Now I felt a little bit guilty because I had a bone idle weekend. My only real effort was trying to blog in the fabulous gothic four poster bedded room. Just because I could. Except as I quickly discovered, I couldn’t. As the wifi signal wasn’t sufficiently sturdy.

But I rushed back to Edinburgh in time to catch a National Library of Scotland talk about the Traverse. Although the talk lasted a mere 70 or thereabouts minutes, I still managed to take a little rest in the heart of the discourse. I blame Bonnie.

It was noteworthy for showing me David Harrower. Maybe I hadn’t seen Dominic Hill before so that was a little exciting too. Dear Joyce was there in her faithful pink boucle jacket. Some academic from Glasgow and two other playwrights who, to my shame, I had not heard of. Mostly they dwelt on the heyday that apparently was 1985. And whilst Brian had enjoyed the entire season’s programme, I was too busy preparing to enjoy Vanessa’s Joe Le Taxi and Ingrid’s besheeted Iris in some strange play about birds and gods to be paying much attention to what was going on up the road. Perhaps this can account for my nap.

Tuesday was the Beauty Queen of Leenane at the Lyceum. I love that play. I love the evil wickedness of it. Unfortunately, I loved the production that Siobhan and I saw at the Brunton in the autumn just a little bit more. The text does a lot for you in this play, I think. Not that it acts itself. But I felt that mother and daughter were very slightly lacklustre in the first couple of scenes. But it was a Tuesday night. And what on earth do I know anyway?

I sprang to attention when Pato (John Kazek I think – always too mean for a programme) popped up on the stage. So maybe I was suffering only from a surfeit of oestrogen. (Though I also sprang to attention when it rained at the start. Hats off to the set. It was pretty much perfect. Though I’d have moved the fire down stage.) He was quite marvellous. Though rather too attractive for the character for my liking. The point, to my mind, is that he isn’t anything exceptional but she loves him.

Anyway, it wound to its twisty turny end very respectably. And the work colleagues whom, in a moment of dangerous madness, I’d dragged along with me, appeared to be content when it closed. So it could be (as Joyce has been kind) that I was just being mean-spirited. I need to check in with Siobhan. She’ll tell me what I should’ve thought. And would’ve sooner if I hadn’t stood her up. Thanks to the man in the box office who let me move my ticket without paying the 50 pence charge. But maybe I’m missing too much from this story to be intelligible.

Alongside all of this, I have wildly and rashly pulled out of my kindly (surely through gritted teeth as they have a Tempest in week 1) donated QMH week 3 venue slot. A prize slot. 8 til 10pm. But the Secret Venue verdict still awaits. The QMH programme goes to print in two weeks. How could I mess them about more than I already have? So I withdrew with grovelling apologies. And now it’s Secret Venue or bust. No pressure.