First night.
Curtain up – or in this case across – in an hour and a half.
He climbs to his dressing room, number nine . Shakespeare’s name on the door, his own scratched in black ink on a piece of paper stuck below the brass plaque.
He sits at the table and looks into the mirror, it has been a while.
Thirty-six years.
Should he attempt the prat-fall or not? This thought sparkles at the back of his mind .
He opens a can of cola, he has a bloated stomach and believes its bubbles will ease him.
Probably lead to flatulence on stage though?
A flatulent-fall no less.
He opens his laptop, chooses some music, starts writing and all the lights in the theatre go out.
Was it him?
The only light is from his computer, edging under the dressing room door and struggling to reach the Green Room where he has left the chocolates for the other members of the cast.
The lights come back on.
They go back off.
He decides he should start getting into costume now instead of writing.
In the dark he puts this tights on backward and can hardly breathe.
The Coca-Cola was an error.
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