Grace sat crossed-legged on their tattered couch. She was twirling her pen absent-mindedly and biting her lower lip. Peter stood for a moment at the front door looking in through the window and marvelled at her beauty. And that this scene of domestic bliss was about to let him enter from off-stage.
ENTER PETER he imagined the playwright declaring.
Tiggy is the first to react, but moments later, Grace turned and smiled.
She patted the couch next to her and he takes his rightful space.
Grace placed her pen between her teeth and revealed two pages of notes. At the top of the first page is the title: “Camping trip”.
Below, itemised, was a list of everything they might need for their four day camping trip.
Peter felt the rush of anger surge through him as he read through the list. He wanted to scream that planning was the one thing you didn’t do for a camping trip. That was the point of camping. That was part of the fun. Shit, we forgot toilet paper, as he and his mate had done on their last trip. So, they improvised and learnt how to rub their bums across the dirt just like a mangy dog would do. It worked. And it still made a great story to tell over some beers.
But here, with everything planned, what would be the fun?