Samantha Brick's beauty prevents her from having a good time.

Samantha Brick's beauty complicates a simple domestic chore.

Samantha Brick's beauty defies the laws of physics

Samantha Brick's beauty spells disaster when she attends a wedding.

Hard Times.

These are hard times, ladies and gentlemen. Desperate times. I was updating my C.V. the other day. Is there any more depressing chore? Your entire life, every skill, every experience, every achievement, reduced to two exquisitely formatted sides of A4. Agonising over which font to use; you need something which isn’t too fancy but reflects your personality. Calibri? Times New Roman? PAH. These are the fonts of DRONES. Palatino Linotype, Bookman Old Style, BASKERVILLE OLD FACE, something that says that there's a human being at the other end of this document - with thoughts and dreams and aspirations - that's what you need. Painstakingly proofread over and over, even though you know in your heart of hearts of hearts no one is ever going to read it. Because it's all about the punchy little blurb at the top where you define yourself by your key characteristics.

I’m flexible and self-motivated...

I’m diligent and resourceful...

I’m a hard-working individual with a genuine passion for retail / catering / competitive spear-fishing...

Just once in my life I'd like to get a job interview and say "look, I am skint, I am desperate, this is my arse, this is my elbow, just give me some money you pigtards!”

But I've got something very special on my C.V. that I think will serve me very well indeed. I'm going to share it with you in an act of altruism. Let’s be honest, you need it more than I do.

I'll just set the scene.

(A manager opens a link to C.V. He's visibly impressed, murmuring things like "beautifully formatted...excellent choice of font..." etc. He stops, stunned. He picks up the phone, and frantically punches a number)

MANAGER: Jones? Get me the boss man, chop chop. (pause) Sir? I'm sorry to disturb you but it's about this C.V. we've received from one Michelle Thomas. Yes sir...yes sir, she's more than qualified, but that's not it. She says she works well as an individual - I know that's impressive in itself, sir, but wait, there's more -she says she works well as an individual AND…. as part of a team. She's CRACKED THE CODE sir, it’s UNCANNY, how did she KNOW that was exactly what we're looking for? You're right sir, I'll resign and give her my job, she deserves it more.

We need to address the accent.

I know some of you are pondering, calculating. Some of you won’t be able to relax until you know once and for all: is she a scouser? And if so has she had a stroke? No, and no. I am from North Wales – THIS IS NOT IMPORTANT! DON’T LET IT UPSET YOU!

I only bring it up because I had an audition recently.

(- Wow she's an actress as well?

- Yeah, she’s obviously one talented bastard.

- Well, now I’m starting to feel threatened. I can’t compete with that. I’m turning against her, what can this wonderwoman have to say that’s of any relevance to my shit life?

- Wait! Hold your horses. Let’s see what she does next. Maybe she’ll tell a story of self-deprecation, something that’ll prove that really, even though she is a mega talented brain stuck in the beautiful head of a high street honey, she’s just like us shmucks.

-Ok.)

So I had an audition recently. I didn’t really know what I was up for, I was chatting with the producer who told me that:

"Laura is a Cambridge graduate...."

...the window of opportunity narrows slightly…

"...she’s a meteorologist..."

...another weak point I must admit...

"...and she's from the West Midlands."

That's it then. Buggered. I can’t do accents. As previously addressed I can’t even do my own accent.

So I do the audition and she tells me straight away "I'm sorry, your accent's a problem". And I said “fair fucks” (I didn't say "fair fucks" obviously, because I was brought up, not dragged up, but that was the general idea of my response – cheerful acceptance). And if she’d left it there, it would’ve been fine. She didn’t leave it there though did she? No. She explained:

"After all, it’s set in the 1930s".

