“The time has come,” I thought, “to take issue with Oscar. I leave him alone for a couple of weeks while I’m too busy to do anything else except hunt and take care of Penny and the new brood plus a parrot, and what happens? He upsets the entire feminist lobby and gets the column changed from weekly to monthly. Was I complaining about it being weekly? No! But, as soon as my back is turned, he starts whingeing to my darling Janie about it being too much of a strain for his tired old eyes... All together now, an expression of sympathy: aaaaaaaaaaah...... In my opinion, it’s not his eyes that’s tired, old and growing dim, it’s his BRAIN!”

Well, I decided it was time to exchange a few confrontational words with him, so I hovered over the good ship ‘Playmaker’ (formerly the ‘Esprit de Noel’, now permanently moored beside the Granary Theatre, Malcaster, somewhere in England, in case you need reminding), before dropping in – so to speak – on him. What I did not spot was the burgee flying at half mast as a sign of bereavement. He flies what he refers to as ‘Cara’s family crest’, the skull and crossbones. It had slithered halfway down the jackstaff, but I hadn’t noticed.

“Right!” I transmitted as I landed on the galley table and folded my wings ready to deliver a few serious peckings and assorted gougings of his intellect, if I could find it. “What’s all this nonsense I’ve been hearing about – exPLAIN yourself!”

I was sorry immediately, as soon as he raised his head from where it had been buried in his hands. His eyes were bathed in tears that dribbled down his paper-crumply withered old cheeks and a heart-rending sob escaped from his soul. He fumbled for his handkerchief and vigorously blew his nose into it as a cover-up, but nothing could hide the fact that he was submerged in paroxysms of grief.

“My dear chap,” I cooed. “What’s the trouble?” In the throes of compassion, I had quite forgotten my belligerent intent. I became aware of music emanating from the boat’s CD-player. It was a sort of music that I adore. I waited while my friend unpacked his trunk (so to speak), wiped his nose and blinked away his tears, but they welled up again and he unashamedly let them flow, his entire being suffused in anguish. We listened to the perfection of a black woman sharing her mastery of music with us and straining it effortlessly through her lifetime of oppression and suffering in an outpouring of unutterable beauty. Between tracks, Oscar spoke.

“Sorry, Jonah, but it’s just too much pain for me to bear,” and he sobbed again.

“But, what is, my friend? What on earth has happened?”

“Nina Simone has died. I just heard it on the news. I’m playing this CD in her memory and it really seems so sinful to me that no more...” He got no further.

“Did you know her?” I asked.

He blinked at me for a few moments, then said, “Oh yes, Jonah, I knew her so well. I’ve been in love with her for many, many years. Can’t you tell?”

At last I understood. He was being theatrical.

“Look!” I said, sharply. “Just switch this off until you’re free in your own company to wallow in your sludge of emotional excess. We have things to discuss.”

I waited while he silenced the machinery and sat down again.

“You know very well,” I began, “that I have been seasonally preoccupied with my parental and matrimonial duties. It appears that - in jottingly deputising for me – instead of reflecting my theatrical views and standpoints, you have seized this opportunity to deluge my faithful readers with your own opinions and prejudices that have little to contribute to the well-being of Amateur Theatre, Now, explain yourself!”

“Certainly,” he responded, a touch haughtily and with a dribbly sniff, “I’m sick of being a member of so many repressed majorities.”

An icy silence covered my need to think that one through.

“You what?” I enquired.

“You heard,” he scoffed. “I am an anglo-saxon male pipe-smoker of advancing years and decidedly heterosexual proclivities, yet I am a resolute campaigner for freedom of expression by all representatives of humankind and owldom, regardless of the role in which fate has cast them. You, Jonah, can read my thoughts, therefore you know my innermost secrets. Have I ever been prejudiced against any sector of society? Have I ever repressed anyone’s rights to their free expression and chosen lifestyle?”

His interrogative glare was so intense that I found myself shifting guiltily.

”Well...” I began, thinking of his authoritarian stance as a director in Theatre.

“NEVER!”, he continued, pounding a clenched fist on the table to add emphasis and to almost launch me into flight. “So... and, by the way, I received twelve e-mails in direct response to my protest about having gibbering bimbos foisted on us as experts in fields of human endeavour about which they know nothing and have no experience to justify their appointment. Only one of these correspondents – a lady in America – rebuked me for my attitude but applauded my right to express a point of view, the rest were in total agreement. Understand, Jonah? I kept your column alive!”

“There’s no need to be so aggressive,” I reasoned.

“But, don’t worry, I won’t do it again. And, by the way, must I accept in our relationship that you have the monopoly on being aggressive? Will you share this new prerogative of yours with all female characters in the media who present role models for the next gullible generation by being rude, by sneering and even by being violent, while men are expected to be dull, passive and stupid in response. Heaven forfend that men should respond in like kind. It is for men to collapse in agony in response to a knee in the groin, however poorly aimed and weakly delivered, not to answer their assailants...”

