So the country-mice went to the town for an evening out. This particular town was Slug, or 'Slough' as I believe the locals say. It's quite a trip for the battered Mondeo but we duly chugged up and were only ten minutes late for the start of a great evening. Our friends had managed to work with the Slug writers guild and put together four plays for radio, meaning they could read their lines but also that the acting all had to be done in the vocals in a WaterStones bookshop after hours. The venue itself was slightly surreal but worked surprising well, the actors having to raise their voices slightly but nothing too dramatic and the overall feeling was being in the lounge of a rather lovely country house; which we like because we of course live in a rather lovely country house.
We missed most of the first play and have no idea what it was about but each of the other three was excellent. To blandly assert that they were all written and performed by amateurs is to imply a diservice to what were plays which had a sublime quality with flashes of brilliant acting. Sarah's characterisation of a Russian mapmaker, Jane as a creepy queen of the May with a penchant for sharp knives, Sally as a spy in love with Slug and Adam as the railway porter in unrequited love, all quite entranced the crowd of thirty or so who came to watch. The country mice then went for a walk in Slug and would've enjoyed a drink in the pub with the gang but it seems that towns need people called doormen who aren't overly keen on small children so that wasn't possible, however overall an outstanding evening and as BirdBoot would say, "A rattling good yarn, I was gripped!"