The Famous 45
45 year old Polly adopts a child from 1945. Join storyteller Cathianne Hall (Emmerdale/Coronation Street/CBBC) to find out why. A story of numbers, neurons, naivety and cake. 'Cathianne Hall is a magician with words and images' The Scotsman.
Watch the film work for 'The Famous 45' here (it makes total sense if you see the show!) : www.youtube.com/watch?v=qkTVxQNZu9c
Watch the film work for 'The Famous 45' here (it makes total sense if you see the show!) : www.youtube.com/watch?v=qkTVxQNZu9c
The Girl In the Grate
THE GIRL IN THE GRATE - SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO GET STUCK TO GET UNSTUCK…
A spoken word show from storyteller Cathianne Hall, paying homage to vintage ‘Girl About Town’ sitcoms and exploring why sometimes you have to get stuck to get unstuck.
Give yourself a squirt of ‘Charlie’ perfume, top up your glass of Babycham and join award winning writer Cathianne Hall for ‘The Girl in the Grate’. Meet Lucy Green, who dreamt her life would turn out like the spangly title sequence of a ‘Girl About Town’ sit-com. It didn’t. But if she can work a comic mishap to her advantage, it might not be too late. A storytelling show with a few surprises and prizes.
'The Girl in the Grate' played at Ilkley Fringe 2016, Brighton Fringe 2017 & Camden Fringe 2017. Watch this space to see where Lucy lands in 2018... Review from Camden Fringe here : camdenvoyeur.wordpress.com/2017/08/31/review-the-girl-in-the-grate-at-london-irish-centre-camdenfringe/
Watch 'The Girl in the Grate' trailer here : www.youtube.com/watch?v=eWGp7Hc9fDo
Cathianne Hall has storylined over 3000 episodes of award winning television (Coronation Street, Emmerdale, Hollyoaks) and is development script editor for CBBC in-house drama. She has a ten year track record in theatre including the five star run of ‘Diamond Johnny Ray’ (Edinburgh Fringe) and ‘Space Circus’ (Chol Theatre 2 yr tour). She is now telling her own stories her own way.
IMAGEShttps://www.dropbox.com/sh/c60ceut8jymb7i5/AABy9wNsilgALcoqqGeQ2GfCa?dl=0
A spoken word show from storyteller Cathianne Hall, paying homage to vintage ‘Girl About Town’ sitcoms and exploring why sometimes you have to get stuck to get unstuck.
Give yourself a squirt of ‘Charlie’ perfume, top up your glass of Babycham and join award winning writer Cathianne Hall for ‘The Girl in the Grate’. Meet Lucy Green, who dreamt her life would turn out like the spangly title sequence of a ‘Girl About Town’ sit-com. It didn’t. But if she can work a comic mishap to her advantage, it might not be too late. A storytelling show with a few surprises and prizes.
'The Girl in the Grate' played at Ilkley Fringe 2016, Brighton Fringe 2017 & Camden Fringe 2017. Watch this space to see where Lucy lands in 2018... Review from Camden Fringe here : camdenvoyeur.wordpress.com/2017/08/31/review-the-girl-in-the-grate-at-london-irish-centre-camdenfringe/
Watch 'The Girl in the Grate' trailer here : www.youtube.com/watch?v=eWGp7Hc9fDo
Cathianne Hall has storylined over 3000 episodes of award winning television (Coronation Street, Emmerdale, Hollyoaks) and is development script editor for CBBC in-house drama. She has a ten year track record in theatre including the five star run of ‘Diamond Johnny Ray’ (Edinburgh Fringe) and ‘Space Circus’ (Chol Theatre 2 yr tour). She is now telling her own stories her own way.
IMAGEShttps://www.dropbox.com/sh/c60ceut8jymb7i5/AABy9wNsilgALcoqqGeQ2GfCa?dl=0
An excerpt from SHADOW SHIFT
Bethlehem Jones didn’t want a star above her…
…However, her nativity name came with seasonal responsibilities. She was fated to smile a fixed festive smile for every shopper who made a jolly comment about her name and looked for the star above her head - as they marvelled at a girl called Bethlehem on a checkout in a West London branch of Costcutter at Christmas. Bashful Bethlehem needed to be free of the jolly comments, off the floor of Costcutter. Her shyness was giving her ambition. She wanted to work in the office. She dreamed there was corner where others feared to tread, one with undone filing from the dawn of time. She would make this her life’s work, cocoon herself in dockets and receipts and soon she’d be furniture and no one would notice her. To do this, she needed to be promoted. She needed to win December’s ‘Employee of the Month’. With her name it should have been her destiny. There was only one thing in her way – Christmas Deng.
