There is always a tendency in my writing to give agency to those who seemingly have none. My play Dance The Colour Blue is about loss: of companionship, of love, of identity. What does it mean to be so absorbed by another that you can become as easily subsumed as the air that they breathe? You become a void: a repository into which any hint of a notion or scintilla of an idea can be tossed. All of it equally able to stick. Not a single joule of resistive energy anywhere to be found. Literature is littered with such examples - and they are overwhelmingly women. Take Shakespeare’s Cordelia in King Lear, or Ophelia in Hamlet, or so many supporting females in contemporary dramas able be replaced by a ‘sexy lamp’ without impacting the narrative. Or Penelope in Homer’s The Odyssey. Often seen as enigmatic, Penelope is the centre of the mythological strand of Dance The Colour Blue,

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