This is my blog, I write things here, but not that often.
I also sometimes write on the Clerke and Joy blog and occasionally for the Interval website and have written some things for Total Theatre Magazine. During my project Oh My God I'm Scottish too!! I kept a separate blog that can be read here. Blog blog blog.

Making real noises

November 9, 2016

from a train from Bristol to Chichester, as Donald Trump became president elect

I led a workshop today for some MA students at Chichester University. We talked politick and wrote songs and tried to make real noises. This is a provocation that I wrote very fast and a bit miserably on the train there. 


In 2015 I formed a punk band called the Great White Males for my show Cuncrete. I have always gone to a lot of gigs, and have always wanted to be the lead singer in a band, despite being a bad singer and having no musical knowledge or skill, apart from a brief stint as 3rd flute in the school wind orchestra. I have always enjoyed watching the commitment, or perhaps ‘abandon’ of musicians as opposed to theatre performers. The rawness, the sweatiness, the frankness of music.  I vastly prefer the atmosphere of a gig to that of a theatre show, and had been thinking about what this form might lend us - in the theatre or live art world. What new level of real we might be able to access. No one in the Great White Males can play their instruments, but somehow with these props: a guitar, a bass, a dilapidated drum kit and a microphone; we had the tools to howl out a direct, clumsy, heartfelt noise.

Last night, whilst America went to the polls, Danny and I watched Sleaford Mods play at the o2 Academy in Bristol. It was a rowdy gig, with a mosh pit and people getting kicked out for crowdsurfing, people getting kicked out for ‘getting it out’. I’d say most of the audience were over 30. The Sleaford Mods are often talked about as ‘the most political band since… the clash/the pistols/the specials.’ And obviously that’s not true, but I spent last night trying to work out why people say that. Because there is something …vital feeling about them. Different from (for example) the young Nottingham duo [Cappo] who supported them, who also have ‘political lyrics’. And I think it’s because the Sleaford Mods sound like what they are saying. With ‘Jobseeker’, they somehow make the noise of being at the jobcentre; the particular brand of desperation that goes with that. And Jason Williamson does this sort of orangutang-like dance and it even, somehow, looks right as well. 

This morning on the train here, Donald Trump reached the 270 electoral college votes he needed to become the 45th president of the United States. The woman sitting opposite me - her on her news app, me on mine - exclaimed ‘Oh, fuck’ at the same moment I watched the number tip over. It was such an inadequate noise for the circumstance. I wished someone had started smashing up the train. Wailing. Dancing. And I wondered what would be the right noise. And how we would make that happen.


Producer callout - Cuncrete

May 25, 2016

Role: Producer, part time for Cuncrete at Edinburgh Fringe (Summerhall)
Fee: £900
Deadline: Weds 1 June


Myself (Rachael) and the Great White Males (the finest anti-virtuoso drag king punk band in the world) are looking to work with an experienced independent producer for the Edinburgh Fringe run of our show, Cuncrete, this August at Summerhall.

Cuncrete is a theatre show about concrete architecture and alpha-masculinity. It’s performed by Archibald Tactful, with his house band the Great White Males. We are all women dressed as rich blokes. It’s pretty grotesque, funny in a dark way and very loud. It feels more like a gig than a show.

We’re keen to work with a producer who is A. brilliant and B. who is already going to be up there for the fringe, and has the capacity to take on another show part-time. A lot of the logistical stuff has already been done, so this isn’t a huge project management role; it’s more about having someone on our side whilst we’re there. The fee is £900.

Things we’d like a producer to be doing:

• Inviting venue & festival programmers to see the show, and being the point of contact for them.
• Being the first point of contact for Summerhall during the festival run.
• An element of pastoral care: hanging out with us, coming to see the show, eating lunch with us, drinking with us every now and again.
• Talking to people about the work and making them excited about it.

Who we imagine this producer to be:

• Ideally someone who has seen and likes the show/my work, or really likes the sound of Cuncrete and the Great White Males.
• Someone who will be in Edinburgh during the festival and who has a bit of time leading up to that.
• Someone who has experience producing work at the fringe, and who has their own contacts with venues and festivals.

If having a conversation about this sounds interesting to you, send me an email on before Wednesday 1st June. If we don’t know each other (or even if we do), it would be great to know a bit about you, the kind of stuff you do, why this sounds interesting to you and whatever else you want me to know.

