It's time.

Last Saturday was a peculiar weather mishmash of a day so after having sorted and valiantly attempted to bin a collection of garments that pass for costumes at Home Street, I sat outside (bold) a tiny sandwich shop on Melville Street in thin and sickly sun and finished reading (again, I hasten to add) the script for November's show. 

(I still owe you part three of the performing rights excitement, of course. Bet you can scarce breathe for suspense.)

I supped yellow pea soup, gave directions to a visiting German, read the final scenes, wept a bit in the thin and sickly sun (always am excellent sign. If the script makes me weep, buckets of potential for the real thing) and started to feel the first flicker of excitement for it all beginning again.