I horribly overslept this morning. I say horribly. But it could have been worse. I woke up at 7:50am, having woken at 13 minutes to 7 and thought I'll just nap til my alarm goes off. Woke again, registered that the street outside sounded rather more lively than it ought to be at 7am, squinted at the alarm. And waaghh. Leapt up.

I blame the radio clock alarm thing that Russell palmed off on me when his parents no longer wanted it. I was never such a fan of the perky little LCD displays but grew fonder of them in Australia where I didn't want to risk being phoned in the dead of night on my mobile, my usual alarm source. And there's nothing quite like waking up to Singaporean radio. So I became a convert. Let me down this morning though. Bad.

Still, phew, thank the lord above, I still made it into work for 9am. Bless my no maintenance getting ready in the morning routine.

It's been a busy little week so far. I saw Insane in the Brain with the failed alarm clock giver on Monday night. It billed itself as a street dance version of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and it kind of was. It was brilliantly staged. They did some very smart moves fastened into a kind of baby bungee. Beautifully lit. And some really great dancing. And a lovely lively (and she sounds as old as the hills) soundtrack. Miss Martini was particularly adorable. I resolved again for the duration to go back to some kind of dance class.

Raced last night, hot off a train from Manchester, to the SCDA library. I love dear Douglas more each time I see him. Particularly after a mild flutter of panic when I stepped up the steps to be greeted with a closed door. But it's winter season and Douglas was feeling the chill and had only drawn the door shut to keep the heating in. So I handed back Cockroach (no lookalike kids in our group), Decky Does A Bronco (what a great script but same no kids. And certainly no swings!), Ring Around the Moon (oh, far too fanciful) and a terrible trivial thing called What The Night Is For about two one-time lovers, now married to others, who re-united for one night only. Still loved each other. She flirted with him. He told her it was over and done with. Then U-turned and actually he wanted her back. She told him it was too late. Back and forth they went in this way, interspersed with a little casual sex. And then suddenly, for a dose of gravitas, she's got some kind of mental health condition, has an 'episode' but he still loves her. And then it's the end. Don't think I'll be doing that one either.

Snatched up something that looked half promising. Unbroken by Alexandra Wood. Performed first by the Gate earlier this year. And it's a nice enough little story. Infrequent concert goer chats up rock star. They have sex. Rockstar visits ex and tells her he wrote his most famous song about her. She says my husband's due home. They have sex. Later, husband returns. He's infertile. She wants children. They have sex. Barren husband goes to a speed dating event. Swaps numbers with a lonely girl. Lonely girl chats up her boss. They have sex. Her boss goes home to infrequent concert goer and tells her he doesn't love her anymore. No sex. The end.

It's based on Schnitzler's La Ronde. Not that I know what or who this is. (Cue Siobhan: gasp!) But a good name. I'd like to be called Schnitzler. Anyway, it's very sweet but I can't quite imagine directing a play with such endless sex in it. Douglas would not approve.

So back again to the drawing board. Did I ever leave it?

Rush off to prompt for Wit (which will incidentally be brilliant). And DG says threateningly that I need to write a piece about what I'm doing for next year's festival in a week's time for the Wit programme. And again I say waagghh. I think I might be writing a piece of plump fudge for the time being, thereby ruining the otherwise perfect 2010 programme. I feel remorseful. But better that than boxed into a corner with a play packed with sex. That would never do.

Maybe I'll just have to do Festen.