A Pint for the Ghost

I went on Saturday to the Junction, an arts venue in Cambridge, marooned amidst hangar-like superstores, carparks, bowling alleys, bars, multiplexes beside the railway tracks.  Helen Mort’s one-woman show, A Pint for the Ghost, was showing.

What a beautiful, mysterious piece it was.  Helen and an actor voicing her poems, accompanied by the interjections of Sam Genders’s music.  It was stiflingly hot in the studio and the data projector stopped working, but that didn’t matter.  Her cool voice and the trance-like pieces, the glasses raised to the Oxford pot-holer who was lost down a cave near Castleton; they all sent me somewhere very far away indeed.  Somewhere with crags and derelict workings, weeds sprouting out of windows.  I was surprised to step out into the concrete wasteland again.

If it’s ever on near you, do go and see it.  And if you don’t manage to do that, you could always buy the pamphlet.  It’s published by Tall Lighthouse.

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