Twenty five year-old Faith retreats to her attic on the day of her murdered mother's funeral, where she begins talking to the disparate voices in her head.

This aggressively-titled monologue is optimistically billed as "humorous". In actuality that's the one element it's desperately in need of, to grease the wheels of this self-indulgent hour of psychobabble.

Despite a competent solo performance from Celia Peachey, there is little to commend in her cliche-riddled script ("it's not me, it's the world that's sick"). It's all just a little murky - the 'other voices' are never clearly introduced - and interesting dramatic avenues are ignored, not least the mother's murder, which barely gets a mention.

The subject of mental illness is not one to be treated lightly, and if Peachey writes from personal experience I dearly hope she works through her issues. But this show is neither an engaging, nor particularly helpful, examination of them.