The Guardian called it a dozy thriller.

And indeed, for Kitty / Cari, so it was.

I quite enjoyed Man on a Ledge. In a nonsensical Sunday night big bucket of popcorn way.

It's ridiculous. Flagrantly implausible. But fairly sweetly done for all that.

Cari / Kitty on the other hand, did a cmfwood and slept for approx one third of it.

I blame Greta. As the second she was laid over Cari's ample puffa, the poor girl was done for.

Delightful to be the one who was wide awake for a change.

I haven't really done much so far to contribute to my GMly duties for Six Degrees. A few nagging emails sent, a prompt schedule assembled, a production meeting arranged. These duties have not been taxing in the grand scheme of things.

Sadly, only one dear soul has so far responded to the various 'calls' for help with props. The dear soul immediately sprang into action and instantaneously sourced one problem item. And possibly a second. I sent out a few more emails entreating this or that person to seek out this or that thing. (B S Neill, we'd like your decanter!)

And then felt that as time was passing as invariably as it does, I should try a bit harder. So scheduled a Home Street visit with Ross to see what we could see.

Excelling in this as all things, I was then fifteen minutes late for the agreed appointment. Meaning that he'd already found most of the limited goodness that the amply but rarely usefully stocked boxes could offer up.

We (ok, he) got flowers, a tiny painting that might be refitted to feature a dog, glasses, x2 silver trays (on account of my returning of stolen / borrowed / generally purloined spoils inc. the trusty but sinister 'dead' rabbit) and possible sofa inspiration.

As I returned my other stolen (etc) spoils, the poor boy sat on the dusty floorboards, sifting through our finest silk flowers to find those which would be least incredible in 1990's NYC. I took my leave and he looked up at me, eyes wild with panic, reciting the never-ending to do list that is the director's lot.

So I (lord, oh so benevolently) said I'd take the silvery trays and clean them up. (Well immediately, he's a far better man than I. I used the dirty old thing exactly as it was for our Halloween outing last autumn. Slattern.)

And I stepped off to relax in the hairdressers, resolved that the next day would see me begin preparing for my festival show so I avoid precisely this two months of all-consuming all-else-excluding panic that is currently Ross' life.

I palmed off the tray cleaning to Siobhan. 'Oh how wonderful, how kind, much obliged.' Thinking that now, now, I'd have even more free time to begin my blocking the very next day.

Now it's the next day. And let's think what I've done. Been hungover and not slept enough, read deeply from my current brilliant book, gym, buy food, cook food, eat, Spanish homework, visit mother. Now I'm en route to the cinema.

Funny. Somehow the blocking didn't quite fit in.

The Infamous Brothers Davenport.

Last week at the Lyceum. (This week, at the Citizens Theatre in Glasgow.)

I wanted to like this a lot. I love Vox Motus. I admire their ambition a great deal. They do cute, fun, frolicsome stuff that makes you think. They're big fans - as far as I can see - of using theatrical trickery to tell stories. And hats off to them for this ambition. I loved their Slick in the Fringe a few years back. And I once met one of the main men and have a mild crush on him. All of this helps sell tickets, of course.

The premise for this show - a Victorian séance - is great. And in such a venue as the Lyceum, perfectly atmospheric.

The spectacle started promisingly. Chillingly. Spectacularly, even. With an extremely impressive piece of wardrobe trickery supervised by an apparently - presumably - vulnerable audience member.

The set was stunning in fact. Good costumes. Suspenseful atmosphere. Great casting. It appears - as far as I can tell from my cheap person's internet investigations (at £24 for a ticket, I begrudged lashing out on a programme) that the brothers were played by Actual Brothers. One of them was my little favourite Ryan Fletcher. The other, Scott. Little Ryan I've been fond of since Black Watch days but wouldn't you know, he also featured in Nobody Will Ever Forgive Us, 365, The Wheel. Substantial chunks of the finest theatre to be pouring out of Scotland in recent years.

AMAzing effects. Amazing. The table. Go see.

The problem for me really was the story. A fairly sketchy narrative to start with, it was stretched out to breaking point by the end. Without enough colour having been built up around the emerging characters for you to care much that this was how it turned out. And the wardrobe - home of revelations to start with - became a bit of a weary accessory by the close when it was unwrapped for the 94th time to reveal - well, I shan't tell you.

Technically, the show was stupendously astoundingly impressive and you shouldn't lose sight of that. But technical mastery didn't compensate wholly in my book for narrative spindlyness.

A pity because as one who is easily chilled - as the dreadful (film version of) Woman in Black neatly demonstrated - I could have been chilled-er by this.

Don't let that deter you though. Go see it for the table.

You can tell B S Neill is on holiday this week. My web traffic is rubbish!

(Normally, I'd link to his blog when I mentioned his name but I cunningly shan't this week so as not to attract to thieves to his abode.)

Mustn't forget this Gothic nightmare. Slightly unbelievably taken from exactly the same gardens but just facing the opposite direction. What a difference a direction makes.

Mount Stuart estate on the Isle of Bute. The inside was equally impressive. The boys took excitable photos of the Victorian toilets. Water closets, I suppose I might say.

A very pretty day out.

I'm in The Book.

Man alive.

More than once.

He mentions me by name.

He mentions the group name thrice, spelt correctly n'all.

God bless him, he mentions that Leith paid the venue licence fee.

He does not mention anything that It Would Be Wrong To Mention.

Not, I think, that I told him anything that It Would Be Wrong To Mention.

But a year and a half on, well, let's face it, I couldn't quite remember what I did tell him.

Then.

Most triumphant of all.

I'm in The Index.

Me.

Man alive.

Well, that saves me the bother of writing my own book then.

Jolly good.

I need to say this - only because I'll never get to say it again.

I'm on my way to a book launch.

Because my Spanish class is on a Tuesday night and if I'm not there, I'm being a vulture of culture somewhere else, I've sorely neglected the SCDA Play Library in recent times.

I took out a whole bunch of scripts last autumn (very early September judging from the 11 September train ticket to Manchester I discovered in one volume): Sophocles' Electra, Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, Winter's Tale, As You Like It, CorioL, Ibsen's Lady of the Sea (one day), Strindberg's Miss Julie. Spot the theme. Out of copyright.

In the end, I've jumped a different way altogether to the dark remuneration-requiring side. But that doesn't mean others should be deprived of the pleasure.

So betwixt fortuitously placed meetings today, I hopped into the library to return these great works.

The door was shut as I approached. I felt vengeful as it was a Tuesday, not within school holiday season as far as I knew. How dare it be shut when I'd come 'all' this way?

But on shoving at it, it yielded.

And inside, the golden glow of happy industry. Douglas and Alison laughing and chatting by one bookshelf. Susan sat industriously working through a heap of books, cataloguing? studying? logging? defacing? them at the other side of the room.

Having flown from one place and about to fly to another having flown about frantically all morning, I filled up with envy. O to be retired! O to spend my Tuesday afternoons (in termtime) laughing and cataloguing the finest of our country's dusty art! Chit chatting here and there with those that fly in and out. Laughing and chatting. Having cups of tea. Happy busy bee industrial.

At that moment, I vowed that the second I retired, I would take charge of the SCDA Play Library. And that will be my happy laughing chitty chatty life.

Logged. Noted. Committed. In virtual ink.

I flew off to the next meeting with the golden glow clinging to my stooped (only for now just for now til I retire then I'll be spry) and sorrowing shoulders.