Just call me Amanda. Or Catherine. Or Mabel.

Posted on November 16, 2011

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I love it. When else can I walk into a room and announce ‘Good evening, I’m Catherine Pilkington Smythe and I’m looking for a man’?  When else can I storm into the middle of a cocktail party chanting some slogan or other? When else can I spurn offers of marriage in front of a room of confused on lookers, introduce a bestselling playwrite or choke and collapse, dead, on the floor?

The delights of a Murder Mystery.

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly the ‘audience’ move from absolute shock and bemusement to completely hooked, participating sleuths.  Those guests who arrive to be asked ‘have you come to the bring and buy’ … and stutteringly respond ‘well, no, I’m here for Alison’s 40th Birthday party, and it’s a murder mystery you know’.  Those who ask ‘has it started?’, ‘are you one the actors?’, ‘what’s your real name?’

I love it. I’ve loved being Dorothy, with Toto, a basket and beautiful ruby red slippers; I’ve loved being Molly, poisoned after spurning an admirer; I’ve loved mostly, being Amanda, a bit of a glamour puss, with long polished nails – showing off my prized vegetables at a local gardeners meeting.

It’s a hoot. It takes away the stresses of the day, and it makes people laugh.

What could be better?

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