As we join the extract, Lisa McTaverty, lonely Scottish spinster, is presenting her monologue.   

  

Lisa: I used to have a cat. Roger. This is him here, look. (She shows the needlework, which is a huge piece featuring an extremely badly done black cat) But sadly…well, he’s no longer with us. He walked out on me. Just Lisa McTaverty’s luck, to have a cat with a mid-life crisis. My eyes aren’t as good as they were. There was a time I could sit with my needlework until fully 9pm without the aid of any artificial lighting. But now, every night at eight fifteen, (she glances at her watch) I find I need the aid of my trusty wee lamp.   

She tries to switch on the lamp, but it was broken when it was knocked over. The top is loose and hanging at an angle, and the bulb doesn’t work. She gamely battles on, pretending to switch it on.   

There. That’s better.    

Perhaps it’s time I put this away. Seven months I’ve been working on this glorious tribute, and for what? The wee little bastard couldn’t even be bothered turn up for his supper. Oh, I don’t begrudge him his freedom. I mean, who wants to sit night after night watching an old les…an old spinster doing her needlework?  (She reflects on that) Well, you’d think if anybody would, a cat would. (Sad music filters in) But I’m not bitter. Maybe tomorrow he’ll come back. Yes. Maybe tomorrow.   

She gives a wistful look to end the scene, which turn uneasily to panic as the lights don’t fade to rescue her. It takes a flick of her eyes to the technician to finally cue the lights. As the music fades and the lights come back up, it catches out the actress quickly changing her skirt. The lights dive down again momentarily to hide her blushes. When they come back up, she’s dressed up with a hat on.   

I went into the village today. Can you tell? Everyone was really pleased to see me. “Lisa McTaverty, from across the way — how are you?” They all said. “I’m fine Mrs McDonald” I said, “and how are you?”   

This is the suit I wore the day Roger disappeared. First time I’ve worn it since. Well, there’s been no need. I mean, it’s not every day you go into the village, is it? I needed to stock up on tinned goods, and black cotton. I’m starting work on the tail tonight. Oh, so much to do.   

The music and lights to end scene. When they next fade we see Lisa has hastily put a dressing gown over her suit. She’s forgotten to take her hat off, though. She’s at her needlework once more. She yawns.   

Five minutes to ten. Almost time for bed. (She realizes her hat is still on, and removes it cheesily) This tail is proving much trickier than I thought. What do you think? It’s coming along nicely, isn’t it?   

She shows the needlework. The tail is hugely out of proportion with the body and badly kinked.   

Still no sign of Roger. It’s been fifteen years now. I expect he’s lost his way, poor fellow. Och, I bet he’s really missing his mommy.    

I saw Mr McTavish today. He’s the grocer, in the village. “Well hello, Mrs Taverty!” he said. “Well hello, Mr McTavish!” I replied. Oh, how we laughed. Nice man. No substitute for a cat, mind. But there you go.   

I found this biscuit under the settee tonight. It’s one of Roger’s. It’s a dog biscuit. But he liked them. You can’t get cat biscuits. Don’t know why.   

She examines it, then bites into it. Lights fade to black. Music out.  There’s a longish pause, and then a weary looking adjudicator clambers onto stage, brandishing his clipboard and sporting half moon spectacles. He wipes his brow in mild despair.   

Adjudicator: Late Entry, by David Tristram. Right, where do we start? Well, there is one thing I liked very much about this play — and that’s the fact that it was so short.    

Let me say from the off that I’m not a great fan of monologues per se, and this one didn’t go all the way to changing my mind. The trouble for me with monologues is that they miss out on one of the great dramatic devices, and that’s interplay between characters — there’s no conflict, no contrast — all we have is one character, and if we happen not to like that character, the play’s in big trouble. But tonight I’m not here to judge the play, much as I’d like to, I’m here to judge the production, so here goes.   

Let’s start with the set.    

Er…here it is.  The script calls for a chair, and a table. And a lamp. So I suppose we have to give the production team full marks here for effort. Notice the attention to detail — chair, table, lamp — all three are here. The lamp…okay the lamp didn’t work, as such, but that’s a quibble really. The chair, I thought, er…worked fine. And the table is…er… definitely a good example…of a table. As you can see, it’s tabular in format, and the legs…fine. Sufficient to hold it up. No problems there.   

Music. Opening music was well chosen. It set the scene nicely. For those of you who didn’t notice, it was a track by Cat Stevens, which is quite apposite, really, quite clever…er…given that the script…later makes mention…of a cat.   

Lighting. Good use of the opening spotlight, picking out the actress, centre stage. She wasn’t exactly centre stage at the time, but I thought she recovered that quite well. Blackouts and fades were all well timed, except for a few of them. But, you know… well, festival conditions and stuff — not always easy.   

Grouping. On the whole, fine. We had Mrs McTaverty, the chair, the table, all sort of…grouped.  And this is where an experienced director can make such a difference. You’ll notice that sometimes Mrs Mc Taverty was on the chair, and at other times the chair was underneath, so lots of contrast. And the table, in a sense, anchored the whole piece by…not moving.   

So, let’s get onto performances. Er…performance.    

Lisa…Lisa McTaverty. Sarah Raymond. Very much the central character of the piece. Very much the only character, really, and I think she…er…she dominated most of the scenes. Except possibly the one with the biscuit. I’ll come onto the biscuit later, but actually, I thought overall the biscuit’s performance was nicely understated. And I don’t know if you spotted this but just a subtle echo of Artaud’s Theatre Of Cruelty there, the way it eventually got bitten.   