You can find out more about me & my work at

Cuncrete will be on at 10pm in the Summerhall Demonstration Room from the 3rd - 26th August (not 4th, 8th, 15th or 22nd)


Radical planning: research in Swansea

August 19, 2015

from the megabus between Bristol and London

I like researching. I’m not sure that I’m necessarily good at it, in a productive way, but I am a big fan of the internet and the things you can find out on it. And I’m a big fan of books, and libraries, and the big dictionary (Big Dick) that my dad bought me for my 18th birthday, and which tells me the meanings and roots of words, and is much better at it than the internet. And I’m a bit obsessive and I like stories. 

I am also into what I suppose you could call ‘experiential research’  - going somewhere, doing something, and just seeing what happens. How I feel, how I respond. 

The work I make has always relied on a lot of both of these kinds of research - for Volcano it was watching Top Gun, talking to pilots at Bristol airport and learning, properly, how volcanoes work. Braveheart was five months living in Glasgow, interviews with anti-sectarian campaigners and heavy tomes about Scottish history. Being thorough appeals to me, and this new project - Béton Brute, a drag-satire about concrete architecture and masculinity is no different, though the timeline is considerably shorter. 

As is often the case, I started out knowing very little. And whilst the Brutalism Appreciation Society Facebook page has done a lot to educate me, I also knew that I needed to devise a research methodology that would get me up to speed on some of the things I am - brazenly, ill-informedly - talking about. I wanted to find a way of doing this research that was both academic and experiential. Because I feel that there is often a live/real element missing from academic research - it’s pure information - and a corresponding information-lack in what I find out from just being in a space myself. I know this is obvious, but it’s not something I’ve ever tried to directly address before, so seems worth mentioning.

For Béton Brute I have attempted to develop a series of research trips to real places - experiential - with professionals & researchers - information - to tackle this conflict, and for now it feels like a fruitful way of doing things. 

The first of these research trips took place at the end of July in Swansea, with urban planner Jennifer Angus. Jen, who’s based in London and works on the development of the olympic park site, offered to take me to Swansea to show me around. She wanted to take me there because she says it’s a city that she went to as a planner, and developed an affection for, which didn’t match with the way this city is often perceived. That, to me, seemed like a good enough reason to go, so go we did.

I tried not to go with too much of an agenda. I find that when I am spending arts council money on something I often become obsessed with outcome. With the idea of being able to quantify how this Helped Me Make The Show. In this case, however, I’d put money into my budget for the exact purpose of test-running this as a research methodology, and with the admission that - whilst it is important information to have - I might not know how it will work its way in. Still, it’s hard not to feel like you should be making something more obvious. 

We started the day with a long walk from the civic centre - a magnificent/ugly brutalist building on the edge of town, and then along a busy road and into the centre where we checked out various different shopping provisions, the town’s square (“it’s always nice to be beside water”) and a few other quirks here and there including a memorial to a fight, and the near dereliction of the front of the big theatre. I also interviewed Jen so that I could find out a bit more about what planning is, and why she does it. I’d like to thank her every day for the rest of my life for being so eloquent and helpful. After all that Archibald Tactful came out to play, and explored the areas we’d visited in a way much more akin to how I might look at a space as a solo artist on a field trip (but in drag, obviously). 

This was the first of three trips - I’m writing this on the bus to the third one - and it’s been interesting to reflect on how this went, what worked, what didn’t, and what I learnt in the process. I think filming stuff can make it difficult to really have a ‘natural conversation’, and so the second trip was less-filmed, focussing on specific locations instead. 

Overall I came away with a much broader understanding of what planning might mean, and how it affects us in our day to day lives (ie. every second of every day forever). I had a chance to consider the difficulties of predicting the future, and was forced to question and complicate my own know-it-all “everything would be so much better if they just did ____ and ____” attitude. I’m not sure if it’s refreshing or worrying to hear a planner say, “I don’t have all the answers - maybe I don’t have any of the answers”, but it’s good to think about this profession as something that might hopefully be a channel for the public’s needs, rather than a restricting act of bureaucracy. Capitalism isn’t radical but Jen believes that planning can be. 

Many thanks to Paul Samuel White who came with us to film and record our conversations, and has put together the video of our day which you can see at the top of this writing. Thanks also to Jonathan at Elysium Artist’s Studios who allowed us to film our interview in their building.


