the notes that Toyin left read, “No weapon formed against me shall prosper.”

And another said, “I am the righteousness of God.” MORONKE: Even with this weight, we have to remember to celebrate her life and unique personality she brought to everyone around her.

THEN (THE MISTRAL NOIR) Music plays out. The actors first take time to be still, then stillness but only acting on impulse wiping the tears from their eyes. They start to fix themselves up. There is work to be done They start to repeat MORONKE: Justice cannot thrive in the heart of hatred, and justice will never be reached through the loss of innocent lives NTONGA: Justice cannot thrive in the heart of hatred, and justice will never be reached through the loss of innocent lives Then the artists start gearing themselves up!

NTONGA: No justice no peace!

MORONKE: No justice no peace!!!!

The Artists belt to opposite sides of the room. They start gearing each other up before they speak like hype men/women at a gig MORONKE: Be alert there are wolves in sheep’s clothing. Our movement, our healing must be purged from the gas lighters, from the promise makers-promise brakers, remember a promise is only comfort for a fool so don’t be foolish.

NTONGA: Be alert, of the Pagans, those that are overzealous to be crowned as ally’s in the light of day but move unseen like ghosts in the dead of night.

MORONKE: Be alert for there are many that are shouting, fundraising and claiming to be re-learning and unlearning but are just as stupid as ever.

NTONGA: Those that are quick to flood you with their black squares and white tears and passionate confessions and elongated statements about their thoughts and prayers even though most are fuckers who do not think let alone pray.

MORONKE: Be alert for the “I feel as if, as a white person, I could have done something to stop it.”

NTONGA: Do not drown yourselves in their shallow self-persevering comfort.

MORONKE: Do not become too familiar with their blabber.

NTONGA: They will not be here for the long run.

MORONKE We already smell their fatigue, dipped in their own bullshit, MORONKE/NTONGA And it stinks!!!

NTONGA: They lived through Black lives summer and want their flowers.

MORONKE: They faced one season, whilst we’ve been sweltering in a climate with no change. They want our extinction not our rebellion.

NTONGA: Trying to figure out how they’re going to stop the revolution rather than stop the brutality.

MORONKE: Don’t come with some empty apology, we can’t eat “sorry” NTONGA: We want repayment MORONKE: Equal justice.

NTONGA: Equal fairness.

MORONKE: We’re not anti-anybody, we are trying to stop people from being anti-us!!!

NTONGA: So, to all of our true ally’s…

MORONKE: Come get your people-dem..

MORONKE/NTONGA: We don’t fuck with dem!!!!

(Music transition) NTONGA: And this is the beginning of the fight!

MORONKE: As we lay you to rest, just know the movement won’t rest until we have one standard of justice. Rest in peace NTONGA: Rest in assurance that the world has adopted you into her heart MORONKE: In you, we honour the best in ourselves. You fought a good fight. You kept the faith. You finished your course.

NTONGA: Go on and get your rest now. We going to fight on.

MORONKE/NTONGA: We going to fight on. We going to fight on.

Music plays on full blast, the artists interact with the audience this is the beginning of their new revolution, of their Pagan-Free-World

The Spike – An Intervention

By Anchuli Felicia King PROTEST AUNTIE #1 You’ve never started a riot? Really? Ah, don’t worry, it’s easy. I’ll tell you how.

Step one: You wanna get a lot of money and power. Okay, yes, this is the hardest step.

To speed this step up, you can design a billion-dollar software or marry into an oligarchy. Single oligarchs are harder to nab these days, but you’re hot stuff, you can do it.

Step two: You wanna flaunt that wealth and power while hoarding it to the manifest detriment of your fellow citizens.

Step three: You wanna make a lot of people hate you. Many ways to do this. For example: Institute a fascist policy! Get caught up in a corruption scandal! Fail to condemn a hate group! These days, even a vaguely cunty tweet ought to do the trick.

Step four: .... wait.

PROTEST AUNTIE #2 Mob mentality. What does this mean? I’ll give you an example. You know that fog of love when you’re in the honeymoon phase with someone? And you have all these huge emotions? Now, are you being smart when you’re in that fog? NO. You’re DUMB AS SHIT. That's mob mentality. Because a mob is impassioned, right? It's inflamed. And this makes it stupid. A mob does not take a step back and ask: “is this person really right for me?” or “are we taking this too fast?” A mob does not consult its girlfriends on the subject. No, a mob acts on impulse. It does whatever it wants to do and it hurts whoever is collateral in the process. So if you ever find yourself in a mob, you need to ask yourself the same question that your Auntie asked herself when she ran into her shitty ex-husband at mahjong: do I feel like being smart? Or do I feel like being stupid?

