I have now had nothing alcoholic to drink and more than seven hours sleep a night for three days. Three days. I'd like to say I feel amazing. But it would be fair to say I feel better. Pure. Not quite as good as Cari's week in Turkey chanting and living off liquefied veg but I reckon by tomorrow, I'll be almost as wholesome and radiant.

Celebrating all this new free time me, I trotted along to the SCDA play library a couple of nights ago to start scooping up options for whatever happens next. And there, sitting gloriously in the script taker out seat, loaded up with the primest scripts that the SCDA has to offer, was winning Saughton whatever they are director woman. She pretended not to know me but I wanted to cry out "I made eye contact with you, gave you a fake grimacing smile and mouthed insincerely "yes, very well done" in some Italian restaurant opposite the Playhouse on your night of glory. Don't pretend you now don't know me" but I kept these thoughts in my heart. I didn't want Douglas substitute dear John Kelly knowing that I'm a Bad Person.

Then, at very long last, weeks after all the cool ones, Inception. Four comments only:

i. Cillian Murphy's cheekbones. The definition of sculpted.

ii. I don't think Pete Postlethwaite should have been his dad.

iii. Laboured the Marion Cottillard scenes a bit. But I suppose he wanted to get value for money from her.

iv. The ubiquity of English. Well I know they speak it in a lot of places. But when they pitched up in Mombasa or Mumbai or wherever it was, it seemed a little bit too handy.

That aside, cracking effects. A brilliantly untied up ending. That Christopher Nolan is a smart man. If you haven't seen it, try and catch it on a big screen. A baby sized version wouldn't do it any sort of justice.