Head to head with a cow this morning as I drove across the Westwood. While waiting for the darn thing to cross the road, I revved the engine slightly, only for the cow to turn its head and stare at me with menace. You can't argue with a cow, especially when you're only driving a Toyota Yaris. I had no option but to sit and admire this wonderful creature as it dithered about, changing its mind on several occassions as to the direction it wanted to take. In many ways, a microcosm of human life. Or simply an awkward fucking bovine that made me late for work.
Ayckbourn last night was disappointing. He'd dug into his old box of tricks and pulled out something familiar. The characters (a writer's circle!) were recognisable and it was entertaining-ish but not really enough to get excited about. Encountered lots of rudeness in the venue. Front of house staff charged past us on a flight of stairs. I sat next to a man who wanted to occupy half of my seat too. A burly man shoved M out of the way to get access to his interval drinks, with no sign of an 'excuse me' anywhere. The problem with a lot of theatre audiences is that everybody thinks that they are more important than everybody else, when the reality is that they're all elitist, obnoxious cunts with no social skills. Fish and chips on Scarborough sea front was the evening's highlight. The staff at the chippy appeared to have recently escaped from some kind of mental institution.
Another reading of the play next Tuesday, a week ahead of the start of rehearsals. Four hours has been put aside so there's plenty of time for discussion and deconstruction and shattering my ego. I'm excited and anxious in equal measure. This is either the start or the end of something.
Reading: The Orton Diaries. Listening: Arctic Monkeys - Fake Tales of San Francisco.
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