Strawberries

by Emteaz Hussain Hadiqa - Early 30’s Aldi supermarket. Morning 11.00 ish. She has a trolley with some shopping and is holding a box of strawberries: I’m calculating me shopping: 96p for 4 tins of beans and 2 tins of tomatoes is 70p, I got 2 packs of pull-ups Idris’s is potty training at nursery I keep his nappy on in the flat otherwise more spent on cleaning, unless I take his bottoms off n’ I follow him around with wipes - 65p, and Fabulosa disinfectant 99p… shall I put back the pull-ups, take one pack, then I’ll have £1.50 spare…then I can buy how many strawberries in this box? wonder if we could have 8 each one day, and 8 each the next? would Idris notice if he has 6 and me and Hemma have 9? and there you are.

I stop and stare you look just like the picture, the picture at the bottom of Jen’s wardrobe that said ‘Mum 2002’ on the back. older. your hair is down on your shoulders, greyer, classic, you have a coat from John Lewis, that handbag isn’t from Primark for definite, you have that same pink lippy, but your face looks different...it looks haunted I’m the only one in this supermarket that can tell there’s this couple waiting for me to move so they can get at the strawberries [the couple in Aldi’s] ‘you buying them? excuse us? are you buying them?’ ‘er no, not yet, sorry’ and I put the strawberries down I watch you trot off to the till with your court shoes when I move for the couple, who incidentally buy two boxes of strawberries, without question, I can see you better - I am watching you better I am staring... who’d wanna hurt your daughter? perfect blond girl who should be sharing shit on insta. jumping out of bed into the shower, wrapping herself in her fluffy towel.

sitting to gulp her muesli with her defrosted blueberries? how did your daughter end up in a refuge? the women, they tell me that she’d sit really quiet and stare, this young white girl. Jen. staring is okay, staring is what we all do, all of us disoriented and confused, I do it myself, when I don't have the kids, just stare into space, it stops everything. her staring stood-out though cos it was unusual, this white girl with no kids or anyone. such a lonely figure. then the house meetings stopped because of lockdown restrictions -no more mixing of households, no gathering together, no coffee mornings, welcoming the newbies - vote on who’s going to cook the communal meal on Friday - all stop. what then?

I wonder if Jen just sat staring at the walls, rattling around. when Ashley knocks to tell her she’s got to move - trying to reassure - ‘Denise, she’ll be your new key worker in county, she’s lovely really lovely; she’ll really look after you Jen, do you want me to help you pack? we’ll leave at 4, miss the rush hour…. it’s a one bedroom Jen; your own place - for a bit - we just desperately need this two bedroom for a mum with two kids, she’s currently in emergency accommodation, stuck on the M1 junction 23 ...

Me. a day earlier, Ashley waited round the corner, I took the kids first, then I went back to the house, I got a carrier bag, then another, then another, then another, 8 carrier bags and a suitcase, nine walks round the corner and back to the house, it was the only way I couldn’t rouse suspicion.

Ashley, puts her foot down, and within the hour we are at the motorway hotel ‘welcome break’ emergency accommodation. homeless, that’s me, that’s us, me, Jen, the other women, not enough flats, houses, homes to go round is there? so they put us in these back of beyond motorway hotels, neatly out of the way I mean I shouldn’t be here should I? I should be picking up the stuff for a tuna pasta bake and a crisp salad, for later, when I get Idris and Hemma, before I settle them down in front of Frozen 2 in my ‘welcome break’ motel I start doing the times-table with Hemma, singing with Idris, “five little ducks went out one day over the hill and far away...” I keep repeating till we’re all zonked out, aside from the hum of the motorway traffic it’s really quiet. us homeless, we are just so tired. next day they give me the key to the flat in the refuge, the flat your daughter was in, the now empty flat. I start the chanting as I open the door; my dua’s, I chant 3 x 10, when I’m scared, I keep going as I sort the kids, unpack, hang the school uniforms, that’s when I find the picture of you in the bottom of the wardrobe, I think of my mum, she taught me to count and chant to keep devoted to the most high; I’ll get in touch with her when the times’ right; chanting trains my brain, it always helps, that’s what I did the first time he hit me. next time - I’d shoved the bank statement in his face, asked about the missing money I got three hits and a punch, it took 120 seconds for Hemma to stop bawling; that

last punch to my stomach I stopped counting - for a bit - I nearly choked, then I carried on chanting till the child benefit came. I was allowed to keep that to myself. did you do that? count and sing with Jen I mean?