Christmas Deng was the ninja of the nightshift. He stacked shelves speedily, stealthily, but elusively. Colin was in the home baking aisle checking best-befores on Betty Crocker when there was a whoosh and whiff of oil behind him… Colin spun round to see icing sugar bags arranged as a snowflake, powdery pastisserie particles dancing around it, like it was in motion, perpetually falling. There was no sign of Christmas Deng though. Colin argued with trees, so his testimony may be unreliable, but what is certain is that Christmas Deng made shelf-stacking sexy. He was front-runner for ‘Employee of the Month’ and his name was more festive than Bethlehem Jones’. Bashful Bethlehem had to cancel Christmas…
…However, her nativity name came with seasonal responsibilities. She was fated to smile a fixed festive smile for every shopper who made a jolly comment about her name and looked for the star above her head - as they marvelled at a girl called Bethlehem on a checkout in a West London branch of Costcutter at Christmas. Bashful Bethlehem needed to be free of the jolly comments, off the floor of Costcutter. Her shyness was giving her ambition. She wanted to work in the office. She dreamed there was corner where others feared to tread, one with undone filing from the dawn of time. She would make this her life’s work, cocoon herself in dockets and receipts and soon she’d be furniture and no one would notice her. To do this, she needed to be promoted. She needed to win December’s ‘Employee of the Month’. With her name it should have been her destiny. There was only one thing in her way – Christmas Deng.
Christmas Deng was the ninja of the nightshift. He stacked shelves speedily, stealthily, but elusively. Colin was in the home baking aisle checking best-befores on Betty Crocker when there was a whoosh and whiff of oil behind him… Colin spun round to see icing sugar bags arranged as a snowflake, powdery pastisserie particles dancing around it, like it was in motion, perpetually falling. There was no sign of Christmas Deng though. Colin argued with trees, so his testimony may be unreliable, but what is certain is that Christmas Deng made shelf-stacking sexy. He was front-runner for ‘Employee of the Month’ and his name was more festive than Bethlehem Jones’. Bashful Bethlehem had to cancel Christmas…
An excerpt from THE FAMOUS 45
I am 45.
It’s February. The energy of the new year has gone. Nikolai is concerned I’m lagging and thinks I need a focus, a pet. Studies in Denmark show a pet makes a difference. I’m wary, but Nikolai won’t sweep his concern under the carpet. He’s Danish, they don’t do carpets. Hard floors, hard truths. I’ve only had one partial pet - Jesus the class gerbil who would live with us in the school holidays, die and rise again for next term. I think of school. I wish I could smile when I remember school. I smiled at the time but it was through gritted milk teeth.
“OK, class. This is a tricky one. 0+1+2+3+4+5+6+7+8+9?”
“45!”
“Quick off the mark Polly, per usual.” Miss smiled creakily at my permanently raised arm. ‘Polly per Usual’ became my moniker at school. Miss was wearied by a kid who always had her hand in the air wanting to be picked. ‘Polly per Usual’ could hear that weary thought ricocheting around Miss’ hollow head like a misfired shot from a colt 45 in an iron box. Every word that fell from Miss’ lips was tinged with a tinny pain. It hurt ‘Polly per Usual’ because Miss was my mother. Miss Mum. At that point she was 45. She was a 45 year old working single mum and she was starting to rust. The shot ricocheting around her head never stopped. All these years later she is like a soft book with a limp spine and I have to be around to catch the pages as they fall.
It’s February. The energy of the new year has gone. Nikolai is concerned I’m lagging and thinks I need a focus, a pet. Studies in Denmark show a pet makes a difference. I’m wary, but Nikolai won’t sweep his concern under the carpet. He’s Danish, they don’t do carpets. Hard floors, hard truths. I’ve only had one partial pet - Jesus the class gerbil who would live with us in the school holidays, die and rise again for next term. I think of school. I wish I could smile when I remember school. I smiled at the time but it was through gritted milk teeth.
“OK, class. This is a tricky one. 0+1+2+3+4+5+6+7+8+9?”
