Free Art Ache by Lucy Arthurs Page B

wore the right uniform and listened to what the principal said. I did, however, smoke Kent cigarettes with my sister after school and read erotic literature that I found hidden in my mother’s bedroom cupboard. I may have looked, sounded and acted like a dag, but there was a raunchy, racy, secret internal life going on that made me feel remotely interesting. Now, I just feel desperate and ridiculous. And rejected. Everyone knows. I can see it. I can tell just by the way they look at me. The smile is a bit too bright, the head is on an angle, the eyes are soft and encouraging, but I just know that they’re thinking one of two things: Thank God it didn’t happen to me , or, I always thought they were mismatched .
    Breathe. That’s what the self-help books say. Too many bloody self-help books. Marjory’s got me reading all sorts. Conversations with God , He’s Just Not That Into You (don’t have to be Einstein to work that one out), The Yes Book , The Sweet Spot , The Power of Now . You name it, I’m reading it. The blurbs on each tome claim it will make the world of difference. I’m not convinced. I think the one my sister and I joked about writing after one of her break-ups would be way more effective. A no fuss, precise, shooting straight from the hip self-help guide with the catchy little title You’re Fucked, You Know You’re Fucked, and There’s Nothing You Can Do About It . Anyway, the common piece of advice I’m reading right now is breathe, breathe, breathe. So that’s what I’m doing. I’m breathing.
    BOOFHEAD
    Alright, people. Welcome.
    He’s speaking. Maybe my sister’s right. He looks like he needs to burst out of that closet before he gets too big for it. He’s wearing Stovepipe jeans, Converse trainers, a communist cap, and God help us all, a cowboy shirt. But what’s that I spy under the cowboy shirt? His old T-Shirt. The one he bought from the nice guy in the valley. It’s a simple black and white one bearing a sketch of Jesus, emblazoned with “I found Jesus. He was behind the sofa the whole time.” I like that T-Shirt.
    BOOFHEAD
    I need to start today by thanking you all for participating in this project and I have to say how privileged I feel to have such an immensely talented cast working with me.
    And so it begins, and will continue for the next four weeks. One of the bonuses of being the playwright is that by the time the rehearsal process has begun, your job is pretty much over. You’ve toiled over the computer keys and now you listen and watch as the company of actors and director bring it to life. There is no expectation I will attend rehearsal every day. I can pop in and out at will. A relief, given that Boofhead is the director. Seems every arsehole ex-husband has a silver lining.
    BOOFHEAD
    Okay people, before we embark on our first reading of the work, I’d like to talk a little about the play, the production and my vision for the work.
    Theatre types always like to call plays “the work” or “the piece.” Saying “The play” is, apparently, too literal. He drones on in excess of fifteen minutes about his concept of theatre. He talks about audiences viewing a play through a metaphorical window. I was impressed the first time I heard this, but less impressed when I realised it was one prong of what is essentially only a two-prong philosophy about theatre.
    BOOFHEAD
    An audience can only view one scene at a time. They’re looking through the window and we’re deciding what they see.
    Because they have no mind of their own. How bloody arrogant. I hope I didn’t say this aloud. Nah, no one seems to be reacting so I think I’m safe, although I’m buggered if anyone can read thought bubbles.
    I digress. Back to Boofhead and his “philosophy.” Today, because I’m looking at him through a prism of abandonment and resentment, it seems to me that the basic premise of his theatre philosophy is that he’s a genius and everybody else is a cretin. He will either make it