As the audience settle, a lady in a blue dress unfurls long, white sheets of paper which hang from the ceiling. We catch glimpses of a tall creature trotting noiselessly to and fro between the paper strips to the strains of Eastern European folk music. The woman places some red peppers into a pot to cook as she addresses us for the first time. Her unusual jokes are met with peals of laughter reminding me of word salad, the non sequiturs that you sometimes hear when talking to people living with dementia.
We've had ten days of funded time to develop a 'work in progress' 35 minute performance which is, as anyone in the arts knows, a luxurious situation definitely to be savoured and exclaimed at. The ten days have been sprinkled across the past couple of months in chunks of two or three together, creating little oases of Kentish coastal sojourns for me, filled with unique and memorable creative experiments. Oh I do like to be beside the seaside.
At Rochester Bridge my train slices through the November mist, which hangs heavily over the melancholy Medway beneath. Today, as autumn fades to a blur, I make my second visit to Doncaster and the Quirky Choir.