“45!”
“Quick off the mark Polly, per usual.” Miss smiled creakily at my permanently raised arm. ‘Polly per Usual’ became my moniker at school. Miss was wearied by a kid who always had her hand in the air wanting to be picked. ‘Polly per Usual’ could hear that weary thought ricocheting around Miss’ hollow head like a misfired shot from a colt 45 in an iron box. Every word that fell from Miss’ lips was tinged with a tinny pain. It hurt ‘Polly per Usual’ because Miss was my mother. Miss Mum. At that point she was 45. She was a 45 year old working single mum and she was starting to rust. The shot ricocheting around her head never stopped. All these years later she is like a soft book with a limp spine and I have to be around to catch the pages as they fall.
An excerpt from THE GIRL IN THE GRATE
It’s January so Lucy Green is trying new things - almond milk and life coaching.
“Find your sacred space, read your pain page one last time, cry then burn it. Give yourselves permission…”.
Thalia the life coach smiles a warm milk smile that makes eleven ladies in search of their inner selves excited at playing with matches. With a strike and a sizzle all their pain will be gone. Lucy Green’s pain page is blank and she lights a cigarette from the embers of other’s pain pages. Thalia looks at her despairingly.
In the health food shop, Lucy Green is weighing up which carton of almond milk is going to change her life when an out-of-ours Thalia sidles up and gives Lucy her full fat, creamily comforting warm almond milk smile.
“Lucy, I still have a pain page. I write on it, burn it, write on it, burn it… Pain is like a phoenix, Lucy. It needs to rise from the ashes so we can get stronger. Only then can we run with the wolves…”.
Lucy Green tries not to be transfixed by the gorgeous guru admitting she’s less than perfect, but fails and “Run with me, Lucy…” finds herself agreeing to go to a speed dating event with Thalia. Lucy has a busy social life and she’s fitting Thalia in - between sitting in her pants, eating peanut butter out of the jar with a chocolate finger and choosing cats off an animal rescue website. Thalia surmises that lonely Lucy Green’s pain is relationship-centred, men-centred. Thalia is annoyingly right.
At the speed dating event Lucy Green is surprised to learn that Thalia is 55. She does a lot of yoga and hasn’t eaten gluten since 1997. She floats, she’s effortless and all attention is on her. There’s a collective look of panic on the faces of the other women and had they a pain page in front of them, they’d be in a scribbling frenzy as their feelings of inadequacy kick in. Men who were reluctant to sign up, now see there’s something worth playing for. Lucy Green wonders if Thalia is the most inadequate person here. Does she need to create a buzz at other’s expense to make herself feel good? Lucy regrets falling for Thalia’s charm and feels plain next to her. Thalia is a bitch.
“Find your sacred space, read your pain page one last time, cry then burn it. Give yourselves permission…”.
Thalia the life coach smiles a warm milk smile that makes eleven ladies in search of their inner selves excited at playing with matches. With a strike and a sizzle all their pain will be gone. Lucy Green’s pain page is blank and she lights a cigarette from the embers of other’s pain pages. Thalia looks at her despairingly.
In the health food shop, Lucy Green is weighing up which carton of almond milk is going to change her life when an out-of-ours Thalia sidles up and gives Lucy her full fat, creamily comforting warm almond milk smile.
“Lucy, I still have a pain page. I write on it, burn it, write on it, burn it… Pain is like a phoenix, Lucy. It needs to rise from the ashes so we can get stronger. Only then can we run with the wolves…”.
Lucy Green tries not to be transfixed by the gorgeous guru admitting she’s less than perfect, but fails and “Run with me, Lucy…” finds herself agreeing to go to a speed dating event with Thalia. Lucy has a busy social life and she’s fitting Thalia in - between sitting in her pants, eating peanut butter out of the jar with a chocolate finger and choosing cats off an animal rescue website. Thalia surmises that lonely Lucy Green’s pain is relationship-centred, men-centred. Thalia is annoyingly right.
At the speed dating event Lucy Green is surprised to learn that Thalia is 55. She does a lot of yoga and hasn’t eaten gluten since 1997. She floats, she’s effortless and all attention is on her. There’s a collective look of panic on the faces of the other women and had they a pain page in front of them, they’d be in a scribbling frenzy as their feelings of inadequacy kick in. Men who were reluctant to sign up, now see there’s something worth playing for. Lucy Green wonders if Thalia is the most inadequate person here. Does she need to create a buzz at other’s expense to make herself feel good? Lucy regrets falling for Thalia’s charm and feels plain next to her. Thalia is a bitch.
