Wednesday, June 27, 2007


Spent last night and will spend the next two at Hull Truck for the PlayWrite festival, where nine new writers are getting their stuff out there, which is always a good thing, is it not? In a bad case of mathmetics and a writing exercise writ large, the nine, who were handed story outlines, have knocked heads and emails to write three plays, one to be performed each night. In last night's, given the 'I'm folding over my piece of paper and handing it to you' nature of the beast, you couldn't even see the join, which is some achievement in itself. I spoke to last night's trio and they were very nice writers indeed. Of course, they will have to die now, along with the other six.*

Things are getting drier around these parts, although the fine people of Bransholme and its posher satellite private estate Kingswood (very glamorous place, round the back of an Asda), are still suffering, while the water levels in the village where my children spend the bulk of their days is still rising. Naturally, people being people, everyone is starting to think about who to blame for their damp carpets. "Why did they build my house on a flood plain," some silly woman was chuntering on local radio this morning. But why did you buy a house on a flood plain?

*Humberside Police, this is not a real death threat. Or is it? Of course it is. All other writers must die! Mwah hah hah hah!

No comments: