Being a bit under the weather, I decided the answer was lots of sleeping, interspersed, as is traditional, with slouching on a sofa in front of a DVD.
So I treated myself to a copy of The Deadly Assassin.

Lots of good things among the special features, but one that caught my attention was about the reaction the story received from a certain Mary Whitehouse, a major campaigner on the side of moral outrage during the 1970s

I was particularly struck by something that, surely, must have been remarked upon before, though my own meagre googling efforts could produce nothing.
So here we go:

Had a day's filming yesterday, for the Police Bravery Awards.  I was playing one of a group of police officers who faced down and arrested an armed youth.  Was all quite exciting: Filming on "The Bill Backlot" at Talkback Thames, in Merton.  Using a lot of genuine police equipment, shouting obscenities loudly in public over and over again (always fun).  My shouted "stand still you c----" seemed to produce a lot of interest, including, if I'm not mistaken, from Simon Rouse (The Bill's "Jack Meadows") who was doing a photoshoot just behind us.

A good day.  Ok, slightly marred by one incident, where, when I was chasing our "villain", I missed my footing on a bit of loose gravelly surface, and prostrated myself on the rather unforgiving concrete road.  Hands first, of course, as one does.  Lovely big area of skin missing from my right elbow, scrapes on both palms, and a very shaken left arm, that, although not all that painful, didn't really work properly for the rest of the day.  We were nearly done by then, however, so I carried on - wouldn't want to get a reputation for being a wimpish actor, and besides, I thought it was just a bit of a strain.  Did make the handcuffing sequence a bit tricky though, as my left arm had less strength than usual.

By the time I got home though, it was starting to be a bit of a problem.  Slept on it, and went to A&E this morning.  Cracked the head of the radius, apparently.  Not badly, so no plaster, just a sling and some nice painkillers.

Not going to be able to get to the audition I was supposed to attend tomorrow, though, and work next week may well be a problem too.  We'll have to see how the drugs work.  Bloody annoying.

Summer evening, pursuing its slow, luminous death.  The sky, a watercolour palette of fluid washes, o'er-seeing the scurrying beetles of humanity as they wind down their day.

Who are you?  And you?  What is your errand, and where your home?  What brings you to the street?  Who awaits you, wherever you're going?  Who sent you on your way?

Who would miss you, were you never to arrive?

1. If in doubt, do the scary thing.

2. There are, in fact, some truly lovely people in the world.

3. Say "yes" a lot.

4. Walk in the sun when you can.

5. Look for adventures.

6. Ugly, drunken, bigot-women in parks know nothing, and can shove their Stella-soaked heads up their no-doubt pile-raddled arses.

So here I sit.  No plans.  No possible plans, nothing I could plan that would make any sense. Nothing that could invoke any kind of enthusiasm. Chatrooms on all day, a few people look, look away. What do you see, beautiful men, when you look at me? How desperate do I seem? How sad? How tearful? How revolting.
Here I sit. Sunshine outside. Must be lovely. Would like to be out in it, but not alone, not alone. Too much beauty to handle all alone. Beauty must be shared or there's pain. Pain long suppressed. Pain of all the beauty ever seen that I wanted to share and couldn't. Beauty I've seen others share with their beautiful lovers. The beauty of the sharing itself. Beauty not for me.
So here I sit. Dreading evening. Afternoon bad enough, but evening worse. Longing for tiredness, longing for the escape, hoping tomorrow brings something new. Sleep, retreating, child-like. foetus-like, everything-better-in-the-morning. Not that it is.
So here I sit. Not even the courage to phone. Human voice would help, maybe, a few platitudes (yes really), anything to remind me I'm not worthless, not maybe quite that loathsome. But no courage. In case it'd be inconvenient. In case I weep down the phone. In case I can't think what to say. In case fat bald old poof crying down the phone is too much to inflict on anyone.
Here I sit. Tea-drinking; in the world yet outside of it; craving God knows what; no clue where to find it, where to look, who to ask; do some laundry, good; washing-up, good; keep busy. Going through the motions, yes. Motions in all senses; rearranging life-turds; exercise in futility.
Here I sit. How many years have I done this? How many more till it's done. How long till peace?

So. Here I sit.

So often, over the years, this has been my escape.

When all else fails, sleep.  Even if it is still daylight.  Even if the rest of the world is still out there enjoying itself.  Or especially then.

Yes, it's running away.
But at least it's something I'm in control of.

Please don't let me dream.

