bingo
When she spoke, whenever she spoke dust flew from her mouth. All grey. Her mouth issued grey cascades. Like solemn jet streams around people. Or like murmurations, drenching people in her weather system. She looked permanently as though she was just about to defend herself. She looked permanently itchy. She looked permanently liked she needed you to just make it easier. OK? Just a bit. You know? She said she was here because she just felt tired. She was here because she felt tired. She felt some other things too. Jenny.
He didn’t give a fuck. He’d never given a fuck. And he wasn’t gonna start giving a fuck now. Not for you, or them, or anyone. He was fuck-less. A fuck-free zone. Sans fuck. All outta fuck. A fuck desert. A fuck vacuum. Only he did give a fuck. A really massive fuck. Like the biggest fuck you can give really. Like such a massive fucking fuck that he’d spent his whole life so far — like every single bit of it, every single inch — proving how little of a fuck he gave. That’s quite a fuck. But if you took away his actual fuck he might actually be really fucked so for now he is holding on to not giving a single, solitary fuck. Tony.
Puns. She spoke almost exclusively in puns. Well, that’s an exaggeration. But she did try to get at least one pun into every conversation. Like every single one. She didn’t wink or waggle her tongue at the side of her cheek when she did it mind. She wasn’t an amateur. She found people who didn’t pun or groaned when she punned hateful. Not just annoying or disappointing or boring but actually hateful. It was as though their rebuke brought together all that was wrong with the world. Their blankness or derision said it all. Said there was no meaning. Said there was no joy to be had. Said that fun was a distraction. Said she wasn’t here. Said she wasn’t here. Said she wasn’t here. Said she was not here. She was not her. No one. Yolanda.
There was a bowling ball inside her chest. It rolled around and sometimes sank down into her womb or heaved inside her stomach or lower back. Wherever. It was always there. It had been put there about twenty years ago she thinks. Maybe a bit more It just hefted its ways around her and with her. Day in. Day out. She wanted to carve it out. Sometimes she thought she could breathe it out or draw it out or run it out or talk it out or drug it out or fuck it out. She couldn’t though, could she? It always boinged back up. So, now, it just stayed and she accommodated it. Drew a face on it. Called it a name. Gave it ways. Habits. Quirks. This helped. She’s hoping there will be other lead balls with faces drawn on them with names and ways in the room today. She’s hoping you’ve brought yours. Did you? Harriet.
He knows a lot about taxi driving. He’s had all sorts of people and done all sorts of routes so he knows a lot about driving and a lot about people. It makes him mad. Some people. They way they. What they say. How they dress. Their views. They make him mad. They make him feel inadequate. They make him feel like he is a sideshow. But that’s not why he is here. He’s here because she’s dying and he doesn’t know what to do. He’s here because, despite all the kids, she’s really the only thing in his whole entire life that he’s ever loved. And not like in the films. Not like when she brushes her hair all he can smell is lemons and icing sugar. Like in real love. Like sharing a bag of crisps together and always eating the brown ones quickly cos he knows she don’t like them ones and so he doesn’t want her to accidentally eat one and taste the bitterness. And she’s going. And he don’t know what to do. Baz.
His hair is thinning. It was always thin but now it’s thinning. Its long and black and starts mid-way back on his skull. He works hard and washes regularly. His favourite things are like anyone really – star wars and pizza and birds and the countryside. Real ale. Stuff. But it’s the smell. He’d be OK if wasn’t for the smell and he doesn’t know if it is him or everyone else but it all smells like dying and pine. All the time. He sniffs under his nails and it’s there but then he sniffs the pond in the park and it’s the same. Nanas on the bus in front of him on the way to work reek. Children and dogs and road signs and packaging all hum. It is so strong it feels like it gets between his teeth. He has thought about cutting off his nose but then he heard that 45% of smell of taste so does that mean he has to cut out his tongue too? Does it? Can you smell it? Dave.
Right. Shall we begin? Eyes down.
6 pairs of eyes look down.
