Dirty Gin-Soaked Floor-Angels

Did a bit of dancing last week. Probably shouldn’t have done. Think I scared some people. (But then people out for a nice civilised evening in a posh members-only bar can be so touchy can’t they?) Actually, what I actually shouldn’t have done was imbibe two G&Ts, seven mint and ginger cocktails, and two squat…

Valentine’s: Shooting A Rhino In The Face

Just when I thought I was all grown-up and had accepted that Valentine’s Day is a mass-market scam, I fell into the huge boggy bit of my heart that I thought had near-dried up with the desiccation of age. Like when Dawn French falls into that unfeasibly deep puddle in the Vicar of Dibley –…

The Second Dirtiest F-word…

It is with a sheepish look (*dons sheepish look*) that I confess the word ‘feminist’ (*braces self*) has always been a bit of a yawnsome one for me (*waits for tins of beans to hit head*). It has. I have always tutted a bit internally when I heard it, like I thought women should stop…

Legacy Theatreland

One of the many things I love about writing is that it invokes all your cerebral bustle while indulging your lazy side. You can for example have the most productive day while propped up by five pillows in old pants, long socks, and a Dolly Parton T-shirt covered in biscuit crumbs. In fact, some of…

When The Carnival Queen Came To Call

Isn’t it funny how something can run through your life like a ribbon without you even noticing it sometimes? Local papers can so often be batted aside like tomorrow’s chip-wrappings, but they are always there. When I was six years old, I remember staring at pictorial coverage of the Great Storm in 1987. I pored…