Just a Girl (originally published on

September 21, 2014

Around 2.45pm every day throughout August in a tiny room at the Pleasance, Alice Roots of all-female performance group Figs in Wigs clenched a microphone between her knees and bent double to speak into it. “Someone described us as ‘very, very silly girls’” she says. “And they were being serious”. In the audience we laughed knowingly. Knowing that it happens, knowing that we’re better than that. Knowing that we would never do that, never say something like that. We get it.

But do we get it? That ‘someone' was a female journalist writing for a national newspaper. Someone who would have been seeing up to eight Edinburgh fringe performances a day. Someone who should be well aware of the waves that young women are making in this scene – someone who should get it. And she’s not the only one. Another reviewer, also female, in the same publication branded me a ‘brave girl’ in a write-up of my show 'How to achieve redemption as a Scot through the medium of Braveheart' just two days later. It was meant as a compliment; it was a nice review. But it didn’t feel like that. Because suddenly, with that one word I was brave despite my age, despite my gender. A kid making a good go of it. No longer a working artist with three years research behind my show. Just another girl who thought, perhaps misguidedly, that she had something to say. That she might be able to do this.

This year’s fringe was full of strong, smart women with something to say, and the articulacy to say it – I would suggest more than ever before – but again and again I read about these ‘girls’, and it confused me because that’s not what I saw. Whether you like the shows we make or not is irrelevant: because these women are just that – women.

And you may think I’m being picky, that surely, this doesn’t really matter. That there are bigger fish to fry, and I should take my good review graciously and be quiet, but I believe that language is important.

Britney Spears, or her songwriters, asserted that she was not a girl (though, admittedly, also not yet a woman) at the age of 20. My generation did not have this luxury. Graduating in the middle of the worst recession since the 1930s, many of us were girls for much longer than we wanted. We were shop-girls, bar-maids, wait-resses and a league of other depressingly gendered ‘smiling jobs’ that we took to pay the bills. We were also girls in the jobcentre – “you’re a smart girl! Why did you do a theatre degree?!” – and girls who had to move back in with our parents. Well I don’t want to be a girl anymore. I’m bored of smiling. Now I want to talk.

In a culture where artists can still feel like the bottom of the art-world pecking order – delicately negotiating relationships with venues that might book us and journalists that might give us a nice review – I’m worried that we’re not talking enough. And I think there are conversations we need to have.

Let’s at least start those conversations with the right word.


This article was originally published on Funny Women, The UK's leading female comedy community.

Photo by Josephine Joy


Revelling in mongrellness

May 26, 2014

from Bristol

When I was a kid, America was cool. It was cool, in the playground, to tell people that my mum had grown up in North Carolina and I had a sequinned baseball cap with stars and stripes on it which was my most prized possession. I never told people that my dad grew up in England from the age of nine. At home I wasn’t ashamed because it was just a fact, but it took a long time for me to admit that fact in public.

I think I have always worried about being illegitimate as a Scot. Long before I knew what illegitimate meant, long before any child should care about where they come from; about nationality or identity or belonging. But these things are somehow ingrained and difficult to get away from. Is this particularly true in Scotland? I don’t know – you only get one chance at growing up, one experience of that, and that’s where that happened for me.

Kids are mean. I remember kids with Engl-ish parents & Engl-ish accents being beaten up in the playground at primary school. I didn’t have an English accent: no one needed to know about my murky heritage.

Here is a family tree of the family that I have known during my almost twenty four years on this planet, and their accents.

The bits in orange are identifiers of mongrelness, I suppose. I’m proud of these bits. I believe in moving, adventuring, changing, accepting people. I also believe in resisting rules that say we should be one thing or the other: I struggle with yes and no, gay and straight, good and bad. They don’t always work for me, these binaries.

I’d be sad to lose the ability to use the word British. If you look at the above diagram, it explains well why I feel like it’s the most accurate word I can use to talk about where I am from, or what my nationality might be. This must be true for so many of us; I bet most people I know have far more complicated ‘accent-trees’ than this. And I know these things don’t really matter, but I want a non-specific word to describe who I am. A muddy word, an ambiguous word that doesn’t give too much away. That gives you an idea but that can still mean many things. I like the fact that we are never, even as the people who live here, very sure of the differences between countries and nations – what those words mean, whether Britain is the country I’m from or Scotland is. Are they both countries? I revel in this confusion because it leaves space for me to decide what I want to be, where I want to be. (Am I making any sense here?)

