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.

Eeee. The blogger app doesn't much like phone pic uploads.

Forgive the unruly nature of the post below.

Perthshire earlier today. Not laden down with snow.

50/50 is a very fine film.

On the surface, it's a bleak subject matter.

A fine young man with everything to live for gets a rare form of cancer and struggles with a virulent treatment and his impending fate.

But the subject matter is handled with such a delicate touch and such an eye for the beautifully dark humour that can be wrung out of his situation that it's not nearly as dreary as a cinema goer might fear.

Like Coriolanus, I would not have sought this one out if I was left to my own devices. I suspect it's age-related but I am increasingly unwilling to sit through relentless misery on a giant screen, unless I believe it to be in a good cause. So I avoided it when it was first out for this reason.

Luckily, Gail wished to see it for work purposes. The lucky girl is working for the Government on a campaign about cancer detection so saw it as research. And I strive to be a good friend so said I would accompany her.

It turned out to be much more of a story about people who seem selfish and aren't. And those who apparently strive to help others but turn out to have all sorts of selfish reasons for doing so. With the cancer as more of the pretext than the purpose of the story.

The ending is quite possibly slightly fanciful. But after unrelenting bad luck throughout, I was willing to forgive a little showy flourish.

Go see. If you can. It's surprisingly both funny and fun.

You'll know that I'm not a big fan of Shakespeare on film.

To the extent that I still haven't actually managed to catch up with last summer's (the summer before's, really) The Tempest with Helen Mirren as Prosp. Era.

I went to see Coriolanus purely as an excuse to see a particular friend of mine whom I rarely see as she's childed so her weekends are wildness. So gifthorse and mouth would have been united if I'd turned down the chance to see her and see a cinema at a weekend. I figured the film would be good for me. Educational. And if the worse came to the worse - I could always sleep.

As it turned out, I slept not a wink. It was brilliant.

I loved the setting. Unspecified Eastern Europe. Loved the cinematography. All chilly greys and khakis mostly. Except for Coriolanus' lush palace but we lost sight of that towards the end.

I don't know how much they'd chopped about the script but I more or less fancied that I could follow the story.

And suddenly, the beauty of Shakespeare on film was revealed to me. Where in the theatre, you're stuck with one place - or lots of scenes with different palm tree pictures or whatever; on film, you can of course show whatsoever you like to make the point. How the story-telling is enhanced. (Man, I can hear Siobhan sadly shaking her head at my appreciation for the spoon feed.)

The direction was rather marvellous which helped. There was only one shot that felt a little bit gratuitous. Can't tell you what it is as it'll ruin the ending. But it was neither too sentimental nor too unemotional. Jarhead meets a story with a bit more of a heart.

I even liked Ralph (Rafe, I said casually to a friend a day later over noodles. She looked up at me sharply: "what? when did you get so posh?" I was plunged immediately into pronunciatory indecision) Fiennes. I've never quite understood the vanity of someone that would direct themselves in the main part of a play. I don't understand how you can possibly be objective. Fundamentally, I'll confess, I think I'm an amazing actress. (Oh god please see that as tongue in cheek.) And can only imagine the horrors I would turn in if I was watching myself doing it. (Actually, that situation would never arise. I'd more likely instantly sack myself.)

The point is - I would never do it. I judge those that do.

But he did. And he was great.

So maybe I should take it back.

Go see it if you can. It's a cracker.

It's a delicious, delighting and exciting time. The first read through.

You steel yourself. You're about to plunge into it. Then Ross says - perfectly reasonably of course given that no-one knows anything about the script - "what's it about?"

So you stutter around the houses, babbling to recount a scarce-remembered plot, trying to retain a bit of theatre and not give the end away, trying to carefully egalitarianly make each part sound perfectly equally vitally important (but oooops oh oooops - "now that's a cracking part" she says, carelessly. Well, if you weren't there, you'll never know). And then you're dwelling on stuff that isn't at all important and not actually really telling anyone anything about the actual heart of the play. The actual reason you like it.

"It's just funny," you manage to spit out oh so eloquently. "And dark."

Oh great, think the onlooking actors, must make sure I go out of my way to audition for that.

And then the reading itself stutters into life. And you're sitting there, laughing like a drain at the slightest joke because, for this hour and a half, this play is (almost) 'yours'. Probably the only time that it really is, before everyone else starts (how wrong) feeling that they can lay some sort of claim to it.

And isn't it sounding lovely? And isn't it dark? But isn't it funny? And oh how they're laughing so sinisterly but delightedly at the darkest of dark jokes. They must like it. Do they like it? Are they laughing because I'm laughing? Or is it actually funny? It's funny, right?

And set alongside this frantic scrutiny of the onlookers' facial reactions (they hate it oh my god they hate it), you're also staring like a hypnotised cat at your watch. Because what you need to know above all else, above any sort of audience pleasure or artistic merit, is whether the little bastard will come in on time. Will it run at an hour and a half?

And this little script goes on for at least eight pages after I'd expected it to finish. And they're densely worded pages. Not just the quick witty repartee and banter that skips one page through to the next. Suddenly, the characters are all heartfelt pleas and soliloquies. And the minutes are ticking inconsiderately by and I'm thinking I'm maybe seeing my watch face at a Dali-esque angle and it's not that time at all but wait it is but that means I've only got...

And then. Phssssew. It's done. One hour and a half. A stunned (you imagine) silence. Because it's brilliant.

Right?

So tonight, tonight, suddenly it's upon us. The official unveiling of my festival show.

We're reading the script after today's first Wednesday of the month meeting.

As no-one knows anything about it - and I've spectacularly failed to update the website with any sort of advance information - it could be an interesting session.

Imagine if everyone hates it.

(I hope they don't.)