An excerpt from JUMP
Gudrun had felt forever ‘jumped over’ by Valentina. Valentina even tricked Gudrun in the womb; playfully convincing her to skip together with the umbilical cord to make Mother flutter. But their pre-natal fun was a tactic. Gudrun had been positioned closer to the outside world, but lighter leaner Valentina had used their game to jump over Gudrun and make sure she was born first. And so the pattern was set from their first gasp of air, Valentina would queue jump her twin sister and queue jump life to get what she wanted. Shier Gudrun was shielded by the shadow of her show-stopping sister and people thought she stayed quiet because it suited her, but it didn’t suit her at all.
Valentina had never waited for anything. If she could cheat it, blag it or shortcut it she would. She dreamed of being able to click her fingers and make anything she wanted to happen, happen. And so she was drawn to magic. It wasn’t enough that she was bright, pretty and fearless, she wanted to be magic. Valentina would give shows in the front room, then on small stages, then on international stages. Gudrun had long been her guinea pig as Valentina worked out new mind bending mind benders. Gudrun was suitably awed in childhood as Valentina correctly revealed the card she was thinking of; in teen times she was slightly less awed as Valentina made that card appear in the pocket of the person Gudrun secretly fancied; in adulthood she was not awed at all not as Valentina made a twenty foot high Queen of Hearts with the name of the person Gudrun was secretly in love with written on the back appear on the Humber bridge… In Valentina’s mind, twins should have no secrets from each other and she hated that Gudrun had the audacity to try. There was no keeping anything from a magic twin. In ‘outing’ Gudrun live on national TV via a twenty foot high Queen of Hearts on the Humber bridge, Valentina had made a point about hidden secrets. Valentina swore this was for Gudrun’s own good; she had ‘helped’ her face up to her sexuality. Did the TV audience agree? Valentina managed to spin a cruel stunt into a crucial stunt and saw her ratings soar. Gudrun was rejected by the woman she was secretly in love with as she didn’t want to be part of the Valentina machine. Valentina could read people, but the attention she got in doing it skewed her moral compass and her show was the entertainment enema of primetime TV. Her schtick was seeing into people’s souls, revealing their secrets and helping them. Magic was cleansing. Having grown up with a magical child prodigy of a twin, Gudrun found magic in everything besides magic.
Valentina had never waited for anything. If she could cheat it, blag it or shortcut it she would. She dreamed of being able to click her fingers and make anything she wanted to happen, happen. And so she was drawn to magic. It wasn’t enough that she was bright, pretty and fearless, she wanted to be magic. Valentina would give shows in the front room, then on small stages, then on international stages. Gudrun had long been her guinea pig as Valentina worked out new mind bending mind benders. Gudrun was suitably awed in childhood as Valentina correctly revealed the card she was thinking of; in teen times she was slightly less awed as Valentina made that card appear in the pocket of the person Gudrun secretly fancied; in adulthood she was not awed at all not as Valentina made a twenty foot high Queen of Hearts with the name of the person Gudrun was secretly in love with written on the back appear on the Humber bridge… In Valentina’s mind, twins should have no secrets from each other and she hated that Gudrun had the audacity to try. There was no keeping anything from a magic twin. In ‘outing’ Gudrun live on national TV via a twenty foot high Queen of Hearts on the Humber bridge, Valentina had made a point about hidden secrets. Valentina swore this was for Gudrun’s own good; she had ‘helped’ her face up to her sexuality. Did the TV audience agree? Valentina managed to spin a cruel stunt into a crucial stunt and saw her ratings soar. Gudrun was rejected by the woman she was secretly in love with as she didn’t want to be part of the Valentina machine. Valentina could read people, but the attention she got in doing it skewed her moral compass and her show was the entertainment enema of primetime TV. Her schtick was seeing into people’s souls, revealing their secrets and helping them. Magic was cleansing. Having grown up with a magical child prodigy of a twin, Gudrun found magic in everything besides magic.
An excerpt from FOUND
The summers of the nineteen seventies were a time when children went feral for the school-free season, knowing there was treasure to be found.
