Social Space - Performers

With a parched throat you weave in and out of the crowds on the arduous journey to the bar. With the oasis in sight your view is suddenly blocked by a group of people mindlessly following a flag like sheep. "Follow the flag people, that's right this way, come on my dears", is the cry as their leader forces her enormous form through the jungle that is the crowd. What on earth is this? Surely it's not a tour guide. Your eyes do not deceive you, and they're headed towards the bar. In your attempts to beat them to the destination, you inadvertently join their flock. With a pat on the head the shepherdess counts and recounts her charges making sure none have wondered off into the great unknown.

Resting your aching feet, you slump into an obliging armchair. It is the first chance you have had to really take in your surroundings and engage in that most popular of sports - people watching. Absorbed in the patterns of dresses and the flirtations in action, you don't notice an ordinary looking man sidle up to you. "Blue fox is in the den". You jump startled by the voice in your ear. Ignoring your reaction, he continues looking into the crowd. "Blue fox is in the den", he repeats quietly. You are completely lost. Did you miss a step here? "I'm sorry I don't know what you're on about, you must have the wrong person", you reply, taking in the brown paper package tucked in his hand.

"Are you not Red Rabbit?" He asks looking slightly confused, then realizing his mistake, apologises and is once again lost in the crowd. The prerogative of every spy.

Broken capillaries smatter his cheeks, protruding nose and bulging eyes lend him an air of the ridiculous and his rag tag clothes and aviator cap confirm his eccentricity. Rambling around in circles, head tilted downwards, he mutters to himself, every now and then raising a pointing forefinger to illustrate his point to the air. Suddenly he looks up and stops stock still, a look of surprise across his weathered features, as if he is aware of his surroundings for the first time. He stares through craggy eyebrows at the groups of milling people around him, feigning not to notice his presence.

Eyes alighting on a poor soul, he strides up to her, hands already gesticulating in preparation for the forthcoming torrent. Knowing what is coming the girl quickly looks away, trying desperately to engage someone, anyone in conversation. Like the cat stalking the caged canary, he descends upon her and with a wild out-flinging of his arms he shouts "you!"The girl jumps with his sudden outburst. Trying rapidly to regain her composure she smooths down her shirt over her hips and rubs a hand over the back of her hair.

"Listen here! Listen well and take heed my dear. The world's going to rack and ruin, degenerating into one pile of absolute rubbish! Rubbish I tell you! Absolute rubbish!! And we're all a part of it, we're all a cause of it, no, wait wait, we are the cause of it. Mark my words young lady…". Missiles of spittle fly from his mouth as he rants and raves, causing the girl to blink her eyes at certain points, cringing before his spraying onslaught.

Abruptly he stops, sharply turns his head towards the source of raucous laughter and strides off in the direction of the jolly woman.The girl breaths a sigh of relief, glances around to see who witnessed the embarrassment and then beats a hasty retreat to the bathroom to wipe her face.

The music dies down, and a hush descends as a gold tinted spotlight picks out an empty part of the room. Curious, the crowd approach the spotlight, forming a standing circle. Six girls flutter out, and take their place, one in front, two in the next row, and three in the last. They stand deadly still as the music starts to play, seemingly oblivious to the waiting and watching crowd. With a sudden fluid, synchronised gesture they sweep their hands up to their mouths, delicately lick their fingers as though to turn a page, and sweep their hands back out again to form a pinkie-out teacup holding gesture. Bringing this elegant gesture across their bodies to their waist, and then back again to their hips, they smile invitingly at the crowd. Repeating the same movements they take a step forward, the first girl entering the crowd. The golden light follows them. Taking another languid step, secretive smiles in place, they continue forward, threading through the crowd, continuing with their slow, intriguing movements. Every now and then they look directly into a guest's eyes, or swirl around them, or after licking their finger tips gently touch them on the nose. Mesmerised, the crowd stands silent and still, watching these otherworldly creatures in their midst. The girls are approaching the outer edge of the crowd, and once through they flutter off to whence they came from, leaving the crowd feeling as though they have witnessed a rare and special sight.

The Captain:
Writer with Hat:
Marionette:
Puppeteer:
Frenchwoman:
Shoeshine:
Harlequin:
White-leotarded chattering girl: Supina Bytol
Dancers:

Music