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That One Woman Show

It was billed as a new comedy. The West End’s hilarious One Woman Show.

A lovely friend asked me if I’d like to see it with her. And I said yes. Mainly for the great company, but the reviews for the show also sounded intriguing.

“The number one comedy of 2022!” said the Evening Standard.

“Joke-packed. Perfectly pitched,” wrote The Guardian.

I met my friend early because the train strikes meant getting the right train to the West End could take time.

The tube was heaving with people. The Piccadilly line was packed. And all of us were squished like sardines until we were released at Leicester Square.

We were an hour early. But wandered around the rain dappled streets until we found a little cafe where we could sit, sip, and chat.

My friend asks the best questions. They are thoughtful and interesting. I think it’s her superpower.

It was a pleasure to answer them and hear her insights in response.

When it was time, we made our way to the show.

There were no intervals warned the staff at the door.

I settled in for the next hour and a half, looking forward to what was going to happen next.

What happened next was one woman, Liz Kingsman, entertaining us, capturing our attention for the next 90 minutes.

Funny. Confused. Insightful. Irreverent. Sad. The show was a mind and heart bender.

Would I recommend it to my friends? I don’t know. I just wanted to give the protagonist a big hug when it was all over.

I wanted to reassure her that underneath all that brave laughter and pain, life really does get better.

But I couldn’t. Because she was a figment of someone’s imagination.

Or was she real?

It was that kind of show.

And I was glad I went.

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