Elvis was a haunting sight, a hooded sprite zipped up in his parka against the mists and midges of the moors. He roamed through the seasons with his dog Starbuck, searching for evidence of aliens landing, his homemade alien antenna in hand. Elvis liked aliens. He liked the impossible. His Nana Norma felt he should spend a bit more time on the possible, but Elvis had inherited his day dreaming. He watched Nana Norma gazing up wistfully in a world of her own with a soft spot for the skies whenever she heard a droney sound; far off bees, far off geese, a far off plane. Elvis gazed up wistfully too, adjusting his alien antenna and hoping for a far off spaceship to come and whisk Starbuck and him off on an adventure - preferably at the start of September. He wouldn’t want to miss summer, but after it was over he’d like to go into space not school.
There were strange old squiggles and symbols carved into rocks on the moor. At school they taught that they were made by a tribe who lived there before the Romans, but Elvis knew they were alien. They were his treasure. He traced his finger over them, trying to work out what the aliens were saying because if he gave the right reply, they’d come for him. He strained his brain deciphering the squiggles and symbols and then late one August with school breathing down his neck, he did it. He sent out a signal on the alien antenna and chipped his reply into the rocks and waited. He waited and waited for years, but the aliens didn't answer. Nana Norma found a drawing of his chipped reply. It was a bit weird, but so was Elvis and she proudly stuck it up on her fridge next to the squigglings of her more normal grandchildren.
Elvis has grown up. He has his initial, not his full first name, on his badge in the faceless civil service department he’s growing old in. Nana Norma has tried not to grow up any further - bleached beach hair, Bisto-toned skin and tats. She’s etching her life on her limbs, just in case her mind gives way before her body does. Her back is now her fridge door circa 1979. Elvis’ cousins drew tigers, princesses and fire engines and they orbit his strange squiggly symbol, all inkily incised on a leathery old lady. Nana Norma still lives in the house by the moor and gazes up wistfully in a world of her own with a soft spot for the skies when she hears the drony sound of far off bees, far off geese, a far off plane. When Elvis visits, he walks over Starbuck’s grave. It makes him long for the summers of the 70s, but the aliens never came and now he’s normal.
Elvis was a haunting sight, a hooded sprite zipped up in his parka against the mists and midges of the moors. He roamed through the seasons with his dog Starbuck, searching for evidence of aliens landing, his homemade alien antenna in hand. Elvis liked aliens. He liked the impossible. His Nana Norma felt he should spend a bit more time on the possible, but Elvis had inherited his day dreaming. He watched Nana Norma gazing up wistfully in a world of her own with a soft spot for the skies whenever she heard a droney sound; far off bees, far off geese, a far off plane. Elvis gazed up wistfully too, adjusting his alien antenna and hoping for a far off spaceship to come and whisk Starbuck and him off on an adventure - preferably at the start of September. He wouldn’t want to miss summer, but after it was over he’d like to go into space not school.
There were strange old squiggles and symbols carved into rocks on the moor. At school they taught that they were made by a tribe who lived there before the Romans, but Elvis knew they were alien. They were his treasure. He traced his finger over them, trying to work out what the aliens were saying because if he gave the right reply, they’d come for him. He strained his brain deciphering the squiggles and symbols and then late one August with school breathing down his neck, he did it. He sent out a signal on the alien antenna and chipped his reply into the rocks and waited. He waited and waited for years, but the aliens didn't answer. Nana Norma found a drawing of his chipped reply. It was a bit weird, but so was Elvis and she proudly stuck it up on her fridge next to the squigglings of her more normal grandchildren.
Elvis has grown up. He has his initial, not his full first name, on his badge in the faceless civil service department he’s growing old in. Nana Norma has tried not to grow up any further - bleached beach hair, Bisto-toned skin and tats. She’s etching her life on her limbs, just in case her mind gives way before her body does. Her back is now her fridge door circa 1979. Elvis’ cousins drew tigers, princesses and fire engines and they orbit his strange squiggly symbol, all inkily incised on a leathery old lady. Nana Norma still lives in the house by the moor and gazes up wistfully in a world of her own with a soft spot for the skies when she hears the drony sound of far off bees, far off geese, a far off plane. When Elvis visits, he walks over Starbuck’s grave. It makes him long for the summers of the 70s, but the aliens never came and now he’s normal.
