Star rating **** Ben Moor - Not Everything Is Significant, Pleasance Star rating **** Lynn Ferguson - The Plan, Gilded Balloon Star rating *** It's been two years since Daniel Kitson's last late-night theatre show at the Traverse. That one, C-90, and its predecessor, Stories For The Wobbly Hearted, were heartbreaking compendiums of small people living everyday lives who may or may not meet, fall in love and live happy ever after. 66a Church Road is different in that Kitson is no longer just a narrator doing a Jackanory routine for the lovelorn, but is the show's main character as well.

Subtitled A Lament, Made of Memories and Kept in Suitcases, it's yet another love story, only with the messy, not-quite-right flat in Crystal Palace Kitson lived in for six years. Seated among the said array of suitcases on a homely rug, he maps out a tug of love between himself, his landlord and all the emotional fixtures and fittings in between. Punctuating each scene are recorded vignettes which, unlike the frustrations of the spoken scenes, talk candidly of more intimate encounters there, from the nights in alone and with friends, to an unnamed woman who once shared his bed, but who's long gone now. As these play out, each suitcase lights up in turn to reveal an intricately crafted miniature of a life in storage.

66a Church Road is a step up from Kitson's previous work, closer to his stand-up but without the vitriol that fuels that particular line of work. There's a willingness here to be more vulnerable, and to lay himself bare rather just weave other people's imaginary lives together in some third person off-loading. As he surrounds himself with all the gathered minutiae that defines him, Kitson's personal archive may be messy on every level, but his frankness and the dryness of his delivery is funny and sad in the way a Jarvis Cocker song is. It will be fascinating to see where - and how far - Kitson is prepared to go next.

Similar to Kitson only with less baggage and even more understated, is Ben Moor. Coelacanth, Moor's Herald Angel winning 2005 piece of story theatre, was a charmingly wistful shaggy dog story that was both beautiful and surreal. This latest work is even better in that it's even more beautiful and even more surreal. Moor takes as his starting point a professional footnoter who moves into a flat formerly occupied by a professional biographer. A filled-in diary for the following year and an unfinished biography of the biographer himself becomes a chronicle of a life foretold in a world where poodling is one craze along from dogging, Nike sponsors the OED and Mobius strip clubs are filled with elongated cartoon girls.

As the footnoter corrects and clarifies fact from fiction in a manner spearheaded by both Karl Marx in The Communist Manifesto and Alasdair Gray in Lanark, a parallel universe emerges that wouldn't look out of place in Michael Moorcock's Jerry Cornelius stories if they'd been set in Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities, and the presence of the J G Ballard chain of pubs is a telling detail. And it's these small, seemingly insignificant epiphanies that matter here in a calm, unflashy but utterly evocative manner. Moor tells us of a girl who "moves like a fading continent worried about its future", and you know exactly what he means.

But, as vividly drawn as all this is, as Moor makes clear from the title, not much of this gently mind-bending hour-long delight may actually matter in any way, shape or form. Then again, add up the everyday tos and fros of it all, and all those little footnotes add up to something a whole lot bigger, and really rather wonderful.

Beyond storytelling per se, Lynn Ferguson's one-woman plays prefer to give herself a character to play with. So it is with The Plan, in which she plays the Angel of Death as an office-bound official chalking off the recently deceased which she's informed of by phone and regular updates on radio news. Anything to fend off the mediocrity of the graveyard shift once even the Sudoku's been killed. Which is why she ends up acting out her favourite deaths like some afterlife greatest hits, Bad Thought Syndrome and all.

Co-written with Elly Brewer, and programmed back-to-back with a revival of Ferguson's previous play, Heart and Sole, The Plan is a darkly funny miniature with an unremitting sense of ennui at its heart.