Ivor Cutler.  To my shame, I'd forgotten all about him (and he only died a few years ago).  I even have an album or two, but for some reason I hadn't listened to anything of his for a long time.

Which is a pity.

I was reminded of his glorious weirdness this morning, when somebody posted a video of Looking for Truth With A Pin on a forum site I subscribe to, which led to a happy, silly hour reacquainting myself with him.
Here are a few to be going on with:

Pickle Your Knees
How Are You Shut Up
Shoplifters
I'm Happy
and the wondrous Big Jim

This is a ridiculous sequence of events:

Wake up, in a fairly positive mood, not exactly euphoric, but certainly ready to do battle with the day.
Have a pleasant and cheery telephone conversation with a friend.
Go out to run a few errands (post office, bank, etc.) - all easy and comparatively stress-free.
Return home, and realise that I'm in a miserable, self-loathing, and rather fragile mood, craving reassurance.

Why?  Nothing whatever in the preceding hours has been the sort of thing that ought to trigger such a reaction.  Even the queue at the post office wasn't particularly slow, or especially full of annoying people.

This sort of thing has been happening more often lately, which is a worry.  It's almost as though the only thing keeping the flow of positivity going, is a conscious effort to do so:  In other words, if I forget to constantly remind myself I'm a worthwhile person, the default state is an automatic belief that I'm a waste of space.  Which is daft.

Very glad I've got a shooting day tomorrow. A thing to look forward to, and (assuming I don't cock stuff up), something to boost the ego.

"I am a decent person.
I do have a right to be who I am.
Most people don't hate me.
I have at least some skill in what I'm trying to do"

I arrive at the station just in time to miss one train home - the next is due at 22:57, and is flagged on the display screens as "on time". Hooray, although that still means a wait of around a quarter of an hour.  Hey ho.  I settle into my usual standing/pacing/gazing into space routine reserved for such occasions.  I fantasise, as I often do in such situations, about pressing fire alarms, and other such antisocial activities, just to see what would happen. I look across to the opposite platform, and imagine how easy it ought to be to just hop down on to the tracks, skip across, and up the other side.

A young policemen appears on the opposite platform. They're always young now, of course. He strides with considerable purpose towards the footbridge.  As he reaches the steps, a WPC appears, heading in the same direction, also at quite a pace, but unable to keep up.  Idly, I imagine some sort of previous tiff between them, that prevents them walking together, even in the course of their job.
Both disappear up the steps.  There is a pause.
Quite suddenly, from behind the buildings on our platform, a young man emerges, running. He carries a red motorcycle helmet, and wears a t-shirt and shorts. He sprints straight to the edge of the platform, jumps down, runs heavily across the tracks, feet slipping on the ballast, and scrambles awkwardly up the other side, bashing and grazing his knee on the top of the platform as he does so (well that's one question answered).  He forces himself back to his feet, dashes out of the open gate into the sliproad, dropping a gove as he does so, and disappears. The sound of running feet quickly fades.

There's an appreciable pause, then the police reach the bottom of the steps on this side of the tracks, and start asking if anybody's seen a young man with a red bike helmet. There is much gesticulating and pointing from the assembled passengers.  The police retrace their steps across the footbridge, at a run. A taxi driver on the other side points up the sliproad:  "He's just up there - hiding in that bush."  The police disappear, and there's another moderate pause.

I check the train time on the display.  It now says that the 22:57 is late, due at 23:00. As I watch, it ticks over to 23:01

The police reappear, each bearing a handcuffed youth (oh, so there were two?).  They collect the discarded glove, and march them off to a waiting car.  Much mirth from one of the lads at the prospect of "spending the night in Brentwood nick."

Another pause.  The display now advises 23:05

The WPC returns, performs a quick seach of the platform for any other discarded items, but returns empty-handed.

The time is now 22:46 - the display unapologetically assures us our train won't show until 23:06

At exactly 22:47, the 22:47 to Liverpool Street glides into the platform.  The display, perhaps in embarrassment, is now blank.

I awoke feeling rather disgusted with myself.  Still gripped in the fist of the glooms that have plagued me these last few days, but now at least able to view the thing more objectively, and wishing to be free of it, rather than wanting only to wallow.

So, how to avoid this association between spring and feelings of loss becoming a proper neurosis to add to my collection?  How better than to dive in headfirst, and go for a walk; taking the widely-held view that exercise is supposed to be a good remedy for depression.
So, section thirteen of the Capital Ring (I'd walked section twelve a few weeks previously), between Stoke Newington and Hackney Wick.

