The National Theatre of Scotland's Wall of Death was so tremendous that I felt it warranted a work blog too. Impressionable times.

Though I say that and it would not have been everyone's cup of tea I think. Ross would have been dissatisfied. And Siobhan would have out and out hated it. However, for children who grew up playing amongst the mud and candyfloss sticks of Goose Fair (for yes, my childhood was just like that), it was delightful.

Part-theatre and part-art, it was a happily atmospheric (despite the least atmospheric aircraft hangar of a venue, the Royal Highland Centre) sliver of what it might be like to run away and join a circus. Albeit a circus spent circling vertical walls on a petrol-powered motorcycle. It kicked off with an art installation courtesy of Stephen Skrynka whose claimed ambition to ride the Wall of Death (WOD) gave the show its premise.

Then we were ushered through into a kind of giant pen containing the WOD. And in the most thrilling moment of the whole piece, you were invited to lay your hand on the wall exterior as the motorcycles clattered and clunked around the innards. This more than anything brought home, to me at any rate, the utter madness of the venture. (Though maybe it isn't really utter madness. My physics has never been great.)

Then ushered round to the back for a little Q&A session with the Foxes. I had a dutiful little crush on the troupe head and father of the household, Ken Fox. Though I hid my admiration more successfully than Russell did. And we learnt a little about the life of the travelling WODer. And then the spectacle itself. Packed to the gunnells with how can they possibly and surely they won't and oh my god really?? moments. It was amazing stuff.

The girl rider married into the family, having never WODed before. So there's a slim chance for me yet. But given that the marriage came about when she answered an ad in a Job Centre for a rider, having formally been an equestrian instructor, perhaps my credentials are currently a little lacking.