Good use of the voice — that’s Sarah, not the biscuit — good modulation and control…and we had good use of levels throughout. There were some high levels, and some low levels…and some…level levels. And you’ll have noticed that when she stood up, she was a lot higher than when she sat down, so it made good use of the different, erm…heights, height-wise.   

Now, listen.  (A pause) You see, silence is a tremendously powerful tool in drama, and Sarah used it to great effect at the very beginning of the play. If anything, I thought the prompt came in too early, but that’s a matter of fine judgement.  Maybe the director and I can argue that one out in the bar afterwards. And you know, it’s all too easy for us sitting out there to think, well, how hard can it be to remember that your opening word is “Hello” — but believe you me, it’s a lot different up here under the spotlights., so well done Sarah for err..for remembering that your opening word was in fact “Hello.” Once you’d been prompted.    

Okay, just quickly through some of the other notes I’ve scribbled down here…Good use of the diaphragm — always worth a mention - good cue bite, good rhythm, good modulation and control...    

His delivery disintegrates. He sighs and slumps into the chair.   

I’m sorry. But this is all bollocks. I can’t carry on, I just…I mean, have you ever seen in your life such a load of unadulterated…and utter…bollocks. Excuse my French, but it was just…well, you know, I’m paid to be constructive. Well, here comes some constructive criticism.    

He stands and becomes more animated.   

This…was…shite. I mean, big time, shite. For a start, who the hell is this woman? Lisa McTaverty? A lonely nutter lesbian whose cat has run away rather than be subjected to her inane nightly witterings. And Sarah…where are you, actress Sarah? Well, wherever you are, actress Sarah, listen very carefully, darling, because there’s a bit of a clue in the name of your character here.  McTaverty. Okay? Mc-Taverty - and the fact that she says “Och” and “wee” and “Aye” a lot — I mean, could this character possibly be Scottish? Well, you obviously thought so at the beginning, but after a few minutes, no — you changed your mind. You then decided she was from Ireland, then from Yorkshire, then later on for a few seconds you thought she might be a Geordie, or was it Bristol? I mean, for God’s sake woman…your bloody accent was all over the place.    

Enter Actress, in the background, wearing a wedding dress.   

Actress:  Excuse me…   

Adjudicator: It’s a wonder we didn’t get Welsh. Or can’t you do Welsh? Let me guess, your Welsh comes out as Punjabi.   

Actress: What are you doing?   

Adjudicator: (stopping his rant and noticing her for the first time) What do you mean, what am I doing? I’m adjudicating.   

Actress: Adjudicating what?   

Adjudicator: Where have you been for the last 20 minutes?   

Actress: On stage.   

Adjudicator: Exactly. And that’s what I’m adjudicating. Your play.   

Actress: You’re supposed to do that at the end.   

Adjudicator: No, darling — this is the modern way. Did you not read the rules? In this festival, we adjudicate straight after the performance — that way the piece is still fresh in people’s minds and I can refer to the props while they’re still on stage.   

Actress: But I haven’t finished yet.   

Adjudicator: Trust me, you’ve finished.   

Actress: I haven’t done the second half.   

Adjudicator: You don’t do the second half.   

Actress: Why not?   

Adjudicator: Because, my dear, this is a one half play competition.   

Actress: Who says?   

Adjudicator: The organisers. The rules. Me. The programme. Look. One act play competition.   

Actress: It is one act. I’m only half way through it.   

Adjudicator: Who says?   

Actress: Me. The script.  Look!   

Adjudicator: Sweetheart, I have a copy of every script in this festival, and yours ends…right here… when you bite the biscuit.   

  

The actress pointedly turns his sheet of paper around to show more text on the back.   

  

Adjudicator: Bollocks.   

Actress: Don’t mention it.   

Adjudicator: (flipping the page back) It says “Lights. Curtain.”   

Actress: That’s to give me time to change.   

Adjudicator: You’re not supposed to print scripts on the back.   

Actress: Who says?   

Adjudicator: Common sense. All the rest was on one side.   

Actress: I ran out of paper.   

Adjudicator: Well, tough. It’s not allowed.   

Actress: That’s cobblers…if this was a properly published play it would be printed on both sides of the paper.   

Adjudicator: But it’s not a properly published play, is it?   

Actress: It could be...   

Adjudicator: No, no, lady, no, it couldn’t be, you see. Because it’s shite.   

Actress: That’s just your opinion.   

Adjudicator: I’m the adjudicator. My opinion is fairly important.   

Actress: Oh, listen to the big man from GONADS.   

Adjudicator: It’s GODA. The Guild of Drama Adjudicators.   

Actress: Anyway, you’re not here to judge the play.   

Adjudicator: Who says?   

Actress: You did. I heard you.   

Adjudicator: I didn’t judge it. I just said it was shite.   

Actress: You have no right to let your opinion of the play prejudice my performance.   

Adjudicator: It didn’t. What prejudiced my opinion of your performance was your performance.   

Actress: Why?   

Adjudicator: Because that was shite as well.   

Actress: That’s your favourite word, isn’t it? “Shite.”   

Adjudicator: No. Actually, my favourite word is “sublime”. But I’m hardly likely to get use that bugger much tonight, am I?