The Magnificent Volcano of Exeter


I am in a car being driven across grass, in the distance majestic foliage covered mountains rise, the remnants of the volcano on which exeter is built.

I call for the driver to stop, and I photograph the magnificent view, the sky changes colour to diffuse rainbows, and I photograph that as well.

We drive onto a road, a red brick buttress protrudes into the junction, I comment that this road has changed, the driver, eating, ignores me.

Shops clad in curved silver chrome line this street, yet here they are considered old fashioned.

I sit in a chair. I have been treated like a child for fourteen years, and I am fouty four years old.

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Singing Cheese String Fox Capacitors


I have stayed at Oriana’s place I have go to work, to present a stop motion workshop with Ellie. Walking along, I realise that I’m late, and don’t have my uniform with me. I decide to make for work and hope there’s a spare shirt I can use. Along the way I meet Rob. Everyone we pass delays us in some way. A man asks directions to the mosque, I struggle to remember and he accuses me of a lack of knowledge about his culture and its divorce customs. I remember where the mosque is and tell him which bus to catch. He becomes grateful and sad. He is to be divorced. I hug him and tell him to be strong. We walk on.

Rob has now become a letting agent, I had moved some stuff into a shared house. The last tenant had left it in a mess, and he had come round to repossess stuff. It had a garden, allotments, and tiny, jumping, mice. The rent was reasonable. Walking up the road we were stopped again, a woman who apologised for the delays. She sang her way across the road with a lamp.

We take a wrong turn, and fennec foxes bark at us warily. They become yellow blobs and play with a piece of string I’ve found. Threaded on it, like a necklace of cheese, they sing about being capacitors.

We are in a grand flat. My stuff is there. Huge bay windows and a setting sun. Apparently I have six friends who come to visit, I love it. I turn back and everything is a mess, with cheap furniture and stained carpets. There are people here to repossess it.

I am the bad tenant.

The flat becomes grand again, and lots of people in giant fiesta costumes are dancing. It is a surreal theatre piece.

I am the audience.

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Theatre Angel


I am in a theatre company, the Knights of Honiton. We are on a rooftop Paris terrace being interviewed from the street below. It is inspiring. I am suddenly filled with ideas. Ideas like staging theatre on scaffolding around buildings, theatre in balloons, and something to do with bacon drag racing. I am excited.

People offer me work, but the benefits aren’t as good as what I get now.

I show Mick Voo some large photos of fungal crystals I found in a flower bed. It looks like I’m laying out a stall. A woman is selling a huge bike chain. I think it was jewellery for a giant.

The troupe head off to catch a bus into the big city. I am delayed by a woman who is convinced I’ve left something behind. It is a large flat paper Christmas tree, I thank her for her concern and run for the bus. I can’t believe it when it leaves without me, just before I reach the stop.

Later, having written and completed our performance, I fly into the sky, bouncing on sofas that block the street. I pass a disorganised brass band, and a baroque quartet playing ancient instruments, including tuned ceramics. I enter a building and am guided from behind by a woman dressed in white. I can only see parts of her face, a blue eye, a lock of ginger hair. She’s an angel there to protect me.

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