The old familiar pattern.

All week, completely hyperactive. Going to bed too late after hours scouring the internet for reviews and attempting to nudge our edtwinge rating in the right direction. Springing up from bed too early to do exactly the same thing. I haven't picked up The Night Train to Lisbon since Saturday. But then I'm only about 5 pages in.

By yesterday, the usual mournful nostalgia had closed in. I love them all. I'll miss them all. Are they not all amazing? Isn't it a cracking little show and how unjust that beyond tonight, it'll never see the light of day again. All that stupendous amount of work and line-learning and effort. And what on earth am I going to do with all my time now?

Although Susan seems to have taken it into her head that we should regroup for a final performance in some church hall at some point in the presumably not too distant future for one final performance. In the light of the (peculiar) enthusiasm for the show this week, she seems to think we'd get plenty of interest in tickets. I'm not sure that I'm convinced though it's a gratifying idea in theory. Vanity is a terrible thing.