Fun and relaxed improvised theatre class coming up this September in Ratby. We’ll play short form games, create characters and stories, laugh a lot and be playfully silly! All levels of experience welcome (that includes 0)!
Author Archives: anamariaweston
Wanderers’ Gift
On a dark November morning
As the crimson dawn turned pale
A painted caravan came groaning
Down the path to Little Vale.
Drowsy villagers lit gas lamps
Weary with the sights of war,
Rationed their welcome to the camp
Of vagrant wanders from afar.
A toothless hatter played a tune
On a violin patched up with rags,
His wife, a scrawny singing loon,
Joined his song with sighing lags.
A small boy, just turned four
Stopped in a trench, by the muddy stream
His bucket at hand, his eyes, a dream
What joyous wonder his ears bore?
He whistled – then from fuming holes,
Bright eyes with waking grins came forth
To sing with gypsies for the souls,
Who left the living world, up north.
Light drops trembled in the cobwebs
Which adorned the moving house,
A freckled lass came down its steps
Her tartan pockets, home for a white mouse.
She joined her mother, they embraced,
Then pulled a tin whistle from her curls,
Melodious notes a joyous wonder traced
On the lost faces of parents, boys and girls.
‘A dance for the living!’ a man asks,
And they dance to a merry jig,
The hatter’s hat in shrapnels basks,
As heavy feet footprint puddles dig.
Alas, ’tis dusk, the gypsies bid farewell,
And light their torch for the northern road
To bring the gift of song and wish men well,
As light seeps through, to lift darkness’s load.
Leave the Pram Behind
A pram awaits in a cold, boggy meadow,
How it reached this dell alone, nobody knows,
Squirrels jump on its hood, a baby to find,
Robins search the frozen ground for a sock left behind.
Muddy footsteps a red fox spots in the straggled grass,
Leading to a mossy gate which opens up a stony path
Towards the foaming sea shore at stormy Aberbach
Where frozen moonlight forges waves from liquid glass.
The Welsh wind swiftly searches bare branches of lost trees,
Forgotten lonnings where hardy men afeared wicked fairies,
It leaps and rolls to meet a sleeping babe tucked tight
In a mother and father’s embrace, who had left the pram behind.
Teggies Improv
Improv Class for Mothers and Babies
Note: Article was published in The Herald (Mid-April 2025, Page 10)
Babies give more than they take. Although parenthood is not for the faint hearted, when was the last time you had so much attention from someone (hopefully your spouse)? I am curious about how we can strengthen our connection to our babies, especially when our shared language is not fully fledged. I also think mothers should support each other more, as motherhood can feel isolating at times. One way we can achieve these goals is through the art of improvisation (improv).
Improv is theatre without a script, where stories and characters are created on the spot. The principles of improv revolve around acceptance and building on top of other people’s ideas (Yes and!), listening and “treating each other like poets and geniuses” (Del Close). I have witnessed how complete strangers become friends by the end of an improv class, due to the nature of getting out of our heads and listening to one another.
What about babies and improv? My main experience is in attending and running adult improv workshops and drop ins. I’ve recently become a mother, however, so my attention has shifted to little people. I noticed how my daughter, Dorothy likes to mirror me, smiles at my nonsense talk and funny voices, responds with her own and explodes with laughter and enthusiasm. Why, these are the very best traits of an improviser! Perhaps they can’t articulate words just yet, but they sure understand more than we give them credit for! So, in the spirit of improv, why not treat them like poets and geniuses, to see what happens?
The baby development books I am reading desperately, while baby sleeps, talk about the importance of relationships. Being There by Erika Komisar describes at length why a mother’s presence and emotional connection are essential in the first three years of life. Brain Rules for Baby by John Medina concludes that empathy, emotional regulation and clear and simple rules are ingredients for raising a happy, successful adult. The Importance of Being Little by Erika Christakis underlines the power of play and how meaningful relationships shape a child.
Apart from all the name dropping, science shows that emotional connection is the basis of cognitive learning and the first three years of a child should have a lot of the former! Since improvised theatre is all about human connection, I’d say we should give mummy and baby improv a try! Be warned, it may not work at times, but in the true “yes and” spirit, there are no mistakes, just opportunities! Either way, you’re guaranteed a good laugh! If you’re interested in an improv group for mummies and babies, or even for adults for that matter (work in progress), please contact me and I’ll tell you more. Future classes will run in Ratby, but could extend further if there is demand. Let the babbling begin!
Email: westonanamaria@gmail.com
Micul savant
Degetele pline au cuprins cotorul cartii,
Paginile se incovoaie, rasfoite neincetat
Manute vii bat si trag de coltul hartii,
Rupand o tara de la un mare imparat.
