The zoomies, that nightly sprint from the bedroom to the kitchen and back at the speed of a startled bus, are routinely dismissed as senseless. These are the same people who admire jazz. Look closer. The route is consistent: bed, hall, sofa, a wall run of exactly four feet, and a skid on the tile that is never the same twice. This is not chaos. It is improvisation within a form.
I have clocked the most committed performers, led by a ginger called Mr. Pumpernickel, at roughly 31 kilometres an hour over six metres, which is, by my arithmetic, a very fast cat. The audience, often asleep, seldom applauds. This, I think, is how you know the work is serious. Ask any poet.
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