A glorious day, full of all the things I was afraid of, all the smells and sounds, warm spring sunshine, solitude in the open air.

I won't deny, there were difficult moments. Several times I found myself longing to be able to share the experience of this beautiful day, with some nebulous significant other, but every time that familiar feeling of "if only" welled up, the regular tramp of my feet on the hard towpath seemed to knock it away.

Overshot the end of the section in the end, and carried on to Old Ford Lock, then down the Greenway (actually part of section fourteen), and then into Stratford for the train home.

Good.  Good.

It smells of spring outside.  The smell of new beginnings, of youth, of hope.  That used to be one of my favourite smells, and this, my favourite time of year.  It evokes every hope I ever had for myself when I was younger, every happier, carefree day, every smile.

The smell of new beginnings, of youth, of hope.  The smell of everything I seem to have lost.

I have cultivated a dead-end. A beautiful, wonderful, marvellous dead-end, but a dead-end nonetheless.

I left the main path a long time ago. It runs parallel to this, closely enough that I can glimpse it through the trees, but crossing to it would be at such a great cost that I doubt I'll ever attempt it.  Yet there it lies, and here I stand, thwarted. In glory, but thwarted.
I knew it as I chose this route. Knew it, yet drove on, regardless.

Stay, burning in the light I can never share?
Forsake the light, go back, and rejoin the path?
Plunge into the undergrowth?
Hope?

Physical interactions with strangers. The pseudo-Brownian motion of people moving about in groups.

Those of us who are people-watchers, will, of course, be familiar with the many and various different ways that people move around. Those with a bit of acting knowledge may well have spotted many, if not all, of the Laban Efforts among the milling populace - few of us can have shopped in a modern supermarket, for instance, without having encountered a "float" (light, sustained, indirect) or a "wring" (heavy, sustained, indirect), blocking an aisle or two with their trolley, while they ponder the wonders arrayed before them on the shelves.

However, it's when people approach each other closely enough to interact, that things become a little odd. 
For instance, let us suppose that:

Person A bumps into person B (either a direct barge, as with, say a "punch" or "press" in pursuit of their chosen path, or through un-coordinated blundering, as with a "float" or "wring").

There seem, these days, to be two possible reactions:

1) Person A doesn't react at all, but continues, quite unaware of any social infringement.  Most of us, I think, would describe this as simply, "rudeness".

2) Person A emits an almost automatic "sorry", usually in apparent surprise that there should be any other people in the space at all, let alone nearby.

What concerns me, is that, for a whole generation now, reaction (2) is starting to be seen as "politeness".  Whereas once, that term might have been applied to such acts as, "letting other people pass" (and thanking those that do so), or indeed, "avoiding bumping into people in the first place."
An apology is, I daresay, better than nothing, but we do seem to be becoming a society of apologisers. I remember hearing Peter Ustinov speak about visiting an airport, and how he found himself walking across a vast, empty concourse, which contained only one other soul, who, amid the acres of emptiness, proceeded to bump straight into him, with a surprised, "oh I'm sorry."

Once, people were brought up to look where they were going. Once, people were encouraged to consider their words and deeds before taking any action.

Now, it seems, our peripheral vision, both actual and metaphorical, has become so limited, so self-focussed, that consideration for others has become encapsulated in a single word, no longer meant, no longer capable of possessing any meaning.

I've meandered around the point here rather, I'm afraid, being the "float" that I all too often am. If this has caused annoyance, then er... sorry.

Why hello!  How lovely to hear from you!
Can't remember the last time we had such weather, no, but
I expect it'll clear up soon.  How are you?  Yes I'm fine thanks, same as
Ever, you know!  What have you been up to since we last spoke? Anything you can
Tell me about?  Haha, well quite - did
Anyone ever tell you that you have an evil streak?  Haha, noooo, I don't know
What you mean!  Now then, we should get together again for
A drink shouldn't we? Oh, just a couple of pints - don't want to repeat the
Horrible experience of that hangover from last
Time! What? Oh yes we did, didn't we - I'd forgotten we did that!  Haha, well...
I'm off, I think: Great to hear your voice, as always, glad to hear you're
Having fun, see you soon I hope?

I would like to indulge myself in a small rant, about a particular bête noir of mine, namely, that most ubiquitous of marketing tools,

"Rebranding"

It's always been with us, of course, but lately there seems to have been something of a flurry, a near stampede to rename almost everything in sight.

