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.