Each audience member is handed some golden pipe cleaners and is invited to make a craft. The stage and auditorium are littered with crumpled shirts, and it’s clear that our hero is struggling with their wardrobe. These choices feel neuroinclusive to this ADHDer: I’m happy to busy myself with a handcraft and feel oddly at home sitting amongst unfolded laundry. 



As the show begins, there is a dedicated recording that describes the nature of the participation and how we should engage. There will be direct address and conversation with individual audience members, but we are taught to say “pass” if we don’t consent to playing along. We’re given permission to leave the space if we need to and are forewarned that the performer will walk in the audience maskless. This artist knows how to put us at ease and obviously has a heart-centred approach. She knows how to hold us in the palm of her hand; tickling us in one breath, prodding us gently with another, and setting us down gently when she herself hops into the fire. 


Our hero, Vera, is a former atheist, a school nurse (currently), and is very likely to become a nun soon. Without warning, we, the audience, appear in her chaotic bedroom as a heavenly horde of saints. Though horrified at first, she then takes advantage of the moment and recruits us to help her pick through her clothes (and brain) and give our opinion on which items must be donated, and which ones ought to be saved for her next chapter.

This show is as hilarious as it is heartbreaking. Lauren Hance connects with us and incorporates our offerings with such disheveled comic charm that I cannot help but draw comparisons to the likes of Rachel Dratch. Single performer shows like this can sometimes feel difficult to sustain energy-wise, but this was a masterclass in how to do the form justice. Whether or not you feel drawn to conversations around pleasure or religion, I highly recommend adding this show to your list. There wasn't a false moment in sight.