A rant about Two Women and a Chair, and fear.
Edinburgh is creeping ever closer. I say creeping, because if I say that it's approaching with all the finesse of an axe-wielding maniac then i just end up turning blue and making odd squeaking noises. We have two weeks to write 15 minutes more script. The director and co-star are at the other end of the country until five days before our first show. We have no idea what the hell to write 15 minutes about. Silence? I'm thinking we jack in the whole idea and just turn up a bit late and do it regardless. Oh dear, as I was getting frightened the sun went away - again.
On the bright side, we have somewhere to live, which is a damn sight better than Cardiff where, er, I don't. I'm going down to have a look at a place this weekend which should be good - then again, when the hell has any house I've lived in been remotely normal?
---End of tangent---
The play is good. That's a bonus. Some of the blurbs in the programme have terrified me with tweeness. If you ever want an illicit insecure giggle, check out the performance theatre section. Then again, our entry has been butchered to the point where I have not the slightest idea what the hell it's about, and I'm in the damn thing! We're just to the right of Puppetry of the Penis' crotch, mmmm, just where you want to be on a hot summer's evening.