As per Irwin's early afternoon tweet, "thank god it's over".

Now don't think I'm rude, ungrateful or unappreciative. As it was wonderful. I loved being Isobel. I loved my fellow cast and shall miss them dearly. I loved rehearsals and laughed drain-like in them often, much to Wendy's chagrin. But three shows in one small year is too much. For me, at least.

Last night, our last night, skipped along. As some sort of poetic justice, I at last experienced a proper moment of empty headedness. Not the empty head that is swiftly superceded with exactly the right words after approximately half a second. But a proper genuinely have no idea what the words are meant to be moment. Luckily, it struck as I was footering about with a prop so it was easier to conceal. And on account of the prop, I had some loose idea of what I was meant to be saying. So spat out something that kind of kept us on track. But I'm interested, not to say morbidly pleased that this happened at the final hurdle. A small fluffy catharsis.

The rest of the show appeared to pass uneventfully. Despite careless guffaws from We Know Who in the audience. The small-hearted ad man got a whole bout of hilarity to himself. And I felt a little bit sad as I flung myself off stage to avoid the (never quite believing they were fake) bullets. But mostly relieved that I'd survived.

Silly melodrama. Over-tired I think. (Also why I can't spell accurately.)

And then we had the pack everything up and cart it back to our infested store. My favourite moment of the night came as I (constitutionally incapable of carrying things) crowed proudly to Richard that I'd perfected a brilliant carrying technique for some giant unwieldy but not remotely heavy struts, demonstrating my clever co-opting of my shoulder. I peered down at the floor to suss out the prize resting place for them. And noticed that my clever carrying technique had resulted in my struts crushing his foot. "Yes," he said forgivingly, "I didn't like to say".