Dinner at 7:30

In Britain recently, pawky, irrepressible Sunday Express Columnist Nat Gubbins happened on a learned report from Cornell University. "Cannibalism," it said, "has been an adjuster of the food supply to the population and of the population to the food supply . . . but currently it cannot be discussed in polite society."

That was enough for Gubbins. The next week his column "Sitting on the Fence" took the form of a play set in a Mayfair drawing room some time in 1955, when "every food shop in Britain is empty." Charles and Celia are seated on a divan.

Charles: You look lovely tonight. Positively delicious.

Celia: Don't say things like that, Charles. Not these days. It sounds quite frightening.

Charles: I didn't mean anything horrid --really I didn't.

Celia: But you must be hungry, poor darling.

Charles: I'm starving.

Celia (sighing): I simply don't know what we're going to do. There's nothing to eat at all, anywhere.

Charles: Except people. . . .

(Their discussion continues and Celia rises to pace nervously about.)

Charles: After all, it's not much worse than eating pigs. I once met a pig with big brown eyes and long lashes.

(Celia stops suddenly in her walk.)

Celia: That wasn't funny. It was in filthy bad taste.

Charles: Oh I'm sorry, Celia. I wasn't thinking of your big brown eyes and long lashes, really I wasn't. This pig's eyes were reddish brown, not velvety brown like yours.

(Celia continues her agitated walk.)

Charles: As this is a question of survival, I think we ought to take a more rational view of the whole business. . . . Let's face the facts. Your Uncle Edward is looking fitter than he's ever looked before. And what's more, there's much more room in that overcrowded house of his now that--well, now that there are fewer people in it.

Celia (stopping and staring out of the window): Maybe you're right.

Charles: I'm sure I'm right . . . it's been both a nutritional gain and a social gain. You can hardly say that Uncle Ed ward's sister was much of a social asset.

Celia: No. Hardly. . . .

(Celia opens the window and makes a sign to Uncle Edward, who approaches through the garden carrying a sack.)

Charles: Celia.

Celia: Yes, Charles.

Charles: You know I love you, don't you? . . .

(Uncle Edward is now at the window and climbing stealthily through.)

Charles: Come over and sit beside me, Celia.

(Celia walks over and sits beside him.)

Charles (taking her hand): Celia.

Celia: Yes?

Charles: I'm terribly hungry, Celia.

Celia: Poor darling.

Charles: You look so delicious. Did I tell you that before?

Celia (smiling): Even before the food shops were empty.

(He puts his arms round her as Uncle Edward creeps up on them with the sack.)

Charles: Poor Celia. Getting thinner every day.

Celia: Poor Charles, getting hungrier every day.

Charles: Do you know what I'm thinking?

Celia: I expect so.

Charles: What are you thinking?

Celia: The same.

Charles: And you don't mind?

Celia: Not now.

Charles: I couldn't bear anybody else.

Celia: Nor could I.

(Uncle Edward makes a sudden spring at Charles, puts the sack over his head, and holds him still.)

Uncle Edward (to Celia): Dinner tonight at 7:30.

Celia: I can hardly wait.

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