Dear friend who does performing arts,
I’ll never forget the day we first met. The first rollie we smoked together outside our English lecture. You were wearing all black and strikingly self-important, but I just assumed you were a Londoner on the way to a funeral. ‘Ignorance is bliss’ – Skepta.
When your name popped up on my Facebook requests I accepted with excitement. It was no more than 20 seconds later that the event invites started rolling in, 2, 6, 18. The notifications pinged more than I did in first year.
First it was Barrel Boy, the inspirational tale of a boy born with a barrel for a penis that was somehow supposed to be a metaphor for classism. I paid fourteen whole pounds to attend Zip It: The Silent Musical in the Winston theatre, 8 for an all-male remake of The Golden Girls and an ‘immersive’ international women’s day show which inexplicably featured the same cast.
When 127 Hours: The Panto was as long as I was scared it would be I knew something had to change. I’ve said ‘yes, and…’ to 13 different improv jams in strangers’ basements but now it’s time to say no.
I love you, but I don’t want to come to your play.