ONLY A PLAY

Shirelle was not sleeping well. It had been three weeks now since the 'incident'. But, you know, if you put food in front of her, she'll eat it. It's not her fault that her superhero skill was being able to eat ANYTHING. But now she knew. Helicopter blades? Never again.

At three forty-five AM, unable to take it anymore, Shirelle got out of bed and went to find something for her indigestion. The medicine cabinet was empty, so she wrenched it off the wall and began to eat it, hoping that somehow it might have absorbed from its contents some medicinal properties.

The audience clapped vociferously. Damn these crowds that followed her EVERYWHERE. She couldn't even comb her pet weasel without the paparazzi taking photos on a whim at every corner.

'BRAVO!' yelled Mr. Pollington, who was one of the worst offenders, stopping only to swallow a stapler in a respectful tribute. He'd be ready to move on the bigger things soon too. But what neither he nor Shirelle could ever have expected was the chaos this simple act caused…

"You idiot, Mr Pollington!" came a cry. It was Mrs Pope who ran the Shirelle fanzine 'Matter-Eater Gal'. "How am I to staple together the fanzine now? All the pages will fall out!" 

"Oh no! All the pages will fall out!" said everyone together, and angry muttering filled the bathroom. Miss Bunzle fainted dead away, and hit her head on the bath tap. Mr Davenport screamed, and the whole lot of them began to run around in small circles.

"Oh, for goodness sake!" said Shirelle. She hated it when they did that.

She pressed a button on the side of her dress. Immediately, Ratgiraffe came swinging on a trapeze from one corner of the bathroom. "Order! Order!" he shouted, and the throng were rounded up like sheep. It was amazing how many people could fit in this bathroom to be honest.

"But when is Act Two?" demanded Knox Werner.

Shirelle sighed. When would they realise this wasn't a play? 

"When will you realise this isn't a play?" said Shirelle.

The audience laughed appreciatively and applauded with aplomb.

Angela Gabardo approached the newspaper stand at Waitrose nervously. Her latest play, "The Woman Who Could Eat Whatever She Wanted Without Putting on Weight: An Immersive Theatre Experience" had been an unqualified success. The immense set, built inside an abandoned WW2 aircraft hangar in Hertfordshire, was filled to capacity every night. The bathroom set on its own was larger than Angela's entire West Brompton villa. So far the reviews had been fantastic, but there were always those critics who just didn't get it. That cretin from the Daily Mail, for one. She tried to avoid reading him, but just couldn't help herself. What worried her most was that her star, Sheila Bloom, seemed to be getting lost in the role. The play, at 18 hours, was nearly as long as Neil Oram's "The Warp", which had driven its star, Russell Denton, halfway round the twist. What was she doing to her friend? Eating all that zero-calorie edible furniture every day, and not to mention the thousands of lines she'd had to remember! Of course there was no question of stopping the play, but the least she could do was to check in on Sheila. If she wore that brown wig and an old overcoat, perhaps she could sneak into the audience unrecognised? It was worth a try. She abandoned her trolley and headed determinedly back to her car.

As she began to strap her seatbelt on, she noticed something in her rear view mirror. Turning round slowly, she looked on, horrified, as Sheila, embracing the role as determinedly as was humanly possible, danced down the road like the Pied Piper, her 'rats' behind her, and munching on Angela's trolley as if it were nothing more than a Twinkie. This was getting out of hand. She grabbed the wig and donned it immediately, but caught the overcoat on the handbrake and tore it. The wig would have to do. 

She stepped out of her car, raised on hand and shouted, in the most domineering voice she could muster…

"Sheila, love! Stop! It's only a play!" 

"What's a play?" said Sheila. "Who are you, and why are you calling me Sheila? My name is Shirelle!"

"HER NAME IS SHIRELLE!" said the audience, as one. Mr Pollington and Mrs Pope began fighting over who was going to eat the un-paid-for bottle of stain remover at the bottom of Angela's trolley. Kevin Prewitt, sweating inside the foam-rubber Ratgiraffe costume, privately vowed to abandon acting and become an accountant, just like his parents had wanted. 

"It's just a play, love!" said Angela. "Sheila, please stop gnawing on that trolley, you'll ruin your teeth?"

"Only a play?" said the critic from the Daily Mail, staring about him. He had become so absorbed in the narrative that he hadn't noticed they had left the hangar. He looked at the Waitrose, and the line of HGVs backed against its loading bay. Was all this really just part of the set? Was he really the critic from the Daily Mail, or just an actor? Nervously, he began nibbling at the pad he'd been using to write his scathing review. Not bad, once you got used to the taste of the ink.

A thought crossed Angela's mind. "Oh God!" she thought, "the finale...Shirelle leaps from the roof of Waitrose car park!"

Shirelle turned...sorry, SHEILA turned...and stomped up the metal, open plan steps, her zombie-like followers not far behind her. How was this going to be stopped? Angela needed to think, and think NOW.

Sheila had reached the top of the steps and was climbing athletically up a ladder that led to the roof of the supermarket. Angela fought her way through the crowd in pursuit, and began, ponderously, to follow her up. About a quarter of the way there, she made the classic mistake of looking down. Her knees wobbled at the sight, and her left leg slipped off the rung. She managed to cling on, but the wig tumbled off into the crowd below. Even in her panicked state Angela was astonished to observe Miss Bunzle attempting to cram it into her mouth. This was all getting completely out of hand. With grim determination she turned away and resumed her pursuit of the actress, who was now nearly at the top.

From the gantry on the other side of the hangar, director Michael Palantine picked up his binoculars and peered at the gigantic Waitrose set.

"My God, that's Angela Gabardo!" he said. "What the hell is she doing? She's going to ruin everything!"

Frantically, the playwright rummaged in her handbag and pulled out an egg. Sheila caught this act from the corner of her eye.

"No!" she yelled, but it was too late. Angela cracked the egg, and from it, the genial genie materialised.

"I will grant you three washes," said the genie.

Everyone looked at each other in a state of confusion.

"Washes?" they queried, as one.

A little irked, the genie said "Yes, washes. What? WHAT?"

"Is this part of the play?" said Mr Pollington. "It didn't happen last time." 

"Eat him, Shirelle!" bawled Mrs Pope, frantically snapping pictures for the fanzine. 

"Out of my way!" yelled Michael Palantine, shoving his way through the crowd. And he began to follow the playwright up the ladder.

"What is your wash?" boomed the genie as the director arrived.

"I'll give you a wash!" snapped Palantine angrily. "Panto season hasn't started yet! What are you doing in my play?"

"As you wish!" said the genial genie, and he began to make magical passes, waving his hands about mystically. At the very top of the ladder, Angela's head was swimming, and the genie blurred before her eyes. She'd made the mistake of looking down again.

"I've changed the ending!" shouted Angela. "In the new version, everyone goes home disappointed after Sheila decides not to jump and becomes a nun instead!"

Sheila turned to Angela, put her hand on her head and said "Bless you my child."

Everyone looked a bit miffed at the anti-climax, and shuffled off to the theatre, ready for the next performance.

"Wait!" said the genial genie, "what about me?"

Angela turned to face him, and said…

"It's just a play, love. It's only a play." 

Down below, standing alone in the highly accurate facsimile of a Waitrose car park, the critic from the Daily Mail took out his chewed-up notebook and wrote one word

"Stupendous."