Thursday, 12 August 2010
Evenings were an oasis of creativity in the empty desert of labour. I’ve always dedicated evenings to working upon my own material, ever since I was 12 and writing a play about a twelve-year old boy kissing the sexiest girl in his school year (Sarah Stones). This play was never produced, but Sarah Stones told me that it was ‘sweet’ and allowed me a kiss of her cheek. Evenings didn’t feature Macbeth rehearsals. I was told the justification, but now forget. It was probably something to do with poetry readings and that.
This particular evening, mind, I was forced to abandon my writing to fight ants. To keep my artistic oar in, you see, I planned continued work on my astounding script. Vague Blizzard was four years in writing. I would not see it as complete until I was happy that every word was the bestest word that could be used in whatever particular sentence context it was to be used in.
Then came the ants …
Reader, it was an almighty struggle and there were losses on both sides. It was a little after 1115 that I discovered their anty presence and dropped an old Sunday Times (style section first) on my right foot in alarm. The nail of my big toe instantly turned an aggressive shade of purple.
Such pain, of course, was of little concern to me. I had ANTS with which to do battle. Boiling water damaged the kitchen's floor and seemed quick to escape down the crack between fridge and wall. It was, however, most effective in slaughtering the anty buggers.
Vodka was least effective.
I also constructed a rudimentary flame-thrower with a lighter and bottle of deodorant. It didn't kill too many ants, but it sure did intimidate them (you should have seen them tremble on their stupid ant legs). And the kitchen smelt less of old onions.
Ants: I hate them.
Crawling into bed, I didn’t believe that the lightweight barrier of frozen chips would prevent them (ants) from crawling in from the (other) crack in the wall under the window. I knew also that, although there was an inexhaustible supply of water with which to kill them, I couldn’t live with a permanently wet kitchen (I also suspected that the water was seeping into the downstairs flat). There was electricity and stuff. No, the devious bastards.
I decided to visit the Dark Shop in the Arcade and buy WEAPONS OF ANT DESTRUCTION (upon the next occasion of leaving the flat).
‘Ants’, I thought as I pulled He-Man duvet to face. Before submitting to the waves of exhaustion, I scribbled into my bedside notebook:
An idea – Vague Blizzard could feature ants. Perhaps in a symbolic fashion. They could represent Susan’s (the protagonist’s girlfriend) internalised anger at Pete’s (his girlfriend's) late-blossoming homosexuality? The ants could be gouging upon the carcass of a huge dog. Obviously, it being a stage play, the ants wouldn't actually exist per se, but be referred to in snatches of dialogue. eg - "Those ants, Pete. Look at them swarm upon our poor dog."
Posted by Kay Richardson at 09:23