Banana Skin


A banana, yesterday.

‘You are… the banana,’ said Chris the director, with his most practised smile.

‘But I don’t get it,  Chris – what’s my motivation, here? I’m not FEELING it’.

‘Thomas. You’re a banana. A slippery customer, if you will, haw, haw, haw’, gurned the director, to much ribald laughter from the production crew, who had endured such complaints all afternoon.

‘I was bloody Benedick last year’, mumbled Thomas bitterly, joining the others on set.

‘Problem, Thomas?’

‘No, nothing at all. Just the sound of my soul shrinking…’

‘Okay, everyone. Places, please. Turning over, and… ACTION!’

The assembled fruit chorus, comprising Mango, Banana, Pineapple and Coconut shimmied artlessly as the jingle struck up:

‘It’s a tropical explosion in your mouth

For pure fruity goodness, just fly South…

Let me be specific…

Taste the sun in South Pacific!’

All of the rumour mongers of such high-minded publications as Wotcha! magazine and The Sun had an ongoing campaign that the Mango and Coconut, two successful soap actors, were, ‘at it between takes’, as it was eloquently and delightfully put.

As the wardrobe assistant put it, ‘I mean, how much vitamin C can a person get?’

‘I’m more a pear man, meself, ‘offered the set designer.

Meanwhile, Thomas was being helped out of his banana costume, sweating profusely and growling profanely.

Tomorrow, he vowed inwardly, he would go back to the RSC to hand in his CV- there were forthcoming auditions for Hamlet – he was sure to be in the running.

No more whoring himself for inconsequential television roles; no more advertising cheap fruit juice (so demeaning).

Settling into his dressing room chair, he sniffed righteously at the mirror, as he removed the yellow face and body paint – hideous stuff that broke him out in a rash.

Then went home, and ate chips in front of the television.

(Lorna Irvine)

Previously unpublished.



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