The curious incident of the dog in the night

At the head of every investigation is a Funeral King.

It’s up to me if I want to go and watch The Curious Incident of The Dog In The Night, but I have to be shielded from the limelight. I’m in solitary confinement. Prince Harry went last week. We got a box at the side. On the luminescent stage was a 17 year old protagonist; a self appointed detective taking his A-levels. I was wearing a £400 New York dress. It had been reduced to £139. Tom Stoppard was at the adjacent theatre for press night in a play that I’ve seen. It’s up to me if I have to leave the performance because of coughing. It was when the boy was completing his train set just before the interval.

Detective work is very much up to people with special needs. It’s the ideal ruse. Information has to go somewhere. It has to be transcribed through a live inhibitor. It’s up to me if I want to receive an electric shock. If I am a sheep I know where the fence is. I got one that night, just after tucking up. Didn’t see the fence.

The women in the play all confused me apart from the teacher. They talked fast emotion. They were brilliantly het up in different forms of electrical conduction, but couldn’t be paid for being sensible. The dog is the king in the opening scene with the fork put through him. Neighbours become suspects, and the protagonist keeps notes of interviews in a green file. It gets confiscated! He bounds about the houseless stage on a piece of graph paper, knocking imaginary doors and skirting black and green. The only props allowed are seats, animals and pieces of chalk. It’s very rub away. He is quite the commentator for taking on death as a proper subject, and for taking on life as a respectable equation. Most special people don’t do it.

I have to get into Oxford if I am to cross back through to the limelight. Sex as my special subject. Nobody knows how I did it with Blue Grunt, as I never showed workings.

The protagonist is much cleverer than me and can solve triangles. He is pushed between rowing parents emotionally. When the mother shacks up in london the father tells him his mother is dead from a heart attack. He has to come to life by finding her after relentless public transport. Special people are allowed bedrooms but seldom departures to leave them. He gets shunted around by policemen and strangers.

I am a sex object. I am cordoned off by electric fields, just like a mind on graph paper for bedding nineties Hollywood. Etcetera. I was on buzz feed. All I am given in return is headlines and other unregulated sleeping patterns. Not allowed to associate with fame, even though I went interrailing with Blue Grunt before he was famous. Unofficially contained, I returned with my eyes shut. It is not in my interests to have been on set of the Tight Antic. Special people aren’t expected to have or direct sex. Sex is special and I’m not.

There isn’t any in the play.

We have nothing in common.

He didn’t eat for wanting to sit triangle exams.

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