Last night I sat 14 people around the table in my dining room for a Clerke and Joy Indian feast, and as the night wore on, many beers and curries in, we began to check the European election results coming in. It became addictive, we became worried as UKIP rose through the ranks to claim their ‘earthquake’ of a result. I’ve always thought of earthquakes as a bad thing and feel no different today. Regarding the effect of this on Scotland – a yes vote seems surer than ever today and I feel, still, conflicted about this.

Part of me thinks, fuck it. Why wouldn’t I want Scotland to have a chance to do something different from all this because it’s so shit it makes me angry and lost and disempowered. I can’t blame anyone for wanting out. I can’t blame them at all. I want out. I also want more democracy and I think the referendum offers that, whatever the outcome – a binary vote does give people power, and god knows we need some reassurance that we can implement change. Now more than ever. But another part of me doesn’t want the solution to be another border, and doesn’t want to lose my mongrel identity. Doesn’t want Scotland to run away (but why should they stay?) When I was up in Scotland a few people dismissed these trepidations as romantic, and I never know if I’m being stupid and selfish or if they matter. It hurt though, to be brushed aside as romantic. They matter to me, but have little bearing on the future of Scotland. (that’s probably why I don’t get a vote – living in England makes me more concerned about independence’s potential personal effect on me than perhaps, as it should, on the country/nation/place/whatever). But there is, undeniably, a huge emotional stake in this vote.

I don’t know what to think.

On a side note: all of the yes campaigners on my facebook feed seem to have lost their sense of humour and that worries me too. (Please don’t try to persuade me, either – I’m happy to muse for the moment and it’s not worth the effort because I can’t vote.)

It’s undeniably an exciting time. I don’t quite know how I managed to go from sparkly hats to the referendum by way of accents, but I think these are all linked somehow.

I’m just trying to keep writing things so that hopefully I have something to put in the show.

Congratulations if you got this far. I might not even go back through and edit this. Bad ass.


correction: my dad's family moved south in 1965, not 1967


‘Will we still be allowed to talk about the weather?’, and other questions. A week in the studio.

May 6, 2014

from Edinburgh

Greetings from Edinburgh. Today the sun is out and later today I will venture on adventure-in-car, without driving instructor, without parent, for the first time ever. We’re going to Menie, to visit Donald Trump (my fav), but before I start this – phase 2 – of the R&D for the Braveheart show it seems like a good idea to try to summarise phase one. Or, the last week, as it’s more commonly known. For the clarity of my brain, if no one else’s.

Firstly (no big surprise) working on one’s own is difficult. A studio feels big, and although both dancing around, and writing at a desk feel OK, anything in between feels almost impossible. Talking, for example. I hadn’t really thought about this before, and when I do squeeze words out my voice seems rusty and not used to it.

I’ve been being Alex Salmond most of the week, and working with recordings from radio and youtube as starting points. His Desert Island Discs choices are good material, as is this excellent speech, which echoes the classic Braveheart Freedom speech a terrifying amount. I’ve done lipsyncing, dancing, recreating and a lot of watching and listening, and I have to keep telling myself that this is all useful. Or that it will be. Or that it might be. Somehow. Right?

And the doubt seeps in: Is it enough to just grub my face up and draw some big eyebrows on? I felt validated when this photo got a lot of facebook likes, but it’s not exactly an hour long show.

As soon as Monday was over I spent the rest of the week waiting for Friday, when Hitch came in to help me with what I was making. It was great to play with another person and although I feel scared about letting anyone else in to my chaotic process, it was really helpful. This is a list we made of what we’d made & talked about that day. It was really nice not be in the studio on my own.

Kirsty Young vs Alex Salmond
Promising anything
Walking from the belly
We could have been anything that we wanted to be: Bugsy Malone lap-dance
Just talking, as Rachael, whilst dressed as Alex Salmond
How can I make you vote yes/entertain you?
Being a cliché of Scotland – Nicola, can you get me an Irn Bru?
Scotland becoming self employed
Promises for tomorrow’s show
Intuition fees
Tiff with girlfriend
Boy Soprano
The ‘aye’ campaign
Exit with phone playing music
Standing on a chair with music, bedraggled?

