Parking is always a misery in the city, even on the fringe where we were last night. Even more miserable in a 7-seater, but that's a story for another day. Having raced from the finally-parked-car, the scene at the theatre threw us almost into reverse. Lots of people milling about, from the guy with the full face tattoo to the full face of perfectly applied makeup and coiffed hair to match. From the girl with the bright pink hair to those gracefully greying, some sipping wine and deep in conversation, others sharing food that's causing heads to turn as the fragrance permeates the crowd. We pass through the closely packed bodies and realise that time was once again our friend and there's no hurry to get to our seats. Time, even, for some people watching and a quick drink.
Seats are soon taken and the stage lights come up. The red velvet curtain hangs in perfect waves behind our host for the evening as he outlines the regulations and introduces the first story-teller. She's a small woman, in a striking silver and black striped skirt, beret on her head, hands resting by her sides for the most part. The theme of the night is BOLD, and her story is of boldness that came and went, told in a calm and even tone. As I look around the room, I wonder about these people who put their names in a hat to get up and tell a 5-minute story to a room of mainly strangers. I am reminded of something I heard recently about writing and reading, and how writing always affects the reader in some way, even if just for a moment. I think about each of these story-tellers as they take the stage, some wringing their hands as they boldly share their mistakes and regrets, announcing changes they want to make in their lives. Others gesture and laugh, many at themselves, sharing their greatest failure or embarrassing moment. The audience is so appreciative, the story-tellers so diverse. We all get something from this experience.
