Show detritus, only partially tidied, is scattered about my flat.

Cath's (my) shapeless funeral dress is washed at least and hanging to dry on the back of a door.

A glass bottle of IRN-BRU (empty) on the kitchen sideboard. I fantasise that I'll return it to collect the 30p.

Coats (Mum and Cath's) now returned to the coat (and everything else) cupboard.

The good quality Glen's Vodka bottle has gone to be recycled.

A sheet lies in the middle of the living room floor. Obviously I should wash it.

Cath's (my) baggy shapeless black jumper has made it as far as the washing basket.

Coathangers. Inexplicably all over the place.

Johnny's too tight Topshop sweatshirt jacket is hanging drying from my wardrobe.

A tiny bag of screws on the ironing board (obviously I'm not using this) leftover from the mantling and dis of the turned out to be useless (except to the war poetry boys) but painstaking wardrobe rail.

A pair of barely black tights (unused) on the dining table, a discarded relic from Mum. I'm saving them for a special occasion.

And so another show goes.