Hannah Maxwell’s one-woman show is both endearingly funny and cripplingly sad. It starts in Luton, where she’d moved to look after her recently widowed nan, who leads a slow life, consisting of daytime TV, microwaved Oat-So-Simple and ready-made cottage pie. Meanwhile, Maxwell daydreams about the French Eurovision star Barbara Pravi, lurching into far-flung fantasies and coming up with a ridiculous masterplan to learn French fluently and seduce her.
Maxwell is an absolute pleasure to watch: she has a way of filling the room and a gentle cheekiness, for example when she comically leaves the audience just sitting there, awkwardly, while she puts headphones on to do chores. Her storytelling is stirringly evocative but, despite the mundane subject matter, never dull.
The clever staging and charming use of audience participation helps her routine tasks feel urgent, while the near-constant pinging of her phone reminds us of her sacrifices as a carer. It’s obvious that she’s never truly present, yet she continues to crack jokes and flirt with the audience to trick us into thinking that she’s fine; happy perhaps. Even her delusional infatuation with Pravi seems, for a minute, not completely out of the question.
Fast-forward and we soon find out that, actually, nan is fine: it is Maxwell who is struggling to go at life alone. At the end, a confessional twist is revealed and the fast pace of the play is brought to a sobering halt. This is a story about addiction, obsession and grief – but also about self-reflection and looking after yourself. It’s delivered with such a bite that you’ll be thinking about it for days – a truly incredible hour that takes you by surprise and doesn’t let go.
