The late Hunter...

I do like to take a book into the bathroom with me. Today, I reached out en route and found Hunter S Thompson's Kingdom of Fear finding its way into my hands. I randomly turned to a page - page 46 as it happens - and read this...

"Well, wanting to [write] and having to are two different things. Originally I hadn't thought about writing as a solution to my problems...It was writing. It was the rock in my sock. Easier than algebra. It was always work, but it was worthwhile work. I was fascinated early on by seeing my byline in print. It was a rush. Still is."

"Theatre isn't church. There's nothing innately good about it. Most theatre is still really bad," Mike Bartlett has told The Observer. "It has to appeal to people who do jobs and have lives. Theatre about theatre is the most awful, terminal nonsense."

Precisely. It would be nice if all playwrights thought the same. The full interview is here.

Customer service...

Today we decided to live in the fast lane a little and throw caution to the wind by spending money we can, as povery-stricken scribes, barely afford. Yet it's nice to have a little treat now and then, if only to remind yourself that life is not just about bills, bills and more bills (no, it's about bailiffs and CCJs too - Finance Ed.). So we ordered a nice little Indian takeaway. Nothing too extravagant, just a curry each and a couple of chapatis. But just, we thought, enough to take the pain away. Yet despite the simple order, they got it wrong. Not massively. But just enough to spoil the occasion. Once I realised what was missing I phoned them to ask for it to be sent. 45 minutes later it had still not arrived. "How long does it take?" I chuntered. "We're busy," started the reply. What kind of excuse is that? Don't they want to be busy? And are they only busy because they keep f*cking it up? We will purchase our food elsewhere in future, should we ever scrape the funds together again.

Fuming...

Popped a stonebaked garlic bread in the oven and, as the 12 minutes at 180° mark approached I opened the oven door for the required 'is it done yet?' sneaky peek. I was quickly faced with fumes that the oven seemingly enjoyed fanning in the direction of my face. I couldn't see a thing and my eyes were streaming under the misapprehension that several CS canisters had been hurled into the kitchen. The smoke alarms in the house then went crazy. It was quite some time before normal vision was resumed and the smoke went the way of the extractor fan. Weirdly, after all that, the garlic bread hadn't burned at all - indeed, it was poifectly cooked. Am assuming the fumes were garlic butter rolling off the bread and onto the oven bottom. Later, I set about attacking the oven with the failed-chef's weapon of choice - Mr Muscle. I know how to have fun.

Flash, bang, wallop...

In the true tradition of Guy Fawkes, we assembled round at M's sister H's house, ate pizza, hot dogs, olives and humous, waved sparklers around and watched a couple of grown men igniting the contents of a huge box of Standard fireworks. And very good it was too. Almost two-year-old Finn mainly enjoyed himself and the flashes and loud bangs, aside from the moments that he was asked if he liked what was going on, when he would furiously shake his head in the negative. Good fun, nice food and people, lots to watch and a great walk home, with Finn falling asleep in his pram to the sight and sound of hundreds, if not thousands, of explosions.

Meeting...

Happy Birthday M! Today, you are the same age as Jesus Christ. Was. When he. Well, you know. The end bit. Enjoy!

I had a meeting re some work, re working efficiently, because that's the game we're in, the working efficiently game. The meeting was delayed for 45 minutes because two other meetings had to take place. You couldn't make it up. Or you could, but you'd be making really boring shit up.

Square circle location...

Spent a few fleeting moments at a boxing club last night - a potential location for a short film that, should we ever get our fingers out and make it, will bring together the drama of boxing and the slightly feistier world of the Dewey Decimal Classification System. A sure fire, award-winning hit if ever there was one. We mucked around with gloves and bags and, out of earshot of everyone, I made disparaging comments about boxers. The club was great. The clientele - lots of scary, hairy, tattooed gents with muscles - was scary. I also realised what I have suspected for some time - I have a gymnasium allergy.