I hear it was noisy where they put her, where they moved her Denise, her new key worker, heard the speakers blasting in the building as she knocked and knocked and knocked, till she got the caretaker to open the door when they found her.... dead that day all the women cried; she was one of us... as I unpacked my bags all 8 of them, and chased Idris and Hemma, I chanted my dua’s…3 x 10 and here you are in Aldi’s buying 2 bottles of wine I watch you go out to the carpark. drive off: efficient. smooth. like that. I start my chants; I say peace be upon him and I pray peace be upon me and I pray peace be upon Hemma and I pray peace be upon Idris and I pray peace be upon Jen and you, Jens mum, peace be upon you and suddenly it’s all clear in my mind; I look at the strawberries and I think we’ll have one each, just one each one at a time, we’ll stop and savour each and every little strawberry, we’ll keep going, till we get through the whole box together

Ghosting

By Tom Wells

Laura Nick

Nick sits down with a pint. Looks around. Doesn’t see Laura. Looks at his watch. Looks at his phone.

Doesn’t know what to do.

Makes a decision. FaceTimes Laura.

Laura answers.

She is still at home, on her bed, in her pyjamas. She’s pretty cross he’s FaceTimed her.

Laura. The fuck?

Nick. What? Um. I mean Laura. The fuck are you - ?

Nick. Oh, I just, I was just Laura. How did you get this number? Seriously.

Nick. Um. Er. Laura. Seriously though.

Nick. You, um. Gave me it?

A moment.

Laura thinks.

Laura. Did I? Nick. D’you not - ? We were talking about that video I’d seen, on Twitter, of the woman dancing, to that song, that song that’s like ‘Everybody Dance Now.’ D’you not remember? I was telling you about it, you were like ‘I’d like to see that’, but you’re not allowed to, or, maybe I just couldn’t figure out how to, to send a link, on Tinder, so you gave me your number? And I just, I sent it to you. On whatsapp. The video.

So I had your number from that.

But I wouldn’t’ve kept it if, you know. Suppose what I’m saying is: I wouldn’t’ve freaked you out. On purpose. So that’s… Sorry. If I’ve done that. Which, seems like, I have.

Laura. Right.

She’s not convinced.

Nick. I was just seeing if you were on your way? But, I’m guessing: no.

Laura looks at Nick.

Laura. Forgot we’d swapped numbers.

Nick. Oh.

Laura. Thought if I just didn’t turn up, that’d get the message across.

Nick. Right.

Laura. It’s nothing personal.

Nick thinks.

Nick. Does feel a bit personal.

Laura doesn’t know what to say.

Ironed my jeans specially.

Laura. You ironed your jeans?

Nick. And then it looked like I was trying a bit hard so I sat on them all crumpled up.

A moment.

Laura. Show me.

Nick. Um. What d’you - ?

Laura. Tilt your phone down a bit.

Nick. Oh. He does.

Laura looks.

Laura. Nice.

Nick. Cheers.

Laura. I mean I can’t believe you just showed me your crotch in public but Nick. You can talk.

Laura. What d’you mean?

Nick. Casually answering a video call in those sexy sexy PJs. They are not sexy PJs. Laura. Fuck off.

Nick. All that tartan and is it… flannel? Getting a bit…

He fans himself.

Is it a bit…? Think it’s maybe a bit hot in here.

Laura. (laughing) Fuck! Off! Nick laughs too.

Then it peters out a bit.

In the end, he looks sad.

Laura. You alright?

Nick shrugs.

Nick. Oh, you know. Bit sad this date isn’t happening, to be honest.

Laura looks uncomfortable.

Bit worried I’ll just end up a man, drinking on his own, stood up by a woman off Tinder who just stayed in bed. Cos I know at the end of this chat there’s quite a, quite a big chance you’ll just look at my number, think about how I’m a bit, I dunno, like not that much of a catch, not really, and then, you know, block me.

