Tomorrow we’ll be twenty years older.

We’re all refugees now. 

No longer in the city. Living somewhere with the sound of the sea. 

Brexit been and gone.

Fireworks. 

A flood. A tsunami. An earthquake. A nuclear war. A kitchen fire. An explosion. 

We’re obsessed with disaster. There’s smoke and fear in the air. 

There’s a lot we don’t know about each other. 

Will my children’s children know how to write by hand?

On the walls of a prison we’ll project the content of letters from incarcerated women to their daughters. 

We’ll make show in an ice-rink full of water in a city centre full of abandoned luxury apartments. 

The sea level continues to rise at a rate of about one-eighth of an inch per year. 

We are 48, 49, 51, 53, 60, 63, 71, 76, 80.

Not true. Let’s face it – some of us are dead. And some of us are gone.

A choreography performed again and again by different bodies in different cities in different countries around the world.  It is 10pm in Manchester. 11pm in Amsterdam, Zurich, and Copenhagen. 12am in Baghdad. 2.30am in New Delhi. 4am in Bangkok. 7am in Brisbane. 3pm in Calgary. 4pm in New Orleans. 6pm in Sao Paulo. 

There are over one hundred trees on the stage. Smaller than you’d imagine.

We’ll take it in turns to attend planning meetings for organisations that are not our own.