To which I responded: “Yes of course. How perceptive of you. It’s so obvious now. As we all know there were no Welsh people in the 1930s. No, I remember now, I saw it in a documentary; it wasn’t until the 40s that a few rogue English people started acting a bit weird, speaking exclusively in consonants, making copious amounts of cheese on toast, yes! And then finally King George said ENOUGH! I’M SICK OF THEIR BEAUTIFUL VOICES SINGING ALL OVER ME! I’M SICK OF THEM HOGGING ALL THE DELICIOUS LEEKS! I’M SICK OF HEARING CATATONIA’S INTERNATIONAL VELVET ON REPEAT EVEN THOUGH IT WAS ONE OF THE FINEST ALBUMS OF THE 90S! I’M SICK OF THEM NEVER CLEANING THE GRILL AFTER MAKING THE CHEESE ON TOAST! JUST ROUND THEM UP AND PUT THEM OVER THERE. OVER THERE! THINK ABOUT IT! THINK ABOUT YOUR BEHAVIOUR! WALES – ENGLAND’S NAUGHTY CORNER!

So that's why I'm addressing the accent and that's why I didn’t get that job.

Procrastination in Preston - Boymen Butchers and Aural Physics.

Today was going to be a day of ACTION. Of GETTING SHIT DONE. Of COMPLETING TASKS. But the library didn’t have wifi so I ended up reading six and a half graphic novels. These are:

MIRROR MASK by Neil Gaiman

I Like My Job by Sarah Herman (meh)

Incognegro by Mat Johnson (v. good)

The Adventuress by Audrey Niffenegger

The ACME Novelty Library Number 18 – no other credits, interesting

White Out by Greg Rucka and Steve Lieber (this was the half- it was very good)

Urgh, I’m in Costa. Gwenda’s coffee was better than this stuff.

Why am I such a dick? I honestly think there’s some good stuff in my head, but it’s not going to get out if I keep being distracted by shiny nice things. I picked up The Dylan Dog Case Files but I didn’t get into it because I knew I’d be there all day. I was there all day anyway but never mind.

Around me were a few old men. One of the younger ones smelt a bit funky. Outside the library / museum is where the homeless congregate. A lot of them are ex-army. Around 4pm I became aware of a gentle snore. I tried to identify where it’s coming from but because it’s such an enclosed space and he’s not far away from me – only a couple of shelving units one way or the other – it was quite hard to tell.

HYPOTHESIS OF THE DAY – THE NEARER THE SOURCE OF A SOUND IS TO YOU IN AN ENCLOSED SPACE, THE MORE DIFFICULT IT IS TO TELL WHERE IT’S COMING FROM. If the man was snoring in an airport or a train station for example, I’m pretty sure I could identify where he was. But in that enclosed space, it was difficult. So I investigated. Turned out he was in the corner by the window, surrounded by newspapers with his feet up.

I decided to cook Chris my SPAGHETTI BOLOGNAISE SURPRISE (the surprise is that he’s not expecting it). I also bought him a scratch card. I went to the market to the butchers. There’s a particular butchers I like because it’s where all the boy butchers go to practice being men – allrightLOVEwhat’llitbeLOVEwhatyouavingforyourteaLOVEthereyagoLOVEcheersLOVE. It’s very sweet. I buy a pound of mince. The boyman asks me whether I’ve just finished work. I say I’ve just left the library. He asks me – what do you do there then, just sit there all day and read books? His enquiry is one of genuine curiosity, I detect no scorn or judgment in his voice, but I feel guilty – I’ve been sitting on my arse reading about a girl who lives in a caravan which is covered in her drawings and one day she falls asleep on the roof and wakes up INSIDE one of her drawings where some people are made of books and some people are half-book-half-cats and she’s got to defeat the evil princess WHICH TURNS OUT TO BE HERSELF trying to defeat HER to get away from THE EVIL QUEEN and he’s been up since 4.30am barehand wrestling cows and skinning them and mashing their flesh for me to chuck in a pan with a shop-bought sauce. I say yeah (sheepish) hasn’t been a very productive day, and buy another pound of mince by way of apology for being shit.

Copy for The Opera Group's Bow Down

“There were two sisters who will die, One drowns wet and one drowns dry”

The Opera Group in association with London Sinfonietta will present Bow Down in Summer 2012. This macabre folk tale, originally devised in 1977 by Harrison Birtwistle and Tony Harrison, Bow Down is redevised by Frederic Wake-Walker in his directorial debut for The Opera Group, and brought to percussive and visceral life by nine young interdisciplinary performers.