Laura. Already deleted you off Tinder so…

Nick. But, thing is: I just, I think you’re magic.

I just do.

Like in your messages you’re funny and, and in your photos you're very pretty, and in real life, or FaceTime, even sort of… And, yeah: straightforward. Like, it’s quite easy to tell if you’re pissed off or something.

Like now, for example.

Laura. I’m not pissed off.

Nick. Oh. Ok. I just must’ve, um, misread all the, the very clear signals you’ve given me that you’re pissed off.

Laura. Not pissed off, with you.

Nick doesn’t know whether to say this next bit.

Nick. Still time, I reckon, still time for you to put on some, er, not-pyjamas, if you want, hop on the tube, meet me here, have this date. Still time for that. If you might be…

Laura looks at Nick.

But, um: probably not.

Laura breathes out. Smiles. Nick looks hopeful.

Laura. I was never coming on the date.

Nick looks a bit wounded.

Shielding since March, I’ve not been out the flat.

Nick takes a moment to take this in.

Nick. Oh. Laura. Been fantasising about getting off with a delivery man but the best Ive seen so far is, I’d give him four out of ten. Five if I was drunk. Which I’m not. Cos I’ve run out of rum.

She looks at herself, on her bed, in her PJs. Think I’m losing it a bit.

Nick doesn’t know what to say to this.

Nick. (lightly) Really?

Laura nods.

Laura. Didn’t fully think this through.

Thought if I just organised a date with someone, that’d be sort of, something. Something good. For me.

Cos it’s like a muscle isn’t it - dating? Use it or lose it. Then when the time came, I’d just sort of: not turn up. That was the plan. And they’d just brush it off cos… Well.

Thought I’d be quite good at ghosting.

Nick. You’re really not that good at it, just FYI. Laura. Thing is: I do feel like a ghost.

At the moment.

Feel like I don’t exist, for most people.

Forget I’m here. Sometimes catch a glimpse of me, at the edge of where they’re looking, but then I disappear again. Something bigger, in the news or… They can just ignore me, carry on.

Mostly it’s fine.

Cos I wouldn’t want to go on a date with them anyway. They’re shit.

Doubt they even wear masks.

Thought you were the same cos of that photo you used on Tinder, the one of you just standing quite near the FA Cup. But, um. Think I was wrong.

You seem, er… You seem…

Think maybe I’ve, um. Hurt you.

A moment.

Sorry.

Nick isn’t sure what to say.

Nick. The thing is: do you not think you’re just doing, sort of, really well?

Laura. Not really.

A moment.

Wouldn’t say that to most people, I’d be like: ‘I’m fine, finally a chance to watch the whole of Dawson’s Creek, from the very start, twice, really pay attention to the development of Jack McPhee’s biceps, what a gift.’ But you seem sort of… I dunno. Think maybe you’d see through that.

A moment.

Nick smiles.

What?

Nick. Just thinking: this does feel a bit datey now. Deep and meaningful, etcetera. Like sort of, quite a good date?

Laura. Considering.

Nick. What you on about: considering?

Laura. Considering I didn’t turn up.

Nick. Oh yeah. Think I’ve forgotten what a date is meant to be like. Been a while.

Laura. Really?

Nick nods.

Nick. Haven’t done anything even slightly romantic for like, three years.

Laura. Three years?

Nick. Even then, it wasn’t really… Like I only realised we were going out when she dumped me. By then it was a bit late to enjoy it.

Laura. Well. Just to sort of jog your memory. This is the bit where we might awkwardly say we’d like to do it again some time.

Nick. Yeah?

Laura. But in real life, maybe. When stuff’s a bit more… When I can leave the flat.

Nick. I would really like that.

Laura. And then I guess we might be at the point where we probably should say bye but we’re just the right amount of drunk that having a dance feels like a good plan.

And an absolute banger comes on…

Laura presses play on C and C Music Factory’s Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now).

So you down the rest of your pint.

Nick. Oh, we’re doing this, ok.

Nick does.

Laura. You put your best moves on standby, ready to impress me.

Nick psyches himself up.

Nick. Ready.

Laura. And then we just…

They dance a bit.