Inca nu mergi de-a busilea prin casa
Dar te descurci de-a rostogolul,
Incetisor ajungi sa strangi tot de pe masa
Si pui in cutia mare, ca sa-i umpli golul.
In padure, crengi inverzite iti ating obrazul,
Tu apuci si tragi cu sarg de-o ramurica,
Tot copacul tremura, si te cuprinde hazul
Pana dai de-o tainica urzica…
Ochisorii tai au prins un porumbel de coada
Vrei sa zbori cu el in florile de mar,
Smulgi petale albe si le-aduni gramada
Ma astepti apoi sa ti le culeg din par.
Micul meu savant, acum te-a cuprins somnul
Gurita curioasa se relaxeaza intr-un oftat,
Faci cu manuta la nevazut, unde Domnul
Te calauzeste cu iubire intr-un vis curat.
Tummy Roll
I seem to be stuck under a table,
With four hard legs on a scratchy mat
My arms push as far as they are able
‘Mummy, help!’ I cry, ‘I need a pat’.
I roll skillfully all over the floor,
Finding loose threads from an armchair
I eat everything and get stuck in the door
My arms bend in ways like never before.
I roll off the roll safe changing mat,
I wriggle and bend like an acrobat
Getting dressed has become a dance
With a foot in my mouth I give mummy a glance.
Dorothy’s Smile
Sleepy eyes and dozy sighs,
The clock strikes three when I awake,
Soft murmurs turn into disquiet cries
And pleas my heart cannot forsake
The little bundle frets, distressed
As I rest her gently on my breast,
I must have missed the feeding cues
As she now stiffens with red hues
Froggy legs and sparkling eyes,
My baby sleeps, my baby cries
And when she graces me her smile
My worries melt for a long while
Her eyes squint, her nose twinkles
Her mouth open in a toothless grin,
Ah, how her light my darkness crinkles
And lifts my ever-drooping chin
A restless battle then ensues,
As little fists dart up and down
Awake fights sleep and often wins,
Her legs bend at every sound
Morning light creeps through the door,
Dorothy betwixt less sleep and more,
Oh, come to our bed, you’ll fit just fine,
No room for us now, rise and shine!
Dr Felicity Misfortune’s Truthful Diagnoses
Bert’s Bee
Felicity sits quietly in her office, watching youtube videos of train crashes. Her diary is close to her, showing her the three appointments of the day. Bert Cornstock, Geraldine Farber, Franz Fritz Frooster.
The first patient comes in.
‘Mornin’ ma’am, mighty grateful for yer time.’
‘Have a seat Mr Cornstock, what hurts?’
‘This mornin’, at the crack of dawn, a bloomin’ bee stung me in me knee.’
Bert exposes his swollen knee.
‘Stop right there, no need for this amount of indecency in my clinic.’
‘How are ye to treat me if I can’t show ye me swollen knee?’
‘Many a swollen knee has come to me, with or without a bee. If there were no bee, my mind would see a remedy. Since the bee’s sting is trapped in your knee it is plain to see no remedy.’
‘So what does that mean for me?’
‘Malfunction in your calf and thigh.’
‘Does this mean I won’t be able to walk?’
‘Ah, so pessimistic Mr Cornstock, do not trouble yourself with such a thought. What you are stating is merely one of the many possibilities for an outcome.’
‘Ah, that’s good to hear…(gulps), me thinks. What other possibility do ye see ma’am?’
‘Of course there is the possibility that you are immune to bee poison, in which case nothing at all will happen and the lump will shrink off your knee in a little while.’
‘Can ye check that? I am fine with needles, if ye need to do a blood test.’
‘No need for that Mr Cornstock, as I see from your yellow complexion that the process has begun.’
Bert sighs but then looks up alarmed.
‘Yellow? Me face? Like honey?’
‘Ha, ha, I see you have not lost your sense of humour. It is a great gift in the face of the inevitable.’
‘Inevitable what?’
‘Why death of course?’
‘Death?’
‘Yes of course, it is bound to happen sooner or later.’
‘From a bee sting?’
‘Some go that way, if they are allergic to the poison.’
‘I feel faint!’
‘Oh no need to distress yourself Mr Cornstock. Have a lie down and I’ll fetch you an aspirin. It will help relieve the pain.’
‘I’m dying!’ Bert gasps for breath.
‘Not today Mr Cornstock, whatever gave you that idea?’
Bert shoots up.
‘You said I was about to die.’
‘I said no such thing, it would be very unprofessional of me. I merely stated that we all die at some point.’
‘Ah that’s such a relief!’
‘Hmm..’
‘Hmm? What hmm?’
‘Your toes have turned blue.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s as I’ve predicted. A malfunction on your calf stopped the circulation to your toes.’
‘Can you fix it?’
‘I have some unclogging syrup for just that.’
‘Ah wonderful!’
