Attempts on her life

Jude went to the vet, and I agreed to go with her. She swayed on her tall, thin legs as the DLR train wobbled and lurched carrying us down through its tunnel beneath the Thames, emerging in the foothills of Greenwich. The vet sucked his teeth as he examined Jude’s wound. The only way he could stitch it, he explained, would be to make the wound larger to form an ellipse thus exposing the subcutaneous layers and providing suitable edges to join together. Even then he would need to fit a ‘drain’ to get rid of the likely discharge. Alternatively, we could let it heal naturally, although this course of non-action would most likely result in a sizeable, fur-free scar. It was a question of aesthetics he said. I checked out his curtains. I tried to explain all this to Jude using words she understood, like ‘biscuit,’ ‘walkies,’ ‘stay’ and ‘epistemological’. She furrowed her brow nervously as she considered the almost inevitable disfiguration of her sleek form resulting from the latter option, compared to the further discomfort, distress and anxiety associated with the former. Using a mixture of winking, blinking, low-growls and paw gestures, she explained that she would prefer to let nature take its course. I translated this for the benefit of the vet who, without another word, got out his electric clippers and proceeded to remove a square of Jude’s fur, leaving the wound exposed and now exaggerated against its nude pink background. The vet asked if I’d like anything else while I was there. ‘How about a Brazilian’ I ventured? Fie my flippancy – how I wished I’d opted for a stiff drink when they presented me with the bill. I’m sure The Priory’s cheaper hour-on-hour. Thank heavens for insurance. And merkins come to that. Come on Jude, let’s get you home. ‘Woof!’

Later on, sitting in the Circle Bar of the Lyttelton at the National Theatre I sucked on a cold bottle of Stella and wondered what the production of Martin Crimp’s Attempts on her Life held in store. As it turned out, we were confronted with nearly two hours of amazing theatre. I’m glad I didn’t have to stand up at the end and explain to everybody what it was all about because I would have floundered appallingly, which would have been a shame because I thought it was bloody marvellous. A tangled cornucopia of live video-feeds and rock music, news, reviews, think-tanks, brainstorming sessions, pop-culture references and about a thousand anxiously smoked cigarettes. And that was just me in the loo beforehand. Boom boom.