★★★★★ There are shows you plan for months in advance, and then there are the ones you end up at almost by accident. This was the latter. A colleague couldn’t make it, the ticket fell to me, and I walked in with no expectations beyond the usual Fringe curiosity. It’s the kind of randomness the festival thrives on: a flyer pressed into your hand, a gap in your schedule, a name you’ve never heard. And every so often, one of those chance encounters turns out to be the thing that stays with you. This performance was one of those.
What unfolded on stage was an unflinching, expressive exploration of female bodily experience—its biology, its politics, its sheer physical reality. Not framed as a lecture, not packaged as activism, but delivered through a performer whose command of tone, movement and emotional clarity made the material land with force. The expressiveness was the engine of the piece: the way Cathleen O’Malley shifted from humour to discomfort, from anecdote to embodiment, made the themes feel lived rather than stated. It was theatre doing what theatre does best, revealing the world by inhabiting it.
The audience was predominantly female, which (possibly) made sense given the subject matter, but it struck me how vital this show is for men. I’ve got two children; I’ve witnessed pregnancy and birth second-hand, as much as any man can. Even so, I found myself learning, recognising gaps in my own understanding, seeing the biological and emotional realities from angles I hadn’t considered. For men who haven’t had that proximity—or haven’t had it yet—the show would be even more valuable. It’s rare to find a piece that is both entertaining and genuinely educational without ever slipping into didacticism. This one managed it.
Humour played a crucial role. The writing was sharp, the timing precise, and the performer knew exactly when to let the audience breathe. But the humour never softened the themes; instead, it made them accessible. You could laugh, and then suddenly find yourself thinking about the feminist implications of what you’d just heard. The show didn’t announce itself as feminist, but it absolutely was—rooted in lived experience rather than slogans, grounded in the biology and social realities that shape women’s lives. It’s the kind of feminism that works because it’s embodied, not declared.
Seeing it on the final night felt bittersweet. A show like this deserves a longer run, a wider audience, and a life beyond the festival. And that brings me to a broader point. Having reviewed the Fringe for many years, I’ve seen countless solo shows—original writing, singular voices, performances that could easily hold their own on a larger platform. There is enormous untapped potential here. Sky Arts could commission a series of filmed solo shows tomorrow. Channel 5 has already revived the spirit of Play For Today with original televised plays; the model exists. Netflix could do it. Any major platform could. And the audience is there.
Solo work is perfect for adaptation: intimate, character-driven, inexpensive to produce, and often more daring than mainstream drama. Shows like this one, with their blend of humour, insight and expressive performance, would thrive in that format. They deserve it. Original writing deserves it. And if someone reading this happens to have the power to make it happen, I hope they do.
I spoke with briefly with Cathleen as we were being hurried out the hall for the next performers coming in. Her carrying her only stage prop, a chair, in her hand. She tells me the show will tour and I will be watching for that.
Accidental discoveries are part of the Fringe’s magic, but some discoveries shouldn’t remain accidental. This performance was one of them.
Reviewed by Pat Harrington
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