In the heaving, sunshine-showery day, out on Quay Street, we jostle to be seen, to be heard. A pair of aul shawlies and Buachaill Deas. 'Come and see our play'. 'Four o'clock today, tomorrow and Friday'. 'One o'clock all next week.' 'Except Wednesday'. Darren shoughs the dudeen and charms the cailins. We dance a jig. Emma tries to light a fag and is continuously told by concerned old ladies that smoking is bad for her. We tell passing parents the show is suitable for kids. They size us up. It is! Honest!
Into the venue at half three. The previous show has just finished up. It's going to be tight today. The first audience lingers while we set about setting up. They are hardly gone when pub maintenance arrives and sets about fixing the disco ball. The disco ball? Yes. It spins menacingly. We are still tweaking the show. We shout our lines. The maintenance men shout theirs. Our lights go on strike. Do we have sound? The air is stuffy. We are wearing wool and tweed. God help us. What's the time? Four o'clock. Open the house. Peek through the curtain. There's the audience. Faces from our flyering on Quay Street. Hello.
Time and Space. Keep fighting.
We go up to the launch of NUIG Summer Festival. Emma reads a section from Tara's play: Grenades. Look at that accent! Flawless. Watch that writing! Beautiful. We will follow it like a map.