Digital TV channels, have hardly been with us for the batting of an eyelid, and yet some are already on their third or fourth name.  I see that what is currently known as "UKTV History" is shortly to be called "Yesterday".  Have people learned nothing from the "One Railway" fiasco?
"Did you see the Antiques Roadshow on Yesterday on Tuesday?"  etc.

An example of more direct influence to me: I'm an archer, and archery clubs in this country are affiliated to a body called "The Grand National Archery Society", formed in the early 19th Century, and supporting member clubs dating back at least another century before that.  It's shortly to be rebranded as "Archery GB".  Why?  What actual purpose will that serve, beyond providing cars and holidays for a handful of marketing consultants?

And there, I suppose we come to the crux of my prejudice, for I freely admit it to be so:  I detest marketing people.

It offends me that there is a trade that is plied entirely by people who actually believe that passengers (sorry, "customers") care more about what their railway company is called, than how often the trains are on time.  People who feel that "Department of Justice" is somehow going to inspire the public into a greater trust and belief in the rule of law, than it had when it was merely part of the Home Office.  People who believe that "new" is automatically better, and that anything that's been around more than five minutes must automatically no longer be "relevant to today's society".

People who, God help us, are telling us that Norwich Union "has always wanted to be" Aviva.

"When you’ve been in marketing as long as I have, you'll know that before any new product can be developed it has to be properly researched. We’ve got to find out what people want from fire, how they relate to it, what sort of image it has for them."
The crowd were tense. They were expecting something wonderful from Ford.
"Stick it up your nose," he said.
"Which is precisely the sort of thing we need to know," insisted the girl, "Do people want fire that can be fitted nasally?"

Yesterday was a good day.

It began with, wonder of wonders, my boiler springing to life after its partial electrical drowning by a heating engineer the night before.  I have proper hot water for the first time in months.

It continued with the discovery of a veritable torrent of kind messages on Facebook, that took me quite a while to reply to - I'm an inveterate replier to things - find it hard not to - not helped by the fact that messages continued to arrive as I was replying to earlier ones.  Lovely, put me in a good mood right from the outset.
There were messages from people I know well, and from friends who I barely speak to, either in person or online.  Messages from people I've always had a bit of a soft spot for, others from friends-of-friends.  Rather touching.

Then off to an audition.  Which went well.  An audition panel with an understanding of actors, and how to get the best from people.  The impression, genuine or polite, that they liked what I was doing with the character. Warm feeling.

Quick trip to Victoria to collect a friend's spare keys so I can look in on their cat briefly on Saturday morning.  Smiles.

Slow wander down through Plimlico to the river, taking the long way round, along the Thames Path, to Waterloo, stand for a while watching the cold brown water churn away below me, surrounded by a small contingent of street performers freezing their silver-painted nuts off in the bitter weather.

Beer, food and conversation in the very best of company.  The friendly surroundings of the Maple Leaf in Maiden Lane; the aromatic joy of a tea-merchant;  falafel, couscous and lamb in the cosy candlelit "Souk" near Seven Dials; more beer, additional good company, in the Yard.  Slightly saddened by finding it a pale shadow of its former self - a victim, as it were, of the smoking ban - the courtyard, from which it derives its name, always bustling and noisy, now quiet and empty.  Happily drunk enough not to let it temper my mood.  Much good company.  Amicii flores in horto vitae sunt, as I've said elsewhere before.

Good day.  Very good day.

As a welcome change from all the gloom and navel-gazing that occurs on this blog, here's a happy post.

Astute readers may already know about the A1 Peppercorn Class 60163 "Tornado", the first main line steam locomotive built in this country since 1960 - not a preserved original (no examples of the A1 Peppercorn class exist, all having been scrapped in the late 60s) but a brand-new locomotive, built from scratch, from the original drawings, but to the standards required by a modern railway.

Today was her first trip to London, pulling the A1 Trust's "Talisman" rail tour train into Kings Cross, and, thanks to a reminder from a friend, I was there.  I'm not, by nature, much of a trainspotter, but I do have a very soft spot for steam locos, and the Tornado is such a remarkable achievement, that I found myself quite moved by the huge crowds that had turned out to greet her.




More photos on Ian's page here.

For me, the tune that conjures my recollections of his influence on my childhood is this one
For you, it might be this or perhaps, for a different generation again, maybe this (though not with those pictures!).

Goodbye, Tony.

Glad to note that Pat Keysell, who co-hosted "Vision On" with him, is still alive, and apparently happily retired in Italy.