A Blind Harpist recounts a sinister tale of thwarted desire, unnatural betrayal and violent jealousy. When the Fair Sister is courted by the Suitor, the Dark Sister commits a terrible act of betrayal. As her crime echoes through the land and through the ages, so she receives bloody retribution in the parable’s brutal conclusion.

Evocative of the narratives of Grimm, Federico Garcia Lorca and Sarah Kane in its exploration of repression, sex and death, this ancient murder ballad – of which numerous variants exist in Britain, Scandinavia and America – is reimagined for a diverse contemporary audience.

http://www.theoperagroup.co.uk/?p=1476

How to make domino spirals out of 1000 hardback books.

From naked bike rides to an unusual version of dominos via the mysteries of gaffa tape, arts graduate Michelle Thomas fills us in on what she's learnt from her placement at an opera company through the DCMS/Jerwood Creative Bursaries Scheme.

Eight months. Blimey.

Eight months since I arrived in London with a suitcase, a friend’s floor to sleep on and a new job: Creative Associate at The Opera Group.

Having earned my degree in Theatre Practice in 2009 and spending the following year in Bristol concentrating on my own work and collaborating with numerous companies and artists, I: a) needed a full time job – a priority I shared with some 40,000 unemployed graduates at that time; b) needed a full time job that I didn’t actively dislike (ditto); c) wanted to move to London.

Reasons why the role of Creative Associate at The Opera Group feels tailor-made for me

• I’m being paid to do something I enjoy and have previously done for free.
• I feel this role will help me continue to find creative work that I am good at and that I enjoy.
• It gives me the opportunity to make a genuine contribution to new and exciting work.
• I got to move to London! The Capital! Just around the corner from The London Eye and Big Ben and The Queen!

I have done so much in so little time. I helped produce my first opera, Save the Diva, within two months. I have toured the country twice - once with two shows simultaneously. I have been inspired, scared, thrilled, perplexed, frustrated, proud and occasionally been so busy I forgot to breathe.

Some Truths I Have Learnt

• A helium balloon must be at least 5 inches in circumference before inflation in order to float.
• It is acceptable to carry a spear on public transport as part of a Valkyrie costume as long as it is covered up and “not used in a threatening or provocative manner”.
• Microsoft Excel is a harsh mistress to the uninitiated.
• One particularly surreal day at the office involved arranging bouquets in the room next to where theatre and film director Ian Rickson was holding auditions for Ophelia. I'd hoped he’d take my being there doing what I was doing as a sign that I should be given the role. He didn’t. Fair enough.
• Due to a happy scheduling coincidence, I heroically stage-managed Save the Diva at an unusual event without giggling or crying.
• If it moves when it shouldn’t: Gaffa Tape. If it should move and doesn’t: WD40 – Techie Wisdom

How to make domino spirals out of 1,000 hardback books

“Ok folks, the books needs to be roughly equidistant, with the spines facing the audience. If the book’s even a tiny bit wobbly, get rid. It’s too big a risk, and there are plenty of spares – we’ve got the complete works of Danielle Steele back there. No, no, no – look, that gap’s far too big, that book won’t hit that book and the whole thing will just grind to a halt.

"Corners are tricky – use lots of light, thin books to minimise the risk of failure – heavy ones are harder to topple. Use the heavy ones at junctions - I favour the encyclopaedias but the big books of Scottish law are also good - but you need to make sure there’s a chunky book before it to make sure it goes.

"No, no, stay away from there, that bit of the stage is particularly springy and I’ve already built that row three times. Right, keep an eye out for five prop books. They’re the ones with singed edges. Ooh, speaking of which, when you’re building the table out of books, be careful not to block the trough where the flame paste goes. Yes, all these books have been flambarred, that’s what that chalky residue is. Make sure you wash your hands afterwards.”

(Making the set for Seven Angels)

More truth

During my time on this placement, I have accepted what I have known for a long time: that I need to make my own work as a theatre practitioner.

