Two women talk about their lives. Their child­hoods. Their rela­tion­ship with their par­ents. Their OE’s. Their, erm,  escapades. Their uncles and aunts. They are moth­er and daugh­ter.

A table, a couple of stools, a slideshow pro­ject­or, and a screen with pho­tos pro­jec­ted onto it provide the back­drop for Kate and Mir­anda Har­court to tell the stor­ies from their lives. It’s not neces­sar­ily the truth – it’s the truth as they remem­ber it. Some­times the truth is sup­por­ted by record­ings. Some­times it’s mur­ki­er than that.

Most of the action takes place around the cent­ral table. My favour­ite scenes are the ones where they break from that. There’s a styl­ish radio play that sets out the story of Kate’s Aus­trali­an side of the fam­ily. There’s anoth­er story in Aus­tralia con­cern­ing Mir­anda and a bit where she does­n’t say any­thing, only reacts.  It shows the mis­chief that she must have got up to.

It’s decept­ively simple, this storytelling. A lot of ground is covered. Recur­ring themes rise and fall and morph into oth­er things. The stor­ies are clev­erly woven togeth­er so we hear the exper­i­ence of dif­fer­ent gen­er­a­tions in the same place. It’s lovely and funny, with a heart­break­ing fin­ish.