Michael Gabriel

I am introduced to the playwright of a new play in which I will perform.  We shake hands and he puffs out his chest.  He tells me his name and I tell him mine.  I ask if he has got any others.  'I've got loads of names', he tells me proudly, shifting from one leg to the other.  When I ask why he shrugs his shoulders, 'I don't know'.  He smiles and puts his hands in his pockets. We discuss the characterisation of Bob Lit, the damaged traffic light.  He is ten years old.