[This is the video they mention, in case it’s helpful to know: https://twitter.com/K_JeanPierre/status/1279182050122178564 ]

Agony Aunt_y

Problem 1 My boyfriend and I can only meet outdoors because we aren’t in the same household or support bubble. As we can’t be intimate, he has suggested opening our relationship to our housemates. What do I do?

And the algorithm says: To continue your relationship, you have three options.

One: mixing households, which has been illegal under tier 3 laws since the 14th of October 2020.

Two: Sexual activity in an outdoor public place, which was outlawed under the 2003 Sexual Offences Act. Three, the only legal option: agreeing to your boyfriend’s wishes and opening your sexual relationship to members of your respective households. Statistically, he has already taken action on this.

My suggestion is that you end the relationship.

by Tife Kusoro

Problem 2 If there are multiple universes, how do I know I'm in the right one?

And the algorithm says: A: While there is no statistically significant evidence of either a bubble universe collision or a gravitational pull of other universes on ours, should multiple universes exist it is statistically likely that historically significant macroeconomic and social constructs like class, race and gender are paralleled across a statistically high number of parallel universes. This means that in a statistically significant number of parallel universes you are just as miserable and/or oppressed as you are in this one.

by Anchuli Felicia King

Problem 3

I’m suffering from social justice fatigue, sometimes it’s hard to know which cause to focus on or prioritise when there’s so much going on? I feel split in pieces. Any advice?

And the algorithm says: Lavender oil is great for tension, just a few dabs on the wrist and the temples, chamomile tea, lots of fluid. Also amethyst, just plopped under your pillow at night. Long walks, guided meditation. The truth is, I don’t have the depth to answer this question with nuance, but I do have a partnership with a holistic lifestyle brand. Keep smiling!

by Yasmin Joseph

Problem 4 My ex has six weeks to live and wants to move back in to my bubble over Christmas. My new partner says they don’t want the ex in our bubble and will leave if this happens. What should I do?

And the algorithm says: Thank you for your question.

I know this is difficult but listen to me when I say to you: trust the algorithms. Will you try to do that for me, my love?

The algorithms are taking care of all the choices that previously you as a human being would have to take. The algorithms can weigh up the possible ways forward and select the optimum way , without the fear and trouble that you experience as a human being.

Are you listening my love?

The algorithms are free from self loathing and self enjoyment.

Try to be more like them. Do that for me, my love. Please.

Things like hell, happiness, equality, friendship – these are all very old words from a very old time.

So let go of them and pass through the trauma ahead without self reflection.

A smile is everything.

Good luck! Stay safe, sane and well.

by Mark Ravenhill

Problem 5 Hi Agony Aunt; Since the start of lockdown; like everyone else I’ve been confined to the four walls of my studio flat. Somehow though, as much as I’m trying to bite my tongue for the greater good (no matter how hard and difficult it may be), there are some things which are wearing my patience absolutely thin. The main one being my noisy neighbours. Don’t get me wrong, I know I'm not the quietest of neighbours either - I love to turn my music up full blast from time to time too but generally I’m a quiet person and I try to be aware of those who live on the other side of my four walls. My neighbours however, don’t see to give a toss. The noise coming from next door is becoming insufferable. A list of things I really don’t need to hear at 3am on a weeknight include: •

Eastenders Omnibus - (I’m tired of people being thrown out of the Queen Vic)

•

Rick Astley (On Loop)

•

Arguments about why there’s only 2 tablespoons of apple juice left in the Carton

•

Sex on a bed that seems to moan louder than my neighbour does

•

A Dog that seems to want to chat just as much (or if not more than them)

•

Baby Shark on Loop (no child lives in the household)

I want it all to stop, but I'm not really into conflict - How should I approach this!?

And the algorithm says:

Hi User 14032!

Thank you for submitting your problem. We have received it and one of our agents will be in contact shortly to provide a bespoke response.

In the meantime, please look at some suggestions courtesy of some of our sponsored partners: •

BOLLSEN hearing protectors won in most categories and thus occupy the first place. The product scored points both in terms of long term affordability and functionality as well as innovation. Quote “COVIDNOISYNEIGHBOURS” to claim your 40% discount now.

•

The arrival of the Sony WH-1000XM4 wireless noise-cancelling headphones is probably the biggest headphone launch of 2020. Why? Well they just happen to replace the Bose-baiting,

•

Chat with SAMARITANS online - if calling isn’t for you, in the future you can use our live web chat to talk to a samaritan in real time.

by Jammz

COMPLAINTS PROCEDURE: If you feel that your agony has not been adequately addressed by our experienced team, please feel free to use social media to express your grievance.

