Sticky Situation

At the gig I did tonight someone stole my gaffa tape. For those of you who don't work in theatre, in the grand scheme of things, a good roll of gaffa tape is just below your firstborn. And I have no children. Almost every problem I've ever had can be solved by gaffa tape, including a few relationship issues. I've done shows seemingly constructed of nothing but the black sticky stuff, and it's got me out of more scrapes than my good looks and quick-thinking (a total that currently stands one less than nothing). It's my own fault really, I should have known you can't just leave a good roll like that lying around. Especially as I stole it from a guy who did just that in the first place. This was no normal roll either: extra wide, smooth as a baby, strong as an ox. Basically it was the extra wide baby ox of gaffa tape. And now someone out there is strutting around with my tape, fixing stuff to stuff, setting marks, repairing props, it's enough to make you sick. I once realised that gaffa tape rhymes with jaffa cake. With that in mind I have composed this short poem; think of it as a eulogy.

Losing my gaffa tape Was like Losing ten jaffa cakes But worse Because I still have ten jaffa cakes