All quiet...

Inevitably, at some point, I'll return to talking, albeit vaguely and like an uneducated berk, about plays. I am working - or, rather, not working - on two new commissions and it would be rude not to keep you informed. Yet there are commercial sensitivities, now that I've moved up to big school, and not much in the way of plot right now. So I shall keep schtum. Suffice to say I remain a playwright. My father would be proud - I once built him a small screen wall (that still stands to this day) at the end of his driveway and I recall him telling me, as I mixed the necessary sand and cement and splash of plasticiser to keep the fancy petal shaped blocks apart (it is a misconception that mortar holds bricks and blocks together, it serves to keep them apart. Think about it, go on), that what I was indulging in (and had become my career, thanks to a lack of options in Thatcher's glory years) was the work of a mere navvy.

In previous blogging years I would have revealed much more about my daytime routine. Yet, as a freelance media guru, I am at work in a mysterious office, out of which all wonderments of marketing and PR and design spring forth, and I can't really spill the beans about any of it. Shame, as I'm dealing with the kind of people and organisations that would make for exceptional blog entries.

So, that explains the intermittent service and the preponderance of telly-related posts.