Allergic To My Own Face

Some of you may be aware that I am directing a show this June. It is Noel Coward’s Hay Fever. Well, this post is nothing to do with that.

No, tiny darlings, I merely bring this up because (ahem, chuckle) it’s rather apt that all my attention is focused on Hay Fever because actual hay fever (ho ho!) is literally killing me it’s killing me I’m going to die from it in the next eight minutes this is not a joke or a witty little anecdote or pun SEND HELP.

A new strain of super pollen has taken over the clouds and rains bloody murder upon me every day.

 

BASTARDS

Tequila Tasting I Will Go

An email arrives in my folder. It reads: “You have won a place at our exclusive members’ only tequila tasting event at Club Burrito.”

I stare at the screen for a long time.

I can’t imagine this is a random coincidence, given me penchant for blogging about local things and supporting local businesses.

But seriously…free booze? For ME? This is like asking The Joker to watch your massive pile of weapons and maps to Batman’s house while you nip to the toilet.

Meh, I’m sure it’ll be fine.  

Do Androids Dream of Dead Parents?

If ever there were 12 words guaranteed to make a person’s stomach churn, they are “I SOOOOO need to tell you all about my dream last night!”

Add the words “It had my dead parents in it” and people will run like UKIP runs from rationality.

As a rule I don’t really discuss my dreams or personal torments with others; I fear I will bore them while not providing enough snacks.

Yet a couple of nights ago, I had one of the most affecting dreams I’ve ever had about my dear departed mother and father. It was beguiling, mesmerizing, and left me wandering the streets (by which I mean my house) muttering “woaaaaaaaahhh”.

I decided I wanted to talk to someone about it. (Pinches bridge of nose at memory of this decision)

What Sounds New - An Interview

My world is flurry of festivals this week. Festivals here, festivals there, festivals in the unlikeliest of places – crypts, cafes, woodland, concert halls. I went down to the kitchen during the night for a glass of gin, and there was a festival happening in my cat.*

The festivities to which I refer are not those giant, camping in a damp field, paying £9 for a beer, constantly fighting the need to urinate, crouched under a campervan at 2am and talking of ‘the sins’ type of affairs.

No, I speak of the local kind. Lots of music, unconventional venues, and the ability to go home at the end of the night instead of fighting your way into someone’s tent while saying “it’s alright, I’ll just curl up at your feet, you won’t even know I’m here!”