We are moving.

As of Friday.

We sat in our regular rehearsal rooms tonight, home for getting on for ten years to our most narcissistic of efforts and read one of our Fringe shows, Lorna's edit of Romeo and Juliet.

I'm ashamed to say my mind strayed to the first show (I think) I directed in these premises. My second ever. Little Crave. Or did I only ever 'direct' the 'revival' of Crave for the Fringe from there? Maybe the first incarnation was done at number five.

I know 4:48 Psychosis took place in there. I can still see the tiny wooden blocks scattered about wiry neutrally coloured carpet. And remember the flash flicker stabs as my first pitched battle with a cast. (I lost.)

Then we had Some Explicit Polaroids and the first Boy That Let Me Down. I mostly remember this show now for - well, two things actually - Ian Aldred's beautifully deployed lechery and Ross' ongoing despair that his beautiful playmate (and o how essential to the reciprocal action) hadn't turned up again.

Or did that come after CCC? Thus making Jerusalem the last time that a director didn't ask a cast to dance on stage.

Ten years of readings. Of rarely well enough attended first Wednesday of the month meetings. Of mince pies and plastic forks and soggy biscuits. Pork pies and tailends of wine bottles. Of props always left securely in the shower room (in stark contrast to the horrors of the Tempest days when the cleaners on the Mary of Guise persisted in throwing out my hard bought bottles of Buckfast). Of heated (committee) tempers. Of AGM speeches. Of read-throughs honourably delivered. Of audition speeches haltingly - and astoundingly - presented. Of awkward kisses. Of (do it again. Do it again!) faints. And feints. Of passionless embraces. Of ill-intentioned passionful embraces (oh ho you know who you are). Of people greeted politely for the very first time. And who could've predicted which would be the people with whom we'd stay in touch, with whom we could now not do without?

Thank you, Rooms, for guarding our carefully hoarded moth-eaten relics and obscurely sourced objects and no-one ever drank them sachets of cappuccino. Thank you, Room Guardians, for having us.

And thank you most of all for:

- letting me crawl on your floor in my white tights and silk dress 

- my favourite late night confession story (girls, girls, you know of whom I speak)

- a hundred and three curled up in the corner reading a book rehearsals

- cartons of wine

- looking after my favourite red mug for however many years

- all of the people you've given me who now make my little strutting and fretting such fun

- (and by no means least, for) forgiving my voluminous projectile vomit in the girls' toilet one pretty unfortunate day. Thanks for nonetheless having me back.

We'll miss you, Rooms. Hope you get just as much impropriety without us.