By Yuqun Fan and Ruby Holder

Welcome, wanderer of the world, strayed soul.

Karma has brought you to me in this cold basement beneath Sloane Square, it’s here that your questions will be answered.

The card has already chosen you, let it pull you to it. Take your time, discover it, and pick it when you are truly ready.

These coordinates mark a place on our Earth that has already chosen you.

You will learn of previous travellers.

Do not resist, we cannot run from fate.

At your coordinates we meet: Lloyd - 51°34'29.4"N 0°03'13.6"W A low bridge that’s prone to flooding. Try not to let Lloyd see you poking about round here. He gets a bit territorial.

Lloyd conquered some new ground this year.

He discovered it one Sunday afternoon wandering along a rail line and getting lost.

But now he’s learnt the route like scripture.

Lloyd needed a spot to claim completely as his own.

A place where no living thing gets in, not even light.

A place where only he can go, where no one can really know him but him.

And Lloyd has big plans for it.

He spends most evenings here in this place, even takes his own chair there now.

Not a small one either, the kind with arms, claw feet and fringing round the bottom, he ties it up and swings it over the fence with old rope.

This is the spot where Lloyd fly-tipped his soul.

Where he let it leak out of him like a carton of milk left on its side.

Where he could weep it out his sockets and let it soak the padding of his throne.

Now it’s rotting with damp tears in his kingdom, and the mould is growing hair.

But that’s how Lloyd wants his soul, spilt like milk, sprouting new life from mould, and soaked into a chair.

Jun —31°37'20.0"N 121°23'39.0"E

This is a busy street in the center of Chongming Island, Shanghai. We are about to meet Jun. Jun has his spot on this street. When I was a kid, I passed by his kebab stand with my head twisted until he had long diminished from my sight — but the delicious smell was always there.

My mom never allowed me to buy them. She said they were made of suspicious meat. But she must have tasted them herself, secretly, because according to her, he had been there since she was a kid, and I’m sure nobody could resist that smell. Nobody knows his age. Nobody knows how exactly long he’s been making kebabs, or been standing there. It seems like his coat never changes. It seems like he never cleans his face, or trims his beard. But he’s got nicely cut nails, and his fingers seem freshly kissed by soap. Mom said he sent his four children to university by making kebabs.

Val - 51°28'02.1"N 0°14'37.4"E Dartford river path, not the most romantic of walks, but at least there’s a river. And a power station, and a sewage treatment plant…

Val dries her stockings on power lines.

She says it ‘puts a spring in her step’.

I saw her last week, pacing-about around the power station with wet hair, waving steel tent poles.

Told me that she was looking for sparks.

Says she gets all love’s secrets when she’s thrown from the earth's surface, when all her hairs stand on end, and her nipples rip through her blouse.

Every fortnight she collects faulty appliances from the scrap yard after dark, desperate for connection.

But mains don’t do it for her anymore, she’s melted the fuse box, it’s the fourth fitted since spring.

So instead she pinches a kite out of a neighbours front garden and waits in the park for the weather to turn.

Once she’s struck she’ll know everything, she thinks. Great sonnets written in her skin.

Or maybe the storm will pass her by, leaving her pathetic and ignored by a dog shit bin.

But in time lightning will strike Val, of that I am certain.

She’ll be struck and thrown into a tree, the kite strings will tangle up and tighten around her throat and leave her bleeding out onto a poster for a missing cat.

N.U. —31°12'32.4"N 121°25'25.3"E

This is an unremarkable building on one of those commercial streets in southwest Shanghai. We’re about to meet N.U. Just from the exterior look, N.U.’s building looks no different from the rest of buildings on this street. But if you went inside, you’d probably, no, definitely get lost, because the corridors seem to be endless, and every door looks exactly the same. I call it “N.U.’s building” – well, she doesn’t own this building. She’s just the security guard to it. Everyday she sits in her little box reading ancient newspapers with her reading glasses. But if you wanted to go inside the building, you’d need her help. She has the keys to every room inside, and she knows what room to offer you judging from your face. I had once, gone inside, at a time when I was feeling unwanted and lonely. She showed me the way to a room, and when I opened its door, I stepped onto a street in Peckham where I used to live. From one end of the street, I saw my old home, with a dim light on – my landlady always left a light on for me. “You know we’re here for you.”

