The platypus is a semiaquatic, venomous, egg-laying mammal whose first presentation to European scientists at the turn of the 19th century was judged to be several animals sewn together. It defied a clean categorisation and has its own genus – a genre, if you like, of the animal kingdom. Francis Greenslade’s first original play of the same name attempts to do the same in the performing arts kingdom, where a domestic drama spirals downwards across many, many genres stitched together.

There is a play-within-a-play, performing and dialogue styling from Mamet, Shakespeare, Wilde, Pinter and Beckett, as well as a handful of television and cinema genres – Cary Grant makes an appearance, as does a foul-mouthed ventriloquist’s dummy. It’s all very clever, but perhaps too much so, as if you are not a theatre aficionado, you’re not going to understand all of these – and if you’re relatively new to plays, you’re going to wonder what on earth you’re watching right from the opening scene.

It's a bold move in constantly reframing the slow unpacking of a long-dead marriage: this is a play that would work well as a study in drama school, but it’s not for an audience unfamiliar with theatre.