I managed to get scripts posted out to my cast last week at last. And got an adorable text from one of them when I staggered back to my hellhole Travelodge in Liphook after Clare and Olly's charming wedding in a Doomsday Book featured barn in the middle of the Hampshire countryside on Sunday. He said he'd got the script and had started looking over it and was looking forward to starting rehearsals. I almost wept with gratitude. As obviously I am haunted with fear that one - or all - of them will pull out before we get as far as the show week. And now nightmarishly it looks like Ross may participate in a rival show so back-up plan number one is thwarted.

I assembled a rehearsal schedule in a last-minute panic before fleeing the country for sunnier climes. But failed to actually take any of my cast's email addressses into work so was unable to effectively distribute it before I left. But it's the thought that counts. I'm only away a week.

Now I'm sitting on the landing of the villa of what must be one of the kindest men in the world (I'm careful to say 'one' as I think I may have bestowed this title on one or two others during my blogging time...) tapping away at this and I realise that although I - again - had good intentions of bringing my script and starting to actually - at last - give some thought to how this little chap might actually be staged - I altogether forgot it. I had a spectacular packing disaster when I went to this wedding last weekend. And seems I have now caught the bad packing bug.

Does mean that I'm guzzling up Donna Tartt's "Little Friend" instead. Certainly no bad thing.