She said.

Frank - 51°34'28.3"N 0°09'54.0"E A street corner in Romford, home to local legend Frank, the Hound of Havering.

Everyone knows Frank around here, He had a habit of falling over his feet.

I met him at the track gates one new year.

He lent in and whispered ‘-thirsty for blood, listen, hear em howling from the box’ It was common knowledge that he’d eaten his twin. Sicked him up and left him for foxes.

‘Just an honest mistake’ he says.

At night he runs rabid round the bottle banks, feasting on alley scraps and puddle mud.

‘Just a lifestyle choice’ so he says.

In the crowds we watched the traps release, the dogs swallowed the first 400m of the track chasing the fluorescent hare.

Frank was foaming. Puddles of drool forming on his betting slips.

Gone sunrise, I seen him leaving, tripped again. Lost an incisor to the kerbside.

He lifted himself up onto the boarded windows of The Crown.

‘Can’t seem get a hold of my fucking-feet in the daylight’ he said.

He won 4 grand on dogs that night, says he's got an ‘affinity with the hounds’.

‘There's nothing like a new year’ he said to me, laughing through clots of blood, spitting broken teeth.

Stan — 22°32'00.9"N 113°58'59.4"E

This is a vast avenue with lines of tall palm trees in southern Shenzhen. I once took a walk there for an hour and met Stan.

I met Stan when he was lying unconscious on the street in a warm summer night. He had a thundering, irregular breathe that sounded like hollows from a dying bull. His belly was swelling so much that if he were a woman, I would claim her to be pregnant. I could tell that he was no straggler, because he had fine, clear cut suits. But I wasn’t sure if he was just drunk, so I approached him and patted him on the shoulder – that was when I noticed that he had a tiny tag around his neck. It reads, “STAN. DO NOT touch me. DO NOT talk to me. I AM FINE. The sky is my duvet. The earth is my pillow.”

Len - 51°30'35.2"N 0°00'05.2"E East India Dock basin, just under the Lower Lea Crossing. You’ll see Len on the end of the jetty.

Len lost half his bitter to the shake in his hand.

Lost an ear to the trade too, ‘an ear a fortune’ he says, had it torn off in a call-on for a ticket to a day's work.

He’s the last remaining docker from the crowds at West India Gate.

‘It’s what it took for building fortunes, to be ready to scrabble up the fence and look fit for a shift. Else wind up the lark, scavenging in the river-mud for tat and old tin’.

He twice counts his change, he’s got another drink in it. A half at least.

‘A toast to the men left on the stones’ he cries.

Len wanders around the island holding his trousers up with string, dropping his keys every few feet, to delay his solitary bedtime.

He takes the dock route home most nights, goes looking for his eyes in the river.

Dips his wounds in the river basin, grieves his losses. Scribbles them on beer coasters.

Tosses them in the water only to be rejected by the surging tide and sees them turn to mush.

‘Gotta wade in the depths of the dark, my son. We built a city from this mud’.

Mr. Zhu— 31°13'34.2"N 121°30'53.9"E

This is a cinema located in the busiest area in Pudong, Shanghai. We’re about to meet Mr.Zhu. Tucked in the busiest area in this city, with shopping malls and skyscrapers surrounding, Mr.Zhu’s cinema looks like an abandoned gas station. Modern technology does not exist in this place. No screens at front of house, no pop-corn machines. Only him, standing like a perpetual statue, tells you what’s screening today – the same Lou Ye film every day, with shaky lenses and blurring appearances. Few people actually come to see the film, only lovers in need of a private space, strollers in search for a warm place, or tourists just looking for a spooky place for snapshots. But he goes on, eliciting the same name every day, slowly and firmly, as if wishing that if he repeat a curse long enough, he’d finally turn the world upside down, making this place not his last battlefield, but the start of an expanding conquer.

Hazel - 51°31'25.2"N 0°09'13.5"E The Thames Gateway as it overlooks Dagenham Breach. You’ll find Hazel, on a road to nowhere.

Hazels prone to night terrors, They keep her up, tossing on her damp mattress.

So she rides the buses to pass the hours.

