I'm not very good at being green. You know this already. It's my great shame. I try. I really do. Like the other day: I spent a full five minutes in the household items aisle in Sainsbury's staring at the Ecover offerings. I knew I should get them. I've just moved into a new flat. This could be a new beginning for me. A fresh, planet-friendly, start. I've already recycled all my moving boxes. And like, it's a small flat. It doesn't require much in the way of products to keep it clean. But the next thing I know, I'm standing in the self-service queue in Poundland buying some cut-price Persil, and that's the end of my environmental adventure.
If only being sustainable could be more, well, sustainable. You can imagine the trepidation I feel going off to watch a play about climate anxiety. I may not have the climate part down quite yet, but I am hot on feeling anxious. And one thing that always gets my palms sweating, is the thought of being called out.
In Anna Spearpoint's new play, Omelette, we meet Mia (Spearpoint herself) and Mo (Kwami Odoom). They've just met, and seem to be getting on rather well. They are both into saving the planet, but like... in a slightly-cynical-and-totally-not-obsessed kinda way.
The knowing looks are tempered by a touch of side-eye. They both belong to that slither of an age bracket within which 'vegan' can be used as a complete sentence, and while they book the odd Uber, they remain slightly embarrassed by the fact.
Still, they know how important the planet is, and they're not afraid to do their bit. Even if the rest of the world is taking its fucking time catching up. "They're still teaching them about the fucking Tudors," groans Mo as they despair of the education system. That sounds bloody familiar. I learnt about the Tudors three years running when I was a kid. And from what I hear, not much has changed. Schools fucking love the Tudors. Which is great for the success of the musical Six, but I think Mo may be onto something here. No one ever taught me how to recycle and I feel that a lesson on whether to leave the lids on milk bottles would have done me more use than getting a primer in royal slut-shaming.
The pair circle around each other on a matt that looks part vortex, part hypnotic spiral. Whatever it is, Seren Noel's design is pulling them in, and dragging us down with them.
As the new couple grow closer, their need to do good feeds off of one another. First, they're giving up tea ("exploitation") then trips to Pret ("You're better than that"), then paper.
I don't mind telling you, that as someone with a heavy tea addiction, a taste for Pret matcha lattes, and a nasty programme-buying habit, I'm feeling a little judged here. Fuck, I mean seriously, I really need to get my act together with the whole recycling thing. This shaming is getting to me. Even fictional characters are laying the judginess on thick now.
Still, the dialogue is snappy and the action fast-paced. Scene changes are hurried along by two bikers, slipping rucksacks over backs and stuffing the appropriate props inside. Tash Hyman's direction is making sure that we're getting our five-a-day packed in tight in the small Tupperware of fringe festival time slots. Not that they are sparing themselves from their own narrowed gazes.
They lean on each other, heavier and heavier as they try to lighten their carbon footprint, taking more and more extreme measures. They're not afraid to crack whatever eggs it takes to make the omelette of the title.
Not that they eat eggs, of course.
Vegan.
Here's the thing though. Those cracked eggs? Those extreme measures? I’m pretty sure I could make that work.
I've always secretly believed that my dream job would be as an anchorite. You know, those nuns who locked themselves away in cells. Closed off from the world, they exist in a kind of living death. I'd be into that.
Apart from the whole Jesus thing. I'm pretty sure the Catholic church isn't hiring Jews right now. Which is rude. But for some reason, they can't get done for religious discrimination, so I guess my pseudo-funeral will have to wait. At least until we're all under coronavirus lockdown.
Somehow, I don't think we're supposed to be thinking of Mo and Mia's fate as aspirational, though I'm sure it is meant to inspire us to crack of few eggs. Metaphorical, carbon-neutral, eggs, natch.
Thing is, I do wonder whether theatre is the right medium for the message.
One of my coworkers' go-to rants is on the wastefulness of theatre. The ephemeral nature of the art form means that everything we see has been created just for the purpose of a few short shows. Even shorter when we're talking about runs at the Vaults.
And yes, VAULT Fest may be pimping their green credentials this year. And the programmes for Omelette are delivered via QR code. But surely the greenest thing of all would have been not to put it on in the first place.
I suppose the only answer is to make sure it’s worth it. As soon as I'm done typing this up, I'm sorting out my damn recycling. And once and for all, I'm figuring out whether I'm supposed to screw the caps back on my empty milk bottles.
Omelette played at VAULT Festival from 18 - 23 February 2020