>>>>>Killing Time<<<<<

Alistair Hewitt's Spending Frank was a grrreat little play. See what happens when you keep your mind open? And the 12-year-old boy really dug this tale of a menopausal woman killing the husband who didn't provide her with the child she craved...because he'd had a vasectomy! Amusing too, thus making me eat my dark comedy=not funny comments. Virtually, of course. Have filed the review. No news yet on whether the cast have since been rushed to the hospital. The odd play like this restores my faith in this medium. Trouble is, there are nowhere near enough good nights. As usual Alan Ayckbourn, or Sir as we like to call him here at Killing Time, had arranged to sit close to me. He was two rows directly behind. Between us was a woman who went through the entire play attempting to finish off the characters' every line. It was very distracting. I'm surprised Sir didn't kick her in the back. Perhaps he did. You can do that when you're artistic director, I'm sure.

When we got to the coast we dived into McD's for a Big Mac meal each. There was a very pissed man in there - the first person I've ever seen/heard order a Big Tasty. Very brazenly, he spat on the floor while waiting for his order. Then, post burger and with relish all over one of his cheeks, he spat on the floor again. Disgusting. Thick fog on way back from Scarborough - switching on the full beams made it worse, cos all it did was illuminate the blanket of mist. Yet, surprisingly, given that we rarely travelled faster than 35mph, we got home in less than an hour. Which makes me think that, with visibility extremely low, we passed through some time travelling portal or a vortex of some kind. Or Scarborough has sailed a little closer to us. Or it always was closer than I'd convinced myself it was.

Today was a day of culture. Why, just hours ago I found myself ogling an exhibition of Toulouse Lautrec's posters. Then theatre. Somewhere between the two a chap at work showed me a video clip on his phone of urine flowing into a toilet. Live music on Saturday in Hull - am off to see The Black Dogs, who will probably be shit, and H's boyfriend's band (who all have beautifully straight hair), one of whom will probably be wearing a Hull City top, because that's what rock 'n' roll's all about. On the same night, Carl Barat is elsewhere in the city of Dull doing a spot of DJing. I'd like to see that too. Why, if I could just find that portal again...