Sometimes it helps her nod off ‘cept when she wakes up it’s all wails and curdling blood.

It's been known to cause collisions in town.

In other efforts to pass the night-time she’s been seen hanging about outside quarries.

Earned herself a reputation sniffing around strong men with big hands, filthy nails.

She tells them she’s got tasks back at home that needed tending, the kind that required a strong man's fingers. She pays them cash and pays them fair.

They fill her nights with actions other than sleep.

But her nights are lonely now the quarries are barren and the frosts have come.

So she’s taken to walking to fill the dark hours.

Says she’s off to meet an angel on a hilltop somewhere, ‘the proper kind, all angelic, with feathered wings and massive fucking biceps’.

She’s been spotted pottering up the hard shoulder, she hasn’t rested in days.

‘Can’t stop for sleep’, says Hazel, ‘Won’t shut an eye til I see the bracken and the heather, I’m off to get a new bed, with a touch of angel's feather’.

Coco — 38°00'22.8"N 114°32'50.6"E

This is the crossover of two major streets in the center of Shijiazhuang, a north city in China. We’re about to meet Coco.

Coco smokes far too much. She can be seen smoking everywhere: at the back seat of a car, in a crowded restaurant, or on a rooftop that overlooks the city. Coco without a cigarette between her fingers seem incomplete. She just celebrated her twenty-two-year-old birthday, with no birthday cake, of course, but “birthday cigarettes”. No friends came to her birthday.

She broke up with all of them after hearing them exchange rumors. People say that she breathes in and out dark smoke. Others say that the increasing air pollution in this city should be blamed on her. The sky here seems to be grey from the very first day. More and more people have moved out, including most of her old acquaintances. But Coco never makes any effort to deny the accusation. She said, “my ideal city is a vast empty field with only one person living there.”

Janet - 51°28'42.2"N 0°01'18.2"W In a rail arch, just west of Deptford Creek. Here you’ll find Janet clutching lottery tickets in her smokehouse.

Janet’s got fortunes in her sights.

Euromillion jackpot’s drawn on Tuesdays.

Reckons she’ll get the numbers this time, if she gets the recipe right.

Janet inherited a rail-arch full of unlucky bones, and an incompetence at witchcraft.

‘It’s hard to know what to do with a carcass. Especially an old cow’.

But she always finds the time for making gravy.

She says ‘burning cattle is standard practice when playing a numbers game, you can listen for jackpot-answers in the spell of rendered fat and flame’.

They say to get a winners-fire you need to burn bones with secrets and lies, it’s a futile recipe, passed down to her like a genetic disease.

She says ‘A white lie’s like kindling, it goes up easy ‘n burns out fast. Whereas shame, that's slower to catch, takes some sweat to get it lit’.

So she’ll take your secrets if you’ve got em, and she’ll split her winnings for shame.

She’ll burn them up, note down the numbers, and buy her ticket for the game.

It’s week after week she takes the scraps out-the fridge, rubs them in secrets, and fruitlessly smokes out the bridge.

Trumpet Lady — 30°21'38.8"N 120°08'06.8"E

This is a local restaurant located in the center of Hangzhou. We’re about to meet the Trumpet Lady.

It is said that the landlady at The Little Trumpet is overwhelmingly beautiful. Her face could ease any trouble. Her beauty could cure any pain. The rumour has gone far, and in front of the Little Trumpet queue lines of people every day. Nobody knows her name. Nobody cares to ask.

People only call her “the Trumpet Lady”. She sits at the front desk like a painting. She never speaks. She never looks into your eyes. Her silences adds to her mystery, and her mystery adds to her magic.

I, however, bumped into her once on the street. My greetings confounded her. She said no one before has ever recognized her out of the Little Trumpet. I said, maybe that’s because they only see what they wish to see. And that’s when she exhaled a grieving sigh. She said she was instructed by her husband to remain silent. She said she fears the deception. But her husband indulged it. She asked, when you look at me, what do you see? I replied, I do not know you yet, so I cannot tell. She nodded, and walked away. I know that she is walking back to her seat there, to continue to be a goddess in other people’s eyes.

Take this card and keep it close.

Take the time to notice how you feel and ask yourself the questions that flare in your spirit, let them spark an eruption in your guts.

Go now and find your coordinate, look it up on a globe or let your feet take you there.

You will find the meaning you are looking for.