I have been inspired by watching John Fulljames, co-founder of The Opera Group and now Associate Director of Opera at theRoyal Opera House, in the rehearsal room, and in my meetings with my mentor David Harradine, Artistic Director of performance company Fevered Sleep. I showed him my work (shyly) and he has given me so much encouragement and support I feel bound to commit myself to create, make and to do.

It’s difficult for me to articulate how much I’ve benefitted from this placement – because it doesn’t feel like one. To the credit of my employers, at no point have I felt like a trainee, or a student, or anything other than an employee – a professional - at a definitive stage in her career. I am the sum of my experiences, and my time at The Opera Group has been a significant one. Personal experience informs creative endeavour, and the lessons I have learned at The Opera Group – as stage manager, a producer, and researcher – will absolutely guide me in the choices I make as a freelance practitioner.

Rosie's Lament

Have you ever stolen anything? A sweetie? Some nail varnish? A magazine tucked under your arm? I stole a man once. I stole a husband. I stole him softly and sweetly. Whisper by whisper. Gaze by gaze. I held his hand under the table. He made me skin shimmer and my blood sparkle. He called me his little ruby. And now the guilt seethes in my belly like a snake pit. I don’t have much to say. There’s nothing to say. And there’s nothing to do except slip away quietly. The Middleton Players are a very well-respected troupe. Mr Middleton has his pick of young actresses, I’m sure he’ll have no trouble replacing me. I’m sure it isn’t the first time that something like this has happened and I’m quite sure it won’t be the last. I didn’t think it wrong. I didn’t think at all. It was as though it had already happened. But I did feel. Yes. I did feel. For him. It wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t a means to an end. But this is the end.

Past Triumphs.

I've just finished rooting through a big stack of my writing from when I was a nipper. I started when I was around 12, and, oddly, filed it away in chronological order. When I was 13 / 14 I was obsessed with CD inlays. The first thing I did was go to the bit where bands said thanked everyone - starting with God (I listened to a lot of ring wing American pop - Backstreet Boys, NSYNC et al) then working their way down through their fellow band members, managers, families, secret girlfriends, then finally, the fans. So I started writing my own. This is one of them, from around that time (1998/9). It's written with a purple felt pen, and at this time I dotted my "i"'s with a circle. Not a heart. I had some class. I am not proud. LLOYD - Thank you for being the funny, sweet, serious, flirty, punishing, draining, exhausting, magical person you are, and always will be in my eyes. I love you baby. Now. Now then. I told you I wasn't proud. Now although this is a bit cringey, it's mostly pretty harmless, and a little bit sweet. Except that: a) I'm a bit worried about the fact that my 13 year-old self would thank someone for being "punishing" a) It both reveals and explains my lonely weirdness around that time. c) I have no idea who Lloyd is. This person, then boymanlove, this epicentre of my being for at least the amount of time it took me to write this down. Nothing. Nada Another highlight from my research was a agonizingly long, painstakingly hand written in double writing It's called Strangers and the title is followed by the subheading "For Omagh" The year was 1998. It will not be appearing here.

This is what happens when I try to cook.

Poetry. Philosophy. Failure. (October 2009)

We witness dawn and dusk

and observe the way that transitional periods transform the topography of a small seaside town:

Fleetwood becomes Goa;

Blackpool, The Seychelles;

Silverdale, Bali.

And when the sun is gone the sea’s undulations echo in the warm and pulsating mist, so heavy you could cup it in your hands and carry it home.

Earthly and unearthly.

Glorious and transient.

This is what the Scots call a “thin place” – a thin line between this world and the next.

It is a place to sit on the rocks and name the flowers.

It is a place utterly bereft of cynicism and irony.

It is a place infused with the scent of wild garlic and honeysuckle.

It is a place not to notice nuclear police carrying machine guns

or the dark and infinitely miserable stories that such places have to hide.

We have learned that fairies are real.

We have learned that God is love.

We have learned about temptation and denial, about gardens we weren’t allowed to play in and dogs we weren’t allowed to stroke.

