A lot of people don't ask me, "what do you eat when you're about to start writing a new play and need to be on top of your game, with those creative juices gushing out of your every pore and onto the page, whilst at the same time having a full stomach and little bits and pieces of food stuck between your teeth?" If they did ask me I probably wouldn't answer them anyway, instead citing that "my private life is exactly that," as a flimsy but media friendly excuse. But seeing as they haven't asked, I'll volunteer the information. Given the choice and the funds come noon I do like to slip out to a shop around the corner that goes by the name of Herby's. Although Herby died a couple of years ago (I used to work with his niece but never could negotiate a discount. We did, however, mourn 'Uncle' Herby's passing for 20 minutes, during which time we reminisced about the fine array of sandwich fillings the man had amassed over the years and the heat of his jalapeno peppers) his delicatessens live on throughout the city of Hull. My sandwich of choice is Lemon Pepper Chicken with salad on granary, although today, as you can see, I opted for white. Around here, that bread that holds the sandwich contents is called a cake. Those keen to follow my modus operandi should note that the sarnie was accompanied by a cup of tea and followed by four Jaffa Cakes. I get on to this rather thrilling account of my dietary habits because on the walk to Herby's I was accompanied by M, who was talking about writing workshops and that, whenever there's a guest of some standing, or, for that matter, a writer with any kind of success, there's always someone amongst the gathered throng that asks, "what is your working routine?" as if some magical secret will be revealed that will instantly elevate said participant into the theatrical stratosphere, and, as they sail starwards, a lucrative West End transfer be handed to them. I dunno, maybe the Herby's will work for you. Please let me know?
So, yes, it's all gone cruel sea round these parts today, as my thoughts turn to the significant other play on my plate, an epic saga of nautical danger and lives lost and saved. Just easing my way in gently by eating and taking photographs of sandwiches, staring at this picture of old blokes fishing in rough waters I've had on my desk for months and trying to make sense of some notes I made at a meeting a couple of months ago (one, scrawled on top of an outline of the play, simply says, "clarity!", which is really fucking useful at this stage).
Finally slammed the page shut on the David Lean biography I've been dipping in and out of - usually whilst in the bathroom. Towards the end there were a few quotes that I thought I should stow away for inspiration. One of which was the rather straightforward, "You will say if this turns out to be absolute balls?"
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