Thank God he was interrupted by the arrival of someone on the stern deck. I thought it was Cara, whom I had watched earlier disappearing to the shops, but it turned out to be Sinead, the university student who had appeared so promising in Oscar’s master-class on directing. With her was a young man of swarthy complexion who had introduced himself at the same session as Skap, a resident of the Porton housing estate on the outskirts of Malcaster. Jonah’s anger dispersed in an instant.

“Welcome!” he sung, his face instantly radiating a warm smile, like sunshine emerging from behind a cloud. “Come on in, the pair of you. You’re just in time to meet my special friend, Jonah. Be so good as to pop the kettle on the stove, Skap.”

Skap complied while grinning over his shoulder as Sinead settled herself at the galley table and began happily tickling my neck. Normally, Oscar warns people against doing this, but I silently warned him against stopping her, on account that I had developed a soft spot for Sinead and could stand all the fondling that she could hand out. I was surprised that Oscar had been so smart as to keep in touch with her.

Skap joined us at the table as soon as the heat was under the kettle. I was relieved that he did not attempt to join in with the tickling. His hands appeared large and rough. He looked tall and strong, with the most intelligent eyes.

“Good news,” announced Oscar. “The Granary’s management committee has approved our use of the rehearsal room to conduct our workshop, several actors – including some absolute beginners - have offered their services and a dear old friend of mine called Sam Adams – an experienced and qualified teacher of stagecraft – has reappeared after many years away from Malcaster. I suggest that we begin our work by selecting two one-act plays on which you can begin your preparatory work.”

“Just a minute,” I transmitted testily. “What exactly is going on?”

He held out a finger for me to hop onto and lifted me up to his shoulder, where I began whispering frantically into his ear, much to the amusement of Sinead and Skap.

“Sounds good,” said Skap as Oscar ignored my request for information. “How much will you influence our selection and interpretation of the plays?”

“We can discuss every aspect, the three of us, but finally I will accede to your judgement as the plays’ directors. I suggest you choose a Stage Manager soon, to organise all practical aspects of both plays as a single production. Sam Adams can start soon with actors’ workshops and tuition sessions, with which I will help whenever he asks and you can attend if you want to, but please protect your image.”

“What about performances,” asked Sinead.

“November 20th and 21st, Thursday and Friday in the rehearsal studio for Players’ members only, and your friends of course. After that, you can take the production wherever you want to, so make sure it’s designed for touring. I’ll help you with that.”

The kettle began to whistle as it came to the boil. Skap went to brew the tea.

“Oscar...” began Sinead in some sort of confusion. She had a gentleness of tone that I found most endearing. “Your reasons for doing all this... I thought you’d retired.”

”I have,” said Oscar, smugly. “I’ve retired from directing, but I will never retire from caring about the wellbeing of Amateur Theatre. It could be the last form of free expression for ordinary people, if only we can carry it back to Shakesoeare’s audience that comprised of all sectors of the community and not just a privileged elite.”

“Right...” murmured Skap, slowly nodding his agreement. “And...”

“And I care most fiercely for the wellbeing of Amateur Theatre in my own home town, specifically the Granary, where we are fast running out of directors, actors, technicians and Audience-members. I’m an honorary member of quite a few companies with which I have worked in the past; I receive their members’ newsletters and every last one of them complains about the same things as the Granary, yet not one of them designs its programme for the vast mass of people who never attend performances.”

“So we do that...” said Skap.

“...by creating a production that is relevant to the everyday problems of modern living, but we make it entertaining...”

“What about original material,” asked Sinead. “Can we use new stuff?”

“Too damned right we can,” insisted Oscar. “We can hunt out the town’s playwrights and encourage them to submit their plays – maybe even hold a competition – or we can create our own new plays in workshop. It’s up to us.”

“And simultaneously we create new members for the Granary...” observed Skap, sagely, “...then we take our shows right to where the people are – in the community clubs, the church halls...”

“Anywhere with enough space – out on the street if we want to,” said Oscar.

“,,,so that they can see what they’ve been missing,” concluded Skap.

“A problem we have,” said Jonah, “is that people won’t admit how much television they watch. But television, like all of the mass media, is controlled by its advertisers or ‘sponsors’ and by a government that thereby controls our thoughts, our opinions and therefore our purse-strings. Why shouldn’t they protect their jobs? But what I’m talking about is a means by which we can re-establish the voice of each community by doing what we love best: putting on plays to the highest standard we can manage with the resources available to us. It will mean hard work and dedication...”

Clearly, the two apprentices were being swept along on Oscar’s tidal wave of enthusiasm. The ideas seemed good and praiseworthy, but – on the basis that nothing is new under the heavens - I wondered how many times this approach had been tried before. Then again, is this a reason for not trying afresh?

I left them discussing their tactics, their finances and their material. Up above us, under the eaves of the Granary Theatre, among the ivy that grows there, my family and assorted dependants were waiting for me, depending on me. Soon, my new owlets would be searching for mates and for theatres in which to make their nests.

I flitted out of the meeting almost unnoticed and went home to rest and to think.

Jonah was a very experience director, teacher and writer who sadly passed away in February 2006. He was also the author of the highly successful "Playmaker - The Craft of Directing Plays (The Way I Seen It)".