We have learned how to break windows.

We have learned how to climb rocks.

We have learned to protect our skin.

We have learned when to accept and when to decline.

We have learned that our regrets follow us to the grave and beyond.

We have learned about poetry, philosophy and failure.

I feel like a secret (2009)

This is a thought, planted here for you to find.

Nant is the Welsh word for stream

Copper-bottomed pool

The first feather

Stones like doubloons on a treasure trail

The world vibrates, hums and communicates

Walk until the earth gives way to water, stone and mud

Find precious gems in the streams and pools – amber, rubies,emeralds.

Cloudspotting in the mud

Feathers and stones

Shades of green - Lime, Pistachio, bottle emerald, jade olive sea asparagus army fern forest moss myrtle pine

Read the colours

Perfect isolation

Hanging vines and broken stiles

The second feather

What kind of wind is this?

Have you found the holly bush?

You are free to ignore or respond

Four tiny flowers

Sour berries

The closed path is infinitely more interesting than the open one.

Why is there a plastic bench in a forestry?

Sit on Sheila Eckhart’s bench and look at where the trees used to be

Chirrup Chirrup chirrup

Shades of yellow: mustard, gold, amber, canary, green, lemon,saffron

Shades of orange: Carrot, pumpkin, rust, brown, terracotta, tangerine

Shades of Red: Burgundy, Cerise, Chesnut, Crimson, Fuschia, Fire Engine, Magenta, Maroon, Rose, Ruby, Scarlett

Birth and decay

Feather and rock

Skin and bone

Fern and thistle

Did you see?

Stains of the juices

Graveyard for the birds and squirrels

Trust immediate responses

The Little Girl Who Worried (2010) (unfinished)

There was once a little girl who was very worried.

She worried that her mummy and daddy would die.

She worried that she didn't have any friends.

She worried that her teachers thought she was stupid.

She was even worried about being worried all the time, which was very worrying.

She decided to write down all her worries, great and small, on little pieces of paper, and make paper aeroplanes out of them, so that she could throw her worries far, far away.

So she did.

There was a big pile of paper aeroplanes by the time she finished, because, as you know, she had lots of worries.

She wrote on one that she was worried that her clothes weren't as nice as the other little girls' clothes.

She wrote on another that she was worried that her chin stuck out like a witch's.

She wrote on another that she was worried that her feet smelt.

She had so many worries that the worry monster came.

It was a big ugly brute, made of all the secret worries that everyone has but doesn't tell anyone. And now he was stood in front of the little girl.

Which was worrying.

The little girl threw a paper plane at the worry monter. It flew like a dart into his eye. It roared in agony and stumbled (half) blindly backwards. The little girl kept throwing paper planes at the monster (and there were loads) and each sunk into it's flash as though it were rotting fruit until it was a pulpy dead mess. Then the little girl cleaned up (there wasn't much work, most of the goo had soaked into the paper), and she never worried again.

The End.

This is a place (2009)

Here are some nettles

Here are some stones

Here is some grass

Here is a wall

In these pictures you can’t hear the wind roaring

Or feel it shoving at your back

Winds that shatter walls and break necks

Winds that wail like feverish children

Winds that seethe and hiss

Winds like a Mother’s insistent “Hush”

Winds like a lover’s breathe on your neck

Winds like a hand at the small of your back guiding you to where you should have been all along

This is a place where the words fall silent in your mouth

This is a place to stand and stare agog

This is a place where you will be kept warm and sheltered

This is a place where all you need is provided for you

This is a place where you’re allowed to feel sad or disappointed

This is a place where you’re allowed to feel alive with the sunshine in your veins

This is a place where there is comfort in your insignificance

This is a place where you touch the bark and smell the grass

This is a place where dead leaves cluster at your feet

This is a place where everyone should come

This is a place where the cushioned ground rises to meet you

This is a place to cast spells

This is a place to collect stones, pine cones, leaves and sticks

This is a place where green meets yellow

This is a place to collect white heather for luck

This is a place where you won’t understand the signposts

This is a place to play hide and seek

This is a place to wear a green coat and disappear into the trees

This is a place where the trees are taller than the tallest man

This is a place people will write songs about one day

This is a place where you could fall asleep for a hundred years and when you woke up everything would be the same