I'm not, as I regularly annoy those around me by saying, much of a fan of children.  Much respect owed to those who do have the patience and stamina to raise them, and raise them well (and much internal shouting at those who raise them to be bastards, naturally).

But there are moments.  Such as today, when an audience of small tykes, unprompted and unrehearsed, began to sing the show's main theme song, "Hooray for Mr. Fox", as the opening music for Act 2 was playing.  Nobody was on stage.  None of the cast were singing.  The house lights went down, the music played, and the children sang.  They'd only heard the song once, at the top of the show.  It's not the first time, either.
We've also had children get to their feet during the finale medley, and try to copy our dance moves - tricky for the little blighters, in my case, as I'm not always certain what I'm doing, so copying must be quite a challenge... but they do it, bless 'em.

Still no interest in children of my own, and put me alone in a room with one, and I'd panic... but in large, audience-shaped groups, yes, yes, I think I can admit to liking them. 

Rehearsals complete, time to start inflicting this upon the children of Essex.  First performance tomorrow morning, 9.45am, and by happy coincidence, our first audience is my old primary school.

We've managed a few full runs of the thing in the last day or so, including two full dress runs today.  Really beginning to enjoy it now (will enjoy it even more when I finally get those last few dance steps to be second nature, so I don't furkle them up!)  Good reactions from all those who saw it - although Millie, the daughter of our choreographer, after watching it through once, wanted to see it again, "but without the farmers" - it seems we scared her, and made her cry.  Hope that's not too universal a reaction!

Forty-odd shows to do. Daunting, but also a great feeling, having that run of performances stretching out in ahead of us.  Well aware that I may not feel quite that positive at all points during the run...!

It's going to be a fun show to do - and, I think, a fun show to watch.  I should plug it I daresay, so er...  here's the necessary information.  Let me know if you come along, so I can come and share a drinkie or two in the theatre bar afterwards!

Funny how there's always a point about halfway through rehearsals, usually the first weekend, when the traditional self-doubt asserts itself.  When I'm being swept along in the rolling enthusiasm of rehearsals, in that wonderful supportive, convivial atmosphere, without much chance to take a breath, then it's fine.  But time off provides too much opportunity to think.  Will I ever actually get that harmony right? Is my voice going to be the one that sticks out like a sore thumb? Am I over-acting appallingly? Or worse, am I not doing enough? Am I the weakest link?

Of course, this is healthy:  It's just such fears that make me work to make sure these things don't happen... but it's a bit of a bugger all the same.

Ah, but it's such fun though.  Really, really nice bunch of people I'm working with, and (appropriately) a fantastic atmosphere.  No prima donnas - at least not so far - nobody who's awkward or difficult to work with - and everybody seems to like everybody else.  Amazing.
There. That's the kiss of death suitably placed on that then!  Doubt it though - everybody really does get on, which is very refreshing.

I am, of course, around twice the age of most of the rest of the cast.  Doesn't feel like it though - except in my knees!

I remember sitting at my old house, empty bottle on the hearth, my head propped on my hand, elbow on the arm of the sofa.  Watching nothing.  Despair in control of my every thought.  Catching, out of the corner of my eye, the artery in my wrist gently pulsing away in soft, peripheral-vision focus. So many nights, year in, year out.

There seemed to be nothing whatever for me then, no future of any kind.  Surrounded by the detritus of my life, permanently installed into that one seat as though I'd been surgically grafted to it.

I've come a long, long way since then.  My life has changed for the better in more ways than I can count.
And yet the despair, and the reasons for it, remain.  So long it's been my companion, it has almost become my identity, in and of itself, defining me.  In the (increasingly unlikely) event that the original cause should ever be resolved, I've a nasty feeling the despair will remain anyway, as much a part of me as I was of that old sofa.

Sometimes, like, I imagine, most people just starting in this business, I find myself very despondent and begin to question whether this is really the right path for me.

Evenings like yesterday do much to restore my sense of direction.  I went to see Humble Boy at the Artsdepot in Finchley.

Two things marked this out as a bloody good evening:

1) It's really really good.  A lovely, charming, surprising play, which I previously knew nothing about at all, beautifully produced and acted.  Especially nice to see a good friend in the lead role, and bringing it off with great aplomb.  Thoroughly enjoyable evening's theatre - heartily recommended - go and see it.

2) Met the aforementioned friend afterwards for a quick drink.  We'd spent quite a bit of the summer working together on the Edinburgh Fringe show, and there was a fantastic bond built up between all of us in the cast and crew - and meeting up briefly again yesterday rekindled that.  There's a kind of joy involved in meeting up with people you've had that "shared experience" with, something I've never encountered in any of the other assorted jobs I've done over the years.  This is, indeed, what I should be doing with my life.

