39 steps

Ahhhhh , went to see it on Friday night, really, really good! I hadn't realised when I first saw it that it is a spoof, of the Reduced Shakespeare Theatre variety, with a cast of four, and minimal props. There were some hugely funny bits in it and if you'd never read the book or seen the film, you'd still get the story. I thought the fat man was the chap from Chewin the Fat, but now I've gone checking, seems it wasn't. However, I found several youtube clips to indulge my penchant for scottish accents.

Top weekend all in all *happy*

I managed to leave work mid-afternoon, to a rousing cheer from my team who didn't beleive I'd actually do it: played slo-o-o-o-o-w traffic to the M40, ( at one point I was averaging 3 miles an hour, which is errmmmmm walking pace). Anyway, got home, shower/wash/pack then discover I misread the train timetable and there isn't a train at 6. Faff about a bit since I have some time before the next one, and fall foul of a brigade of cubscouts obscuring the path to the ticket machine. "Make a hole!!!!" cried the fond parents and leaders, "a big one" said some small creature about waist height on me - sooooooo tempted to clip him one! Then the sodding machine wasn't working. There I was, in full fancy black frock, balancing a bag full of clothes for saturday, shoes for saturday, bottle of 40% proof birthday present, tottering round to the front of the station to get the ticket office. I missed the train by 40 seconds.

Regroup. Luckily I haven't called Mark, a cunning ploy of mine not to tell anyone I'm on my way until I'm in the vehicle and it's moving. So: ticket in hand, I go outside to waste the next 20 minutes setting fire to something and call him. All light, bright and cheerful, I ask him to meet me at the theatre : at 8. He asks me what time it starts and I lie, telling him I don't know. (It starts at 8)

Peace settles, I get on the next train at 6.26 pm and apply slap while the train jaunts onward to Marylebone. My ex calls me. Deep joy. Not. I decide to get it over with and talk to him: he wants the stereo stuff that's been in my garage for the last 3 years, and in the storage he put it in and had to pay arrears to get it out of for about 3 years before that. I counter-offer that he should close the bloody joint account because I can't. He says he can't either because the bank have 'no way to verify my signature' on the forms I'd sent by registered post about a year ago. Ummmm, so how would they deal with written instructions? Anyway, I refuse to give in to anything to spoil my mood.

The play was magnificent: I'd recommend it to anyone.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I've got home, I've got outside wine, I've caught up with my personal emails, I've seen my son but not the short people, I'm in possession of a Harlequins rugby ball signed by all the team, I had a drink with Andy Gomarsal after the game yesterday (mrrrowwwww) in corporate hospitality : the only way to travel, and I was yelling like a banshee but ended up evens on the personal bets during the game. I trashed my feet, I trashed my thighs (don't ask) and spent this afternoon hanging out in God's Waiting Room in the glorious sunshine with Ummm censored :

Fabulous weekend, again. I coould learn to live with this work hard, party hard modus operandi