This is a place to be a solitary shadow, insular and content

This is a place to be a mirror for other people to look into

This is a place where you close your eyes and the backs of your eyelids are green

This is a place where you can see the world

This is a place you can get to anywhere from if you have enough time, money, a map, a good pair of boots, accommodation when you need it and a good grasp of the local language

This is a place your father came to once

This is a place to remember that you are young

This is a place to remember that one day you will be old

This is a place to remember that one day you will die

This is a place of ancients.

This is a place where all the hooks that tether you to the place where you usually are are removed

This is a place where you are weightless

This is a place where I kissed you once but didn’t tell you

This is a place where I loved you once but didn’t tell anyone

This is a place where if you listen hard enough God whispers

This is a place where a lost glove is the saddest thing in the world

This is a place where you holler echoless into the wind with lungs full of ice

This is a place to hear the dry dead leaves crunching under your feet

This is a place to remember a time and feel sad

This is a place to remember another place and feel long-forgotten longing pulling at you

This is a place where all is luminous and lush

This is a place where you hear footsteps behind you but don’t feel compelled to turn around and see who it is

This is a place for one last lingering look

This is a place to crash glorious through the undergrowth whooping like a child and ruining your best boots

This is a place to hear a sound you haven’t heard for years and years

This is a place where no birds sing, or squirrels scurry

This is a place to hear the birds sing and see the squirrels scurry

This is a place where all is well with the world

This is a place where the sun makes you blink

This is a place to be wary of the slippery leaves and mud, so treacherous underfoot

This is a place to think without thinking

This is a place to recall childhood

This is a place where you can spy on people and they’d never know

This is a place of mud, leaves, grass, trees and clean air in the heart of the industrial North

This is a place where you can forget

This is a place where you can remember

From my island (2009)

From my island I can watch as my every need is fulfilled

From my island I can watch as my enemies are smote

From my island I can see all the calmness in the world

From my island I can see all the things I’ll never achieve

From my island I can see my family

From my island I can see what all my friends will look like in 40 years

From my island I can see what I’d look like if I lost weight / had surgery / cut off my hair

From my island I can see blinding white blonde sand

From my island I can see what she sees in me

From my island I can see what my mum wishes she could change about me

From my island I can see yachts which are worth more than my parent’s house

From my island I can see a pile of my favourite fruit

From my island I can watch my unborn children play

From my island I can see a happy, healthy life for myself

From my island I can see why I need to be alone now

From my island I can see how much I am loved

From my island I can see a letter that I wrote long ago but didn’t send

From my island I can see my bravery retreat across the horizon

From my island I can watch my fearlessness ebb away

From my island I can watch the waves erode, destroy and scar

From my island I can see the people I love leave me

From my island I can watch as two people fall in love

From my island I can watch two people dance themselves into oblivion

From my island I can smell the shrimp cooking

From my island I can smell the sea full of salt and piss and tears and joy and death

From my island I can smell decay

From my island I can hear the latest chart toppers

From my island I can see pools of light

From my island I can see the rockpools

On my island I can savour every breath

On my island I can see every promise I ever made

On my island I can see other people cuddled up

On my island I can see my reflection in others

From my island I can see a carnival of happy people

From my island I can see planes

From my island I can see the stranded

From my island I can see moon and stars and sky

From my island I can watch snow turn into ice

From my island I can see skyscrapers

On my island it’s getting dark

On my island I can see thick air

On my island I can see everyone I love

On my island I can see everything I’ll never do

On my island I can see a pile of clothes. They’re not mine

On my island I can see a light

On my island I can see a spark

On my island I can see something stirring in the dark

On my island I can see a path I’ve never walked

On my island I can watch reality blur

The Savage Beloved : Delilah (2009)

Ladies and Gentlemen, Vaudevillians, cherubs and seraphim from either edge of this eternity, greetings, salutations, and our heartiest welcome. To those of you who have graced us with your companionship before we extend a special greeting. Already I peruse freckled faces I have seen before – eyes shining, nostrils flared like those of wild horses, lips trembling in anticipation.

