Unsuccessful Call.

Unsuccessful Call.

We tried to phone so many times. Left messages that we hoped against hope would be listened to. There was no reply. Did this place even exist? The calm, bland, recorded message, always the same never changing or expanding. No recognition of our frustration or indeed our longing, excitement, desire, to go to this event. We’re here, we really want to support you! We’ve paid you money!! Why wait won’t you answer, why can nobody help? Phoning again, tapping in the numbers, physically crossing fingers and willing someone to answer. ‘Not our responsibility’. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you’. ‘That‘s not something we can check’. We‘ve slipped into a ghost theatre world, where we are invisible and inaudible, trying to get to something mythical that is ever-receding.

He tried to phone so many times. Left messages that he hoped against hope would be listened to. There was no reply. Did this place even exist? The calm, bland, recorded message always the same. No recognition of his frustration and his longing - to just get to this place, where he could be safe, where he could settle, where he could do, contribute support. All they had to do was answer and the door would open, and he‘d be there. Why would nobody help?

‘That‘s not something I can decide.’

‘That‘s not within my power.’

‘You‘re not our responsibility.’

He had slipped into a ghost world, where people looked through him; where he was invisible and inaudible, trying to get to this mythical country that was ever-receding, a slowly closing door, a hostile face, a hand held out to say ‘stop’, a sheer wall holding him at bay.

He sat down and picked up the phone one more time.