Should I go? (or try to - there are two kinds, they say)
It seems like sense, to end the unendurable,
But such "ending" is illusory -
I'd simply gift-wrap my grief, and give it, whole,
To those I love.
So I'll stay.

I am not, by nature, a masochist.  I don't intentionally court pain or distress.  Yet I habitually throw myself into situations which, though enjoyable in their own right, come at a high price - they're followed by long periods of self-obsessed gloom.  What's more, I engage in these things knowing full well what the outcome is likely to be.
The alternative, of course, is probably worse.  Disengagement from anything remotely stimulating. Cocooning myself, hands-on-ears, lalalalalala.

Funny old thing, life.

Idly browsing on Wikipedia, I found myself with an old favourite poem, John Donne's Meditation XVII, replete with delicious quotations and phrases. Skipped from there to Valediction: Forbidding Mourning with its rather, ahem, specific compasses metaphor.  Smiled, and browsed on.  A scant twenty minutes later, a link on another site altogether mentioned that Stephen Fry had a morning slot about language on Radio 4, and posted a listen again link.  I duly listened.  It was about metaphor.  Not really all that special as a programme, so I got on with other things.  While making a cup of tea, drifting from the living room I heard Mr. Fry's silken voice intoning,

How wonderful to find that Keeper of Traken has a commentary by Anthony Ainley, recorded just before his sad demise a few years ago.

How sad that Johnny Byrne, Matthew Waterhouse and Sarah Sutton, are so busy talking about their own participation, that Anthony barely gets two words in.  Would have loved to hear a commentary with Tom and Anthony, but sadly it was never to be.

So what is it? Hmm?  What is it about me?  It's clearly something major, but something so fundamental, that I can't see it myself.

What is it about me, that every person, every single person, I've ever felt a genuine attraction to, has plonked me firmly in "not boyfriend material" box?  Always, I've been the friend, never the lover.  I freely admit I'm hardly an Adonis, but people do, occasionally, tell me they find me attractive.  Which is lovely, but they're never, ever, people that I find attractive. 
Am I, as I've sometimes feared, simply terminally dull?  Do I subconsciously twist the heads off chickens while I talk?  Do I have, unbeknownst to me, the shifty, drooling look of the vaudeville lech? What?

In eighteen months time, I shall be fifty.  Am I really to reach that landmark having never once shared a moment of intimacy with anybody I cared about?

While I was in Edinburgh, I had a kind of half-dream, which I remembered only dimly at the time, and don't remember at all now.
When I awoke from it, though the dream itself faded, it set me off musing, as I dozed and drifted towards full consciousness. I found I was imagining a possible scene for an as-yet-unwritten play.  Just the scene though - no story, no context, not even anything like a character. It seemed a nice scene though.
In due course I got up, and promptly forgot all about it.

Just came back to me, over a week later, so I wrote it down - purely as stage directions, no dialogue (since there was none in the scene I imagined).  I picked a character name out of the air, just to have a handle for the person whose actions I was describing - it could always be changed later.

Then I saved it, and, in naming the file, suddenly found that, entirely by accident, by randomly naming the character, I had also given the play a title, and what's more, a suggestion of a plot.

Rather chuffed.  I've no idea if I'll ever add any more to it, but it's genuinely the first time I've had a proper idea for a play that didn't immediately make me cringe.  Intriguing experience.

So.  Been here in Edinburgh for a few days now - we came up on the 23rd by train - Virgin's West Coast Route, as luck would have it, on the day when the East Coast Route was virtually dead, due to a derailment. Very easy journey as it turned out.
We're staying in a really lovely apartment in Coates Place, just five minutes from Haymarket station. The place is simply enormous - there are nine of us staying here, most of us in moderate comfort (one person on an airbed).  It's all high ceilings and deep plaster mouldings, offset with very very modern fittings and appliances. I get the impression we're among the first people to stay here since a major refurbishment and redecoration:  There's still a smell of paint in the air, and everything's remarkably clean.  The living room is big enough for a full-sized rehearsal space, while still allowing the director and stage manager to recline on a comfy leather sofa whilst watching us.

I've always loved Edinburgh, though my visits have been few and sporadic, and I can see already, after only three days, that I'm going to be leaving the place even more in love with it. Just the most wonderful atmosphere - and the festival itself is still nearly a week away!