I was in London last weekend for a hen night (lovely slim young Clare Lovell who is marrying the apparently sexy and good in bed Oliver Brown - his modest words from the 'his and hers' quiz - in a couple of weeks).

The point anyway is that I managed to catch a rather marvellous production of Tennessee Williams' Glass Menagerie. I don't know if I agree with Michael Billington's take on the play. Laura was slightly too freakish for my liking. And Amanda was suitably overpowering to my mind. But then I saw it two months after Mr Billington so perhaps they'd been tinkering.

And it's probably fair to say that they could have done it any old way. The set was charming, the lighting envy-inducing for someone with a non-existent lighting budget. And the story always makes me cry. I tried to discretely swipe my tears away as they streaked down my cheeks in the slightly sweaty darkness of the stalls, only to find that my companion had slept through the heart-rending climax of the piece. My synopsis didn't have quite the same effect on her when retold.

Totally spolit theatrically recently, we went to see aalst at the Brunton a couple of weeks back. It tells the tale of a Belgian couple who murdered their children. Now there's a beautifully scripted play. It was brilliantly acted and was somehow gloriously bleakly funny. And needless to say, incredibly chilling. Hurry to see it at the Traverse, all my silent readers. You'll either love it or you'll realise what a strange twisted psyche I really have.

Neglectful times recently. I've been drowning in work. Deadline for IPA papers is Friday - but tomorrow to all intents and purposes as far as couriers are concerned. Had a pitch yesterday and a pitch tomorrow. Joyful times.

To the drastic extent that I'm missing the Melodramatic's "Secret Garden" tonight. Which I am sad about principally in so far as missing out on the best lighting man in Edinburgh's floor show. Though aside from this, it does look very good. And I love the book. One of the ones I grew up on. So I'm sad to miss it.

Anyway, to the job in hand. I have a cast! Frabjous day etc etc. Three auditions in, I ended up with too many good people. Why is there no happy medium? So I've chosen as arbitratrily as you do in these situations and now shall hope for the best. They're very pretty at the very least. In time, we shall find out how well they can act.

Some rather lovely photos from my little sister's recent trip to Africa can be found here.

Marvel and enjoy!

Third time lucky perhaps? Seems that my desperate pimping paid off as I had better attended auditions yesterday. Four whole people turned up. And they were very good. So now at last I have some possible cast permutations to puzzle over.

I feel quite excitable. Same old story. I hadn't realised quite how much the looming spectre of cancellation was dragging me down.

Though I did have a moment of panic that I haven't actually mentioned the theatre group in my blurb for the fringe programme conscientiously submitted by the early booking deadline. Smart move.

Desperate days. Last night I went to a student showcase at the Traverse to hunt down some innocent prey. The lovely Mr Cheales served as my broker.

Like some kind of desperate middle-aged lush, I pressed my business card onto various pretty young things (hmm, I remember being on the receiving end of this kind of disreputable behaviour a few years back. How the wriggling worm has turned).

So we shall see whether the golden business cards cast onto the murky waters yield plentiful and talented fruit.

Three people turned up to the auditions on Thursday.

I drowned my sorrows in a strange horrible pub where the barman persistently wore slim blue sunglasses, a slightly senile old man screamed and jabbered random abuse as I ordered my pint of tepid Kronenberg and a story teller strummed a sad guitar and whispered words of Rabbie Burns to a handful of bemused tourists. Great days.

More auditions tonight. On the most beautiful clear blue spring evening. I'm sure turnout will be as stunning as it was a fortnight ago.

There’s a beautiful little grey car that appeared quite recently on my street. I’m not really into cars. Actually, it would be fairer to say that I’m not at all into cars. But this little chap is obviously vintage and charming with it.

At the same sort of time if I’d really thought about it, a new occupant appeared in the blind-less eaved windows of the flat opposite mine. He seems to sit in the bay window gazing out for hours on end, not apparently doing anything.

I’d always thought Mr Aldred was slightly creepy when he confessed to using binoculars on fellow residents. But now – though binocularless – I am no better. As I’ve taken to peering slyly across the street to see if he’s in position in the bay.

I trotted home last night to find (presumably) the car owner outside in the street tending to his vehicle. So I end up ludicrously hiding under my window sill trying to work out whether he disappears inside to The Flat or one of the other five or six with his front door.

It’s impossible to tell at this distance whether or not he has a lover. If I was in a Nescafe ad, I’d plaster a poster to the window inviting him over for home-baking.