I watched Vicky Featherstone last night interviewing a writer called Anne Enright in the stoically determined Book Festival who I think is very famous and established. But I think I've been careless enough to not read any books by her. 

BS tempted me to watch it. Although the novel Anne has written was called Actress, I'm ashamed to say it was mostly Vicky that lured me along. And I mostly listened with half an ear, disrespectfully, alongside performing small and simple life chores.

But then Anne said that what made theatre really special for her was the "tawdriness and the glamour" of theatre. By then, she'd also said - and I think this is a lumpen paraphrase - "when theatre's bad, it's bad. And when it's good, it can be glorious".

Should've been a week into our run of crackers at venue 40 today. It's also in a strange writhing twist, the tenth anniversary of one of my all-time favourite shows, The Tempest, executed on a tethered boat in Leith. Instead, I spent my Saturday night watching (in fairness, I wouldn't have got to see Bernadine and Nicola, had things been as they should) a godforsaken dance movie. 

Oh, Fringe. It's just all a bit sad.

This is magic. 

Half an hour long. I suggest you watch it at least twice. 

(Aside from an awful bit over halfway in that makes me want to punch someone. I'll leave it to you to see if you can spot it. And then fast forward through it if you do watch it again.)

I did read this in July. And wrote this about it. 

In fact, I wrote about 300 extra words but our wise Books Editor obviously decided it was much too much and trimmed it. 

I had included many more long loving quotes from the book - when you could just get on and read it - so fair play to her.

Brilliant to read a novel with such scale, such political punch (in both senses), such a shamelessly feminist agenda and such a big plump heart.