This week was also a time for meeting with people, and placing myself back within Scotland. Here is another list, people I met with:

Dave Scott from Nil by Mouth, Scotland’s anti-sectarian charity
Laura Doherty, who studied at Dartington/Falmouth and is now a pro-Yes campaigner and SNP member
Rachel Thain-Gray from Glasgow Women’s Library, who is currently working on a project called ‘Mixing the Colours’ about women’s experiences of Sectarianism.
My brother, Joe.
My friend Kristina.
An auld bloke in the street who talked to me about Scotland and the deer population at 2 in the morning.
Rosaria Votta from Engender, a feminist organisation based in Edinburgh
My Grandma, who is also my housemate at the moment.

I have run out of time to write this! Oh no! I have to get in the car now and not crash, or at least manage to get out of my mum’s street without crashing. (but preferably get all the way to Aberdeenshire too).

Two lists and a couple of moans.

I’m looking forward to this week.

I think it’s all going to be ok, eventually, this project.

Here is a picture of me driving over the forth road bridge yesterday (!! this is such a new thing) and a video of Alex Salmond dancing to the Proclaimers. If you are friends with me on facebook this will all be old hat – apologies.

R x



Harry Clerke's hands

March 3, 2014

from Bristol

To me they’ve always been old (but I know they were young once) – these big hands with veins running through them that somehow pumped blood until so recently, even though he didn’t want them to for a while yet.

The last time I held them, we talked, then he slept, then I said goodbye. It was the last time even though there could have been another. Because there was another miraculous recovery, piled on another and another that stretched from the age of seven to ninety four and a few hours.

And I shouldn’t be sad because that body was so tired of pumping blood through those hands, but on his ninety fourth birthday I promised a friend (who had worked in a care home and held many old hands), that I’d take a photograph of these ones that I’m so fascinated by, and now I can’t. I liked to know he was there.

There’s a photo of me, aged three, held between his hands and Nana’s – we’re on a train platform in the sun and I’d been swinging between his and hers. I imagine they were different then.

Recently the skin was see through and the veins black and large, but the fingers still wound around mine – the familial resemblance – twenty three and ninety three but both with long fingers that might have been good for playing the piano if either of us could, but were nevertheless so good for holding on to: on train platforms, at home, in the street and then, for the last while, next to his bed.

And it’s hard not to wonder if my hands will look like that when, if, I am ninety four. And I hope they will, and I hope I’ll still remember his and be glad of getting that far.



Fortnight writing #6 - Honesty

October 29, 2013
from Bristol

Sixth piece of fortnight writing. The subject - 'honesty' - was given to me by Stephanie Brotchie, an Australian artist, producer, writer, and idiot currently based in London. Thanks to Paul White for sending me the photograph that I have written this piece about.

I'm now taking a fortnight holiday from fortnight writing as Clerke and Joy are taking our show
Volcano on the road.


This is me.

It’s probably the most ‘attractive’ I’ve ever looked given the circumstances. The circumstances being that all of the things I am generally self-conscious about are on show.

1.     I am more or less in profile, which accentuates both the bump on my nose and my slightly harsh jawline.

2.     Also that inbetween hair, undecided length

3.     I have a small spot to the right of my mouth, which is where I still develop small spots.

I like the fact that I am wearing the number 42 – I grew up in a household where that was the answer to life, the universe and everything long before I had ever heard of Douglas Adams and the hitchhikers guide. It is my mother’s favourite number. I am my mother’s favourite (and only) daughter.

The eyebrows took ages, but I’m happy with how they turned out.

It’s summer and my freckles are out.

This photo has attained 58 facebook likes in the 24 hours since I made it my profile picture. This is more ‘likes’ than any other photograph of me has ever achieved. There are 1303 phtographs of me on facebook, so on a very simple level we can assume that this photo ranks number 1 out of 1303.

People who facebook like this photograph:

