Whilst I've been backroom gorging on culture for a few weeks now in my panic to find The Perfect Script, I've gorged thrice this week - in public.

Tuesday was the very stunning Far by Wayne McGregor at the Festival Theatre. Beautiful to look at, I couldn't tell you the first thing about what it stood for. Except for, perhaps at one point, there was a loud scoffling and gobbling noise as a part of the soundtrack so I thought perhaps they were all eating each other.

But they were ten. Beautiful people. Dressed in gauzy stuffs in monochrome hues. Springing about the stage in a fluidly sinister double-jointed way. With the most amazing board of lights behind them which raised and lowered (itself) periodically, sometimes light with little spindly spiney bits, sometimes in precise quarters, sometimes with a numbery countdown. It was a v smart piece of technology.

The music was a lovely creation of all sorts of genres, squished together in a delightfully contemporary mix but with enough classical wailing to satisfy all that's pretentious in me.

There was a Q&A at the close of the (compact) performance and encouragingly, most other attendees appeared to be as clueless as we when it came to the purpose of the piece. I tactfully sat on the front row of the stalls in front of 11 lean as lean dancers, gobbling a strawberry ice-cream and reflecting on the three almond croissants I'd eaten already that day and wondering when I would become lean like them.

Last night, I was lucky enough to witness a twelve minute sliver of Chekhov, our entry into round one (or would you count it as two?) for the SkyArts competition. And despite the fact that the poor cast were on - it must have been performance four or five (consecutively with n'er a pause even for a cup of tea) - of it for separate batches of their eager audience, they did a lovely job. Very very good luck to you all on Saturday in Northampton.

(Incidentally, courtesy of Margaret, Northampton was the location last time the group won the One Act Play Festival final. 1968 I believe. So let this be a lucky omen.)

Tonight, long long overdue, I stuffed in the latest Almodovar. The Skin I Live In. And this was all as fu**ed up as all his other ones. But in a beautiful way that you don't seem to encounter so often in real life. Needless to say, I loved it.