I ran out of grout, last night. That's two sizeable tubs I've got through so far. Must stop eating it. Fitted a curtain rail in the bay window (no mean feat, it involved bending the rail on my rapidly declining knees), played the new Telecaster for a while, then played Pro Evolution Soccer with M. We're now 1-1 in our nightly contests. The prize? Who knows. Tickets for Sully, perhaps. A meeting re that has been arranged for tomorrow. A 'serious' voice suggests that there'll be a few changes to the script. Comedy, eh, who'd write it?
A man calls the paper re "the noise". "Have you had it, lad?" he asks. I tell him not. "It's like water being pushed through pipes. Late at night. And it's coming from number 3." I asked him if he'd phoned the council. He had. "They sent a surveyor round. He told me I had tinnitus."
Finally had the decency to let The Stage know what I'm up to these days. They thanked me in return. Brian, bless him, said he'd welcome feature ideas from me. Had a couple of possible reviews to do but am busy with the play and the musical and the grouting so long, winding drives up to Scarborough and York don't really appeal. My daytime employer wanted me to give it up five years ago, and then I had to ask for their express written permission to carry on earning virtually nothing on the side (they don't like simple folk like me writing for publications that get distributed throughout the nation, it might give us fancy ideas about actually being good at the job). Emailed the handful of press officers I've dealt with to thank them for all the freebies. And that's that. Ten years, over in a mouse click.
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