Siannie Moodie
Ria Jade Hartley
Alice Caitlin Eagle

Hazel Terry
Joe Clerke

Eleanor Fogg
Jude Moñey

Frau Kah
Michael Wolchover

AnnaMaria Pin
Sarah Kate Jones

Maya Lucas Livingstone
Anna Sinfield

Silverley Allen
Sarah Hudson

Lucie Crystal
Jonathan P'ng

Hannah Dean
Mel Shearsmith

Jennifer Rose Evershed Hayward
Isabella Amy Shirley-Miller

Claire Adams Ferguson
Yahya Abdullah

Tish Afshar
John Colinharold Valenciadevalence

Eli Duggan
Rosanna Hall

Marja Verde
Emma Downie

Juniper-Rose Eilidh McDougall
Bee Daws

Delia Spatareanu
Elizabeth Baxter

Louise 'Jam' White
Ben Crowden

Nina Kareis Livingstone
Jo Hellier

Katie Carmex
Grace Nicol

Malcy Russell
Alex Varley-Winter

Catarina Aimée Dahms
Jenni Fletcher

Kate Downie
Lola Rodríguez

Emily Granozio
Annelies Puddy

Cara Guineapig Davies
Theo Lamb

Kayleigh Fellows
Kim Moore

Antony 'Alfie' Pothecary
Abby Butcher

Jamie Reibl
Virginia Gillard

Helen Elizabeth Rae Cheshire
Rachael T Borthwick

Jess Williams

This is not me. This is a photograph of someone else.


Fortnight writing #5 - Cola Cubes and Cherryade

October 17, 2013
from Bristol

Fifth piece of fortnight writing, and again it's late, which suggests my deadline/system isn't working very well. Either that or I'm just busy, or lazy. Maybe all these things. This subject - 'cola cubes and cherryade' was given to me by Mel Quayle, who was my English teacher at high school in Edinburgh between 2002 and 2007.


Maybe it’s perfect. You take the cola cube – or 'Kola Kube' – out of it’s paper bag and put it (trepidatiously? keenly? slowly?) into your mouth. The flavour, not experienced for 25 years now, is the same. It tingles, sour at first, then settles – sweet – as the sugar disintegrates and the cube (Kube) gets smaller until it’s gone. And you’re ten again.

Maybe it’s perfect.

On the other hand, it might not be worth it. Might be disappointing, make you feel nothing. Maybe there is no transportation or reminiscence or... anything. Just another lump of sugar confined to your childhood that should stay there. It doesn’t do to overwrite the memory with this, and you’re full of regret. Perhaps.

It’s difficult when your nostalgia gets shattered.

I’ve never tried a cola cube. I don’t think much about cherryade, but I think I don’t like it. Are these memories of yours? What are they?

I wonder if, like the accents of those I spend time with, I could assimilate your nostalgias if only I knew more about them. What happens when we inherit other people’s memories, yearnings – something of their childhood? A past life where we weren’t present.

Or is that just empathy?

A memory:
Vast expanse of grass. A café to eat ice creams in. A monkey puzzle tree. My brother and I: 8 years old, 4 years old.

And then you go there and the shitty lawn is dried out and can never have been any other way. The café shut. The monkey puzzle tree – well, it was never there in the first place. Somewhere else, perhaps. And I don’t feel better in the knowledge.

I have a memory about cherryade too:
We’re twelve – at a friend’s house for a sleepover. We dare each other. Eat: Pringles with: chocolate, peanut butter, toothpaste, dipped in bright pink fizz. We are sick. It is hilarious. We stay up all night.

I don’t think much about cherryade, but I think I don’t like it.

(I think I’d still like you if we met again.)


Fortnight writing #4: The limits of imagination

October 1, 2013
from Bristol

Fourth piece of fortnight writing (a day late). The subject, 'the limits of imagination' was given to me by Sean Clark, a guitar-maker based in Bristol.


Dear Sean,

I have a confession to make.

My imagination, it’s limited. 

There is nowt that I can see without first seeing. 

And now I am unsure of how to spend this minus time available – for I have wasted these past weeks in deep concentrated

want to remember my imagination,

But I can’t.

And ‘stead of scrawling scientific brain synapse facts re. dreams for you

I’ve felt I should be conjouring:

Of lands I’ve never been to

people I’ll never meet, a place
where trees smoke cigarettes, perhaps

and bananas have replaced ears…

or something like that.
And yes, I’ve learnt a lot from nonsense poets but –

to conclude –
I do not dream of things I have not known for fact or read in books.

(so we must read books, after all)

Because the thoughts I first suppose are new and never seen before turn out repeatedly to be a

of the stuff I’ve seen and maybe even touched.

And now I think about it
that man in the tree-costume (green face),

drum blue, tired eyes.

Or a baby adding food to fill the orifice in the side of it’s head is not so strange,

after all,

is it,


And yes,
it’s disappointing


to know that my
imagination is limited.

But I’m dealing with it, OK?
I’ll let you know how I

get on.
Speak soon,



© Rachael Clerke 2011-2016

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