Back at the panto. This time, it was the country's best - York Theatre Royal (Sleeping Beauty this time around, not that you could tell. Which is a good thing). It was, I think, my ninth, and it never fails to make me laugh like a little boy. Scott and Sam appeared to enjoy it, while Danielle, who's going through that stage in life where everything is rubbish, was a bit non-plussed when I asked her what she'd thought. But I saw her laughing out loud on several occasions, so she ain't pulling the wool over my eyes. Myself and M got a mention before the dreaded song sheet. This can be explained by my stalkerish behaviour towards cast member Martin Barrass - I sent him a text in the afternoon demanding a shout out. Martin's a great comedy actor - really physical, constantly on the move - and he directed my play at Hull Truck this year. I'd love to write something specifically for him because I find him the most magical performer. He skips a bit too much for my liking though and I fear that any project would require at least one scene of skipping to the latest contemporary sounds.
London in a few hours. I can hardly wait. We've got little in the way of hard cash but that shouldn't stop us having fun. The credit card will be well-used, methinks. We've been telling everyone that we might go and see The Producers - which we might. Bit of a bus man's thing to do though, ain't it? Have spent over eight hours of the last 48 in theatres (I might have got my sums wrong, but I'm up late unwinding having filed my review and am incapable of math at this time of night). Tomorrow morning, pre-fighting for a seat on the train, Scott's performing a version of A Christmas Carol as part of his youth theatre action. No pressure on him...as long as he's the best. Poor little guy's full of cold and doesn't look fit at all. But, as Coronation Street's Sally Webster told her daughter Rosie, the show must go on...
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