I’ve started my writers attachment at The National Theatre Studio, This is my first week of eight.
I’ve arrived late and disorganised. I can’t find a pen to sign in and my bag strap breaks with the weight of all my crap as I dig around for one hiding underneath old tissues and receipts and notebooks and papers. I’m handed a pen.
I’m shown around by Lucy. I have an office. With a window. And a computer which I try to sign into for the first hour of my day before finally giving in and phoning for help.
And then I sit and look at the screen. And the wall. And the window.
And the wall. And the window. And then the screen.
I have a chair, with wheels so I twirl around a bit in that. And then I look at the window. And the wall and back to the screen.
I chew a bit on my pen and then realise it’s the one I was handed at reception. I put the pen down.
Opposite my office is another office. It has a light on and the back of a person in it. The person has a guitar. Again I’m twirling in my chair.
My screen has gone to sleep.
I notice a button on the wall in my office that has no sign around it and I have no idea what it is. I want to press it. I know I should leave it but now I’ve noticed it I have to press it. Nothing happens.
I hear the door open of the office behind me and I turn and see the back of a cardigan leaving the room.
I have a wander. Make a cup of tea. Lots of people are milling around.
The two spaces are full of artists developing ideas. A writer whose plays I’ve bought from Amazon smiles as she passes me. I pass the War Horse office, nose around the archives room, take in the pictures of familiar artists.
Back to my office and look at the screen. I start to write.
P.S. Dirty Protest meets Artes Mundi Thursday 10th Jan
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