Apropos of Reg Gutteridge having his leg blown off, M opened the box containing her new shoes for tonight's party to find that it only contained half a pair. Fine for a uniped such as Gutteridge, not so handy for a female playwright trying to impress her peers. So we took the box and the single shoe back. "Can I have the other one, please?" she asked at the counter, thus signalling the start of a protracted shop-wide search by the fatter, slightly sluggish members of staff for the other piece of footwear. "Didn't anyone check that the box contained two shoes?" M was asked. As a customer buying a pair of shoes you sort of expect two to be in there, really, don't you?
The party season starts tonight then, courtesy of Hull Truck, and we shall be mixing with various theatrical types from front, back, side of and even under house. Directors, actors, even those with human qualities, are expected to be in attendance. Richard Bean will be there, which will be nice, and Mr & Mrs Godber, and some other writers, although they don't all come in pairs like us and the Godbers. We are sitting with much of the finance department which, when drunk, will give us the chance to ask how much everyone earned over the last 12 months (they won't tell us, but that won't stop us asking). Then it's on to the dance floor to demonstrate that writers can and do engage with life/shite disco tunes. I have already written tomorrow off as a waste of time.
Listening: Noel Gallagher at Koko (sing-a-long-a-bootleg)
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