Blink

Phil Porter

• Publisher: Oberon Books
• Year: 2012
• Print ISBN: 9781350321953
• eBook ISBN: 9781849435567
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Media & Performing Arts
• Subtopic: Performance Art

This is the tale of Jonah, Sophie, and a fox called Scruffilitis. It's a love story. A dysfunctional, voyeuristic and darkly funny love story, but a love story all the same. This new play by the Bruntwood Playwriting Prize winner Phil Porter, is an exciting collaboration between Soho Theatre - London's most vibrant venue for new writing, comedy and cabaret - and internationally acclaimed Fringe First winners nabokov.

Characters

SOPHIE

JONAH

SOPHIE and JONAH.

JONAH: This is a true story, and it’s a love story. This is our love story. And the first thing I want to tell you is this: Love is not a cast-iron set of symptoms. Love is whatever you feel it to be. Love is neither dirty nor clean. That’s the first thing and this is the second: If you ever get invited to dissect a rabbit’s eyeball while at the same time taking apart an old-fashioned Single Lens Reflex camera, accept the invitation. And very soon you’ll see how the two things are basically the same. The cornea, that’s the front part, that’s basically the focus. The iris is the aperture, controlling the light that comes in. The lens is the lens. And the retina, at the back of the eye, that’s the film, receiving the image. And if you’re like me you’ll find that similarity interesting, which brings me on to my third point which is that London is a very interesting place. And you can trust me on this because I’m not from round here.

SOPHIE: Okay, so when I’m twelve my gums begin to itch and keep me awake at night. So I tell the dentist and she says my teeth are overcrowded, and she’ll take two out to make room. And she gives me a choice between a local, so a needle, and a general, meaning gas. And I’m scared of needles so I go for the gas, which they don’t do any more, but basically they hold this mask down over your face and you have to breathe in this stuff. And it’s got a kind of rubber taste, like an old rubber ball or something. And as you breathe you can hear this buzz getting louder, like a chainsaw getting closer, so I fix my eyes on this nurse and watch as she merges into this giant picture of autumn that covers one wall. Then when I wake up I’m okay for a second. Until this horrible, groggy feeling hits me. And as we leave I throw up this pool of frothy blood on the doorstep. And we get to the car and I’m sick in the car, and we get home and I’m sick in the porch, and I’m sick about five times more, and it’s Pancake Day but I’m too sick for pancakes, so basically it’s just a really bad experience. But at least the itching goes away, until two years later when it comes back, and the dentist says she’ll take two more out. And again I get the choice, and again I go for gas, only this time I ask my dad if, when we get home, I can have my bed in the garden. I want to lie outside and clean my lungs in the air. And I know it’s mad what I’m asking. It’s not a real request, more just an idea. But when we get back my bed’s there on the lawn. And this is The Isle of Man in April, so the weather’s not warm. But there it is, with an extra blanket, and Winston, my bear, on the pillow. And there’s even a bedside table, with fizzy water and a working lamp, and I’m telling you this so you understand the kind of man he was, my dad. He made me feel seen.

JONAH: (Holds up a small, mud-encrusted pair of wellies.) Welly boots.

SOPHIE: He was a tax lawyer.

JONAH: Hand-me-downs from a cousin originally.

SOPHIE: My mother lives in Malaga. She left when I was two.

JONAH: Wouldn’t fit me now. Says on the sole ‘Size 3’. And my name on the inside in felt tip: Jonah Jenkins. And if you’re wondering why they look worn out that’s because they are, and that’s because I grew up on a farm. Or self-sufficient religious commune to be specific. We are The Paythorne Presbyterians. Mr Jenkins is my father and he’s very much the man in charge. And every morning from six o’clock he reads to us from the Bible ’til his throat gets sore. If we snooze or fidget, an old man called Mr Fricker whacks across our knuckles with a long wood spoon. Technology’s frowned upon, so there’s no TV, no toaster, no microwave. Just an old green telephone for emergencies. Food is soup or stew, except on Sundays when we have roasted chicken followed by custard, and every spare minute we work the farm. So, age five I’m milking cows. Age seven catching rabbits for stew. Then age fifteen my mother Mrs Jenkins dies of pancreatic cancer. Now, it’s her that’s dealt with the outside world to now, and that’s worked well because the outside world likes my mother. Because she’s warm, unlike Mrs Dimmock The Unfriendly Whorebag who takes over in her absence. And before long we’re getting our windows smashed in at night. And our outbuildings set on fire. ‘Jesus Fucks Arses’ and ‘Jesus Sucks Cock’ sprayed on the wall of the barn in graffiti. It’s decided we need a nightwatchman, a post for which I volunteer. And from that day forward, each night, from midnight ’til six, I keep watch. No stopping for tea. No falling asleep or playing with my privates. Just me and Mr Fricker’s Single Lens Reflex Camera, every night for five years, me peering through the zoom, and I’m telling you this so you come to see how keeping watch, it becomes a kind of habit for me.

SOPHIE: So, The Isle Of Man isn’t exactly the centre of the universe. It’s a place known mostly for cats with no tails and motorbikes. And jobswise it’s kind of limited beyond the financial sector. So when I finish college, Dad retires and buys a house in East London, in Leytonstone, which is where he grew up, and that’s where we live. It’s actually two separate flats, with me on the first floor and him underneath, with separate front doors and a shared garden. I find a job with a software company called Bunch. We design and sell collaboration and content management solutions for clients in the business market. So, that might be file-sharing apps, project management apps, video-conferencing tools, that kind of thing. I’m one of four Client Managers and I look after three main accounts: Southern Trains, Haribo Sweets and an Asian snack manufacturer called Balaji. And while I’m at work, Dad goes out and does stuff. London kind of stuff like matinees of plays, or free talks at the Royal Society. And then in the evening we cook in one of our kitchens and we talk. And everything’s pretty much perfect until his face turns yellow overnight. And the whites of his eyes go yellow ...

Table of contents

• Front Cover
• Half Title
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• Characters