Shunt

Down a grimy tunnel, somewhere beneath London Bridge, there’s a large sign that says PANIC. I can’t decide if it’s an instruction, or if it’s more like one of those bubbles in cartoons that tells you what the characters are thinking… It’s Monday, I’ve just arrived to start my residency at Shunt, and I’m slightly terrified.Three days later, my panic has dissolved into trepidation and excitement. Shunt lounge is an amazing venue, transformed at night into a gothic maze of archways, hidden rooms and green light. Since I’ve spent the past year writing ghost stories for my new show ‘a pint for the ghost’, I was intrigued to think what might be lurking round the next corner… I haven’t seen any spectres yet, just a few rats by day, and the occasional bluebottle, but who knows what tonight’s performance may bring.

After a feverish day of writing on Tuesday, we all had our poems exploring the theme ’when no-one’s listening’ ready for the first night in the bar on Wednesday. Performing to a group of people who weren’t all listening to us was nerve-wracking, but also strangely exhilerating: it felt as if the audience were drifting in and out of the work, catching a single phrase, a word, a line, and carrying on with their conversations. Sometimes they were aware of us, sometimes we were a kind of background music. But like those songs in bars that (infuriatingly) get stuck in your head for days, perhaps we were subconsciously filtering through amidst the beer and laughter…