‘However, there is also the possibility that your aortic pump might be affected by the sting.’
‘Which pump?’
‘Your heart Mr Cornstock.’
‘My heart is sick?’
‘It’s only a theory, but if I administer unclogging syrup instead of aortic pump lubrication gels it might give you a heart attack.’
Bert is visibly agitated.
‘Is there a heart pill you can give me?’
‘Ah yes of course, let’s try this.’
She brings a round red little pill.
‘It’s a new experimental treatment that could fix both issues. If you agree to try it you’ll be helping the community and very likely going home a healthy man.’
‘This little pill will fix me knee, and heart?’
‘It is very likely, yes.’
‘Lovely, I’ll take it.’
He swallows the pill.
‘Ah, I forgot to mention, but there are some possible side effects including perspiration, indigestion, heartburn, leg cramps, light headaches and death.’
Bert gasps.
‘But mostly death.’
Disclaimer: Bert lived to get stung another day.
Mouse in the House
Skirting boards creak at night
With scratches and nibbles aplenty,
We knock three times and hide in fright
Wondering if mice ever visit the gentry.
Tick, tock goes the clock
At one, three and four,
Tim hopes he has fit a lock
On each and every door.
With baggy eyes we fall asleep
As dawn begins to break,
When a dripping noise starts to creep,
The mouse has left us with a lake!
Flickering Light
Ivan sat on a wooden stool, his back curved, shivering under a wooly blanket. He stared at his reflection in the small metal box, on the desk in front of him. A microphone mimicked his posture, bending towards him. Next to it, a lightbulb waited in the shade of the room. On the other side of the box, a set of holes marked some rudimentary speakers, with a chunky red button under them saying ‘Listen’.
A light knock made its way to Ivan’s desk, from the back of the room. Ivan half turned, his plump nose poking between the blanket rolls.
‘Come in,’ he said in a muffled voice.
A little angel flapped in, his head hidden behind a stack of blankets. He dropped them on the floor with a joyful sigh. He resembled a child of about ten, yet was about as high as a footstool.
‘Another cold day, sir, thought you could use a blanket. I made them myself!’
Feathers floated around the angel from dropping the blankets. He smiled a toothy smile. Ivan fully turned to watch the angel jumping around to catch the feathers. He let go of his own blanked and revealed a quiet grin.
‘No prayers today,’ Ivan finally said with a tint of sadness. ‘I don’t know why I volunteered for prayer duty again.’
‘Don’t be discouraged, it may take years for people to discover you.’
The angel stuffed his wings with the feathers in his hands. Ivan chuckled under his breath, then rose to get another blanket from the pile. His back bore the shape of a question mark as he shuffled towards the angel.
‘You know, you are always welcome to join us upstairs! It’s Moses’ turn to host the storytelling night. I hear he’s bringing his old staff, those two never really parted ways.’
‘Thank you Paulo, I’ll stay a bit longer, the reception is better on this cloud.’
‘As you wish, may it be blessed.’
Paulo picked up the rest of the blankets, smiled with all his might, then flapped clumsily out of the room. The door closed, while a chiming sound accompanied it.
Ivan turned to his metal box, his expression between hope and sorrow. He stared at the lightbulb. Its deadness reminded him of his spiritual struggles on Earth. Ivan closed his eyes, remembering the grace that would fill him after such times. He prayed and waited. He wrapped the second blanket around his feeble body and sneezed from the fluff.
Just before dozing off, his ears pricked at a buzzing sound. Ivan opened his eyes to see a slight flicker of light, pulsing against the bulb’s glass. His back straightened with anticipation. He pressed the button and listened.
White noise, followed by dispersed words resounded through the speakers.
‘Ivan….flight…mountain…help!’
The lightbulb flickered a few more times, then stopped.
Ivan jumped out of his seat and ran out of the room. Outside, hundreds of other clouds with little wooden huts such as his, floated around a cumulonimbus. The latter shone bright with multicoloured lights and emanated a sweet fragrance in the crisp stratospheric air. Little angels were flying in and out of the cloud, delivering various items like scrolls, blankets and soup.
‘Quick, someone is flying into a mountain, he needs help!’ Ivan shouted towards a group of angels.
A brownian motion of cherubs fluttered and flapped into the grand cloud to deliver the message. Ivan returned to his desk. The lightbulb was now on, the flickering had disappeared.
Ivan listened.
‘St Ivan, please help my son fly his kite today. It’s our first outing in the mountains and he’s very excited. I told him he can ask you for help, but he’s still waiting for the wind to pick up. I’m not sure if his prayer got to you, so I’m sending mine just in case.’
Ivan smiled with all his heart. Someone had remembered he’s the saint of kites.
*Thank you Timothy, for editing the piece.
Dr Anamaria Weston 