Writer’s note: To be performed either (a) as if you are channelling the spirit of a female relative of Jeff Noon who is channelling the spirit of Jeff Noon or (b) normally.
I am Jeff Noon. I have asked my first-born son for lunch. He is eight foot six. He stoops when there is a roof and he stoops when there is no roof. He does this all the time.
I own no chairs. I am Jeff Noon: I do not need chairs. My son stands in a pit I have dug in the floor of my lounge. He comes up from the ground like a tree, yet he is a man and not a tree.
My nose bleeds half way through lunch. My son tries to hide his wince as he does not like blood. He feels shame: he turns from me so I may not look at his shame. He spends the rest of the meal turned from me. He eats the food from the plate in his hand. He holds his plate as though I will steal his plate or look at his plate too much.
Jeff Noon’s next book, which is by me, Jeff Noon, may be a tale of twelve sons and twelve dads who eat lunch in a house where there are no holes in the floor. They will talk of the earth and all that is on it. They will talk of the sea and how they hate the sea as the sea is so big. They will not wince.
In the real world, there is just me with no chairs and my first-born son in a pit. We look at our feet and we do not talk of things. I am Jeff Noon. My son is tall. I will ask him back: we do this all the time.
