I don't know what possessed me at the time that I thought going to see Scottish classic, Men Should Weep, was a good idea. But I was not in the same passionate grip on Saturday afternoon.

My lord, what a dreary play.

I mean, goodness, it was beautifully (dingily) set. Beautifully (dingily) costumed. Beautifully acted. And very nicely directed by the man who directed the RSC workshop that I've still got a half-written blog post lying about for. (I hadn't much liked him at the time so it was wonderful to see the fruits of his oh so practical for amateurs workshopping approach so nicely realised....)

But goodness, it was miserable.

It cheered up for about five minutes towards the end when at last the poor drudge family could afford biscuits and spindly paper chains in honour of the impending Christmas season. But then loads more bad stuff clambered out of the closet so the biscuits were all but forgotten.

To top it off, the dreary scenes were punctuated with dirge-like / traditional rousing Scottish ballads delivered by an earnest looking fellow in a flat cap who hovered near the front of the stage and addressed us in his medium of (dingy) song with an earnest pleading tone.

Now, as ever, I'm not the best critic. As if to highlight my wriggling disinterest, when I did finally fall asleep (and this, surely, was inevitable), I awoke to find a fine long string of drool trailing down my chin.

I'm not leaving myself much room for further maneouvre when it comes to growing old disgracefully.