A melancholy but rewarding afternoon, performing for some very old folks at a lovely and warm community centre in Kemptown.

The event was arranged by Kat, my Treason Show partner in crime and all-round good egg. She had gather together a bunch of actors, comedians, and reprobates to perform an abridged version of A Christmas Carol – a bit late, perhaps, but still before Twelfth Night.

I played Bob Cratchitt (Kermit) and Young Scrooge (young Michael Caine). I had actually been learning my lines but everyone else had scripts so I did the same. I also had to learn and play four Beatles songs, which sounded nice and broke up the script well.

The audience was old indeed, I’d guess mid to late eighties on average. Some were more compos mentis than others, but all seemed to enjoy themselves. The irony of Scrooge’s contempt for the poor (and sudden change of heart) was not lost on me in this neo-Victorian setting. Dickens put his hope in charity; amid my other volunteers, I’d rather a functioning welfare state.

We hide our old people away. We don’t have the poor house any more – sorry, Scrooge – but the scandal of our privatised and very much hidden care home system, with its greed, cruelty, and profiteering, is one of the great cruelties and shames of our age. History will not look back kindly on us, if future historians come to pass.

Because I was singing the songs, the old folks took me to be the ringleader – incorrectly – and came up to speak to me after the performance. One was a chap called Bill, who said the performance moved him to tears, as it reminded him of his dear wife, who was involved in putting on Gilbert and Sullivan operas in her youth, and Bill himself was a stage hand.

Then a lady came over asking I I was the one with the lovely voice, what a charmer. This turned out to be Maura: not as old as Bill but quite clearly suffering with dementia. 

She had a distinct Irish lilt to her voice, leading me to ask where she grew up, and she said New York. We talked, occasionally at cross purposes, about the city for a bit, and I told her about my various Irish aunties, including the one with the same as her. She then handed me a slip of paper, asking me who it belonged to and whether it needed to be given to anyone.

The slip of paper was blank.

I’m hoping to be back for Bill, Maura, and the rest soon, and next time we’ll perform something a bit funnier.