Thinspiration...

A play. In the nice, tight confines of the studio at Hull Truck. A Humber Mouth Special Commission. Yes, I know, it's not the first. Send your letters of complaint re nepotism etc. The chance to work with two of my favourite creative types and, shucks, long-term collaborators. A capacity crowd. Again, not the first. Such a shame that it was a one off but, well, who knows what might happen?A piece of work covering the issue of 'eating disorders' although, really, just a story about a young woman coming to terms with everything. As for my workmates, what a pleasure to work with they are. Who knows what might happen to award-winning Rachel Helen Shaw, our performer and an awesome, awe-inspiring talent, next? And Lee Green, our director, who ain't so bad himself. The whole experience was, well, just that, an experience. It's given me back some of the confidence that has been chipped away of late due to...well...I better not say. If you did see Thinspiration, thank you very much. If you didn't, silly you, although I'm hoping you'll get the chance some other time. You could always download the script if you're interested.

Hanging about...

Day of the production. Lots of hanging about. Watch a run of the play at 11am. Rachel, I think, is amazing. It's in good shape. Nothing for me to do except act the class clown - a role I've spent my entire life perfecting. Lee and Rach have had to do all of the hard work; writing this thing was the easy bit and they've turned it into a piece of theatre. There's a certain irony when Rach eats a huge hot dog mid-afternoon. I settle for x2 little boxes of veggie sushi. Mr Green doesn't eat anything. Even when directing he's 'method'. I don't think my presence helps much so I skip off, during the lull before we can actually get in the space, to change out of one set of black clothes and into another. I pick up some insignificant, consumable gifts for the two people I'd like to continue to work with. Pre-show, several people tell me I look worried, stressed, a little bit confused. I wonder why that is?

And woosh. It's been, it's gone. Another transitory chapter amid the ephemeral nothingness that is life as a playwright. Not sure I will ever leave a mark. But I like the way it makes me feel. Sometimes.

Losing bits...

Busy chewing fingernails and generally running around for props. Scored a huge piece of carpet that now fills the car. Picked up a Chevelle mirror yesterday. Other stuff for dressing the set is now packed in a nice, tidy box. I've not actually seen a run of Thinspiration yet. Which, in addition to the general feeling that I've forgotten to do something massive, is another reason to chew fingernails.

Flagging it up...

Went to see the last night of The Flags. Truck is something of an oven when the weather outside is hot - as it was tonight - so I had to take a lot of fluids on board throughout Bridget O’Connor’s play. It was quite an achievement to not have to head to the gents to empty the bladder and it would have been a shame to have missed any of the scattergun Oirish dialogue and fine performances from a cast I also saw perform down the pub the night before.

Witnessed some thrilling urban crime this afternoon. A gang of bare-chested, tracksuit bottom-clad urchins on bikes caused a bit of mayhem by dashing into a chemists to do a spot of shoplifting. A couple of them were caught and the rest pedaled up the road on their fine two-wheeled getaway vehicles but, in a peculiar show of criminal solidarity, turned back round when they realised their mates hadn't followed them. One of the returning gang decided to offload his booty outside the chemists (obviously not blessed with a fully-functioning brain, this petty criminal) and, after some tampering with his tracky bottoms, around 20 aerosol cans dropped on to the pavement. Great to watch, all very comedy sketch. Then the rest of the gang went into the chemists to cause mayhem. I was thinking of stepping in to this situation but, before I could, a posse of muscular lookin' gents and a loudmouthed woman crossed the road from the public house opposite to enforce some good old fashioned vigilante intervention. Not that Killing Time would recommend such action. Although very nice to see people doing what's necessary while the police are busy doing their paperwork (10 minutes later and there was still no sign of any police response, despite lots of people phoning to alert them).

Slave to the rhythm...

Time was when I slavishly posted a blog entry every day. If I missed a day, I'd retrospectively go back and fill in the gaps. Those days will return one day. What went wrong? Perhaps it's the people of Beverley, where I spend much of the daylight hours, who are letting me down and not behaving in a manner that could be transformed into a glittering entry. Them and their glut of old churches and markets and public houses and limited parking. Or maybe its me. My head is fugged.

That said...I will be starting next year's blockbuster play at the weekend. Tentative moves akin to the beginning of a karate bout. Writer's foreplay. I'll tug at the bastard's Gi but, no doubt, I may as well just be tickling the thing or taking it down the dry cleaners. I've done a fair bit of planning but anything could blurt out via my soft, poncy fingertips. I hope the pages start to mount up thick and fast. I won't be worrying about the quality. Not yet. At this stage quantity is a good thing.

Winners...

Watched the first half of Hull City's victory over Barnsley in Blackies club, in Brough. Lots of oohs and aaahs and applause as the game unfolded on the big screen. And lots of comments about the tufty unkempt turf over at Oakwell Road. I listened to the second half on the radio in the car - the Tigers coming away 1-3 winners and shifting up to second place in The Championship. Father would have been overjoyed, having suffered a lot of barren, frustrating years as he slavishly followed a club that rarely repaid his faith. Three games to go. Lots of twitchy bum moments for fans between now and the end of the season, I should think. The prefix to the game was a meeting about the new play. I felt like a writer again for a short while, as I feverishly spluttered out my barely-formed plot, ably supported by several pages of notes. Anyway, a positive chat that made me feel good. Keep the whole of 2009 free for now - if all goes according to plan the play will be performed at some point next year.

More jalapeños...

Today's highlight was an outing to get some Mexican food. A table for six and lots of burritos flying around. Splendid. This weekend there's been further progress on the boxes front and various odds and sods stored haphazardly in the garage. Yes, a garage. Don't get the wrong idea - the garage is almost as big as, if not bigger than, the property we're now living in. We're using the garage as a sort of glorified dustbin while our other glorified dustbin, the car, remains parked on the wrong side of the up-and-over door.

Did some work on one of two new plays. Had to - there's a meeting looming and still not much of a plot. Or there wasn't. Now there is. Sort of. I also headed off and bought a new domain name relating to this play with a bit of a plot's title. Which, given it's a working title and a script is still an abstract notion, may well prove to be a fiver wasted. This purchase was prompted by the stumbled across knowledge that On A Shout's .co.uk and .com versions were parked back in December. Just a coincidence, I'm sure. But I like my working title, which is four words long. And the .co.uk of it now belongs to me. My vanity knows no bounds.

I am watching Mark Lawson Talks To... on the frankly superb and lifestyle-changing BBC iPlayer. I've been aware of Lawson's many ticks for quite some time but this show's two static cameras approach (no shot-reverse shot noddy shenanigans here, it's all very commendably anti-fake magic of TV) to recording the interview seems to exacerbate Lawson's twitchiness and blinking. And what is it with his left hand? Why does he keep curling up his fingers and staring at his finger ends? Wouldn't it be better if he went and bought himself some nail clippers and shed whatever it is that's bothering him/me/possibly you?

Reading: Norma Farnes - Spike: An Intimate Memoir