We will show such sights, such wonderments, that on your deathbeds you will recount and be amazed still.

Wandered we have, travelled through sickness and squalor, merriment and heady milieu, to guppy down round your friendly fires and tell you some things that we know to be true. Wonderful, terrible things we’ve seen, beauty, tragedy, villainy, chivalry, alchemy, lobotomy. All of the evils in this world that should be avoided, and all of those that should be indulged.

But hold! Hold! YOU! YOU have participated before. You witnessed the presentation of Delilah. Delilah was 300lb Doberman bitch, with a hellish temperament, teeth that could dispatch of a pig carcass in minutes, and rabies of such an advanced state that veterinarian and priest alike were afeard to approach her. But Beatrice was not. Her dulcet whispers could lull the beast into a living sleep, and, as though there were an affinity between them, it would suffer to be caressed and mauled about the maw. The audience were stunned into silent astonishment, and thereafter would brawl tooth and bloody claw to witness the act.

Delilah, regardless, was a danger to all, and in kindness ought to have been lain to rest, but she bore a litter of nine pups, each as rabid as she, and in truth there is no such sport as watching them, still blind from birth, snarling and ravaging each other with bloody gums. Eight of the bastards perished, succumbing to the disease they had sucked from their mother’s teat. The bitch, even through the cloud of her madness, was much aggrieved, roared and snarled for her dead babies, and became hellish protective of the last remaining pup, which was named Star. It was this very lifeblood of the birth mother, that daring Beatrice, having sated the savage with melodies secret, sweetly slipped from beneath her vicious claws. Silence blanketed the auditorium. Our heroine’s inaudible murmurings were like shining diamonds in the night, as she ascended the trapeze, with whimpering cargo in her arms, up, up, up into nowhere, it’s mother bright-eyed, but unmoving, beneath them. We beheld Beauty suspended in the night, borne by our own frozen breath. And still the beast didn’t snarl, or pace, or bay for her baby, simply stayed beneath them, entranced but alert, bright eyes fixed unrolling on her precious one. Only when she saw her pup gripped in Beatrice’s one outstretched hand, did her body begin to tremble, and urgent, wild, yelping noises began to form behind her rancid fangs. She watched as her mistress’ fingers unfurled one by one from the whimpering pup’s neck. And only as the baby Star plummeted through the air did the Beastmother finally erupt, roaring like hellfire, slinging ropes of rabid slaver over the nearest men who had retreated far back from where they had stood in wonderment but moments before. Delilah lunged and caught her baby in her jaws, then withdrew to a far corner, the very epithet of fury, daring any man to approach. And if they had, I doubt not but her babe would have feasted on human flesh that night.

But our own Beatrice, now seeming trapped, still suspended high above, had no exit but to descend into the pit of the beast she had so sorely riled. The audience were petrified – surely she would be killed! Even our own crew were unsure of what to do next. But our Beatrice calmly gave the order to be lowered down. Silence once more drowned the auditorium, but this time not in awe, but pure, choking terror. Delilah was invisible, having drawn back far from view, but for the steam of her rancid breath, and her eyes, like embers of hellfire. Upon descending Beatrice started to trill that same strange tune, quietly, quietly, only for Delilah. There was no response from the bitch until Beatrice’s feet touched the ground as she dismounted the trapeze, and a low, terrible growl rolled all around us. The audience were incapable of doing anything but look on, as though they too were under some sinister stupefying spell. Still Beatrice sang and slowly approached the Beast, a tiny birdlike thing, whom Delilah could dispatch with one snap of her jaws. And yet, she didn’t. She dipped back into the darkness, and re-emerged nursing her pup, our little Star, in her mouth. Beatrice came closer, and once more a strange, loving empathy radiated between them. The frozen crowd looked on, agog, as Beatrice took the baby from Delilah’s compliant jaws. That was the night the beast was broken by the bird.