A gentle story of love and loss, heartfelt but uneven at times
At its heart, this is a sweet and touching play about love, grief, and the long-lasting consequences of secrecy. The concept is simple but effective: it asks the audience to see all the characters with compassion, showing that love is complicated, especially when it exists alongside fear, social expectation, and time. The play doesn’t try to label anyone as right or wrong – it just shows that we’re all human, flawed, and often just trying to survive one day at a time. That said, while grief drives the story, it doesn’t always feel fully anchored, and there are moments where the emotional stakes could have hit harder.
The writing is clear and easy to follow, gradually revealing different perspectives. Themes of growing older, changing attitudes towards homosexuality, jealousy, and the weight of hidden love run through it. There’s also a quiet sadness underneath – a reminder of how fast time passes, and how damaging it can be to live in the shadows for too long. Small details, like the lovers’ secret acronym “CYK” (“Consider Yourself Kissed”), are really sweet, but also heartbreaking, showing how they had to hide their love in a time when being gay was socially unacceptable. Knowing that the story comes from Brendan Murray’s own experience of decades-long hidden relationships and loss makes it feel even more lived-in and human.
Direction is naturalistic and mostly works, though some blocking feels like movement for the sake of movement rather than real intention. The pacing drifts in places, with pauses that sometimes lose their purpose, and moments where actors speak over each other rather than truly reacting. A slightly tighter rhythm would have helped the emotional beats land more clearly.
The performances are warm and committed, though a little uneven at times. Brendan Murray, who also wrote the play, is the standout, bringing a deep connection to the material that feels genuinely lived-in. His understanding of love, secrecy, and grief gives his performance authenticity and subtle emotional weight. Karen Spicer brings charm and lightness, though at times a little too chirpy, and Darren Cheek has energy and presence, though I wanted to see more of a thought process and a touch more vulnerability beneath the surface to make the emotional beats land harder.

The set is strong, showing a clear contrast between two worlds and reflecting how differently people process grief. Costumes are naturalistic, lighting supports the mood, and sound mostly works, though some transitions feel abrupt. One particularly nice touch is the song that holds meaning for more than one character – it becomes a metaphor for shared love. You could imagine a moment where the wife and lover meet, not in confrontation, but through shared grief and the song, showing connection and empathy.
Overall, this is a heartfelt play about love, loss, and secrecy. It has a few things to tighten up, but its honesty and warmth shine through, and knowing the story comes from real experience makes it resonate. It leaves the audience thinking about honesty, time, and what it really means to connect with someone.
You can watch Learning to Dive at The White Bear Theatre until the 22nd of February.










