Somewhere, Over The Hurdle

Well, I've survived my first day back into the forays of commercial living. If it hadn't been for the goddamn awful drive there and back, it would have been a rather gentle re-introduction to the normal rigours of gainful employment. I wasn't given a great deal to do – in fact, I'm not even sure that my clients actually know what it is they want me to do – so I didn't feel too taxed by the day. That notwithstanding, I'd have sooner been at home waving my legs in the air instead.

Yesterday, my last one of freedom, we had a marathon meeting at my flat about the Triliteral Festival. The competition closed at twelve noon and I met with the rest of the executive committee to begin the long task of shortlisting the submissions. Well we had made some preparations already, of course, because as the scripts had been arriving during the previous weeks we had been reading them in advance and making notes in readiness for our mutual deliberations. My apartment was now knee-deep in paper as we jointly considered the merits of each submission, and the air was thick with argument and disagreement (all in the friendliest possible manner, of course). Despite the fact that it should have been my ultimate day of leisure, I was also charged with the duty of cooking a full roast dinner for my colleagues amidst this snowdrift of paperwork. Not an easy task.

Well, we enjoyed a passable repast at least (although no alcohol to accompany the feast, lest our judgement should become impaired) and we eventually emerged from the deluge of hopeful scripts with a shortlist that we felt were worthy enough to be forwarded to our panel of independent judges. So, now the waiting begins – the judges will have to return the scored script sheets and then we'll have to begin the task of auditioning, casting, rehearsals and finally, production of the Festival itself in June. Then there's the Edinburgh Fringe to come, so we've still a long way to go as far as the amount of hard work is concerned. Why do we punish ourselves thus?

I don't know – there's my own play to finish (not the one about the Great Barrack Street Tullamore Balloon Fire Disaster of 1785, but another one), AND my novel to finish (not the one about the rent boys, but another one), AND the finances for the studio to complete, AND a mountain of my own paperwork to wade through too. And now – working for a living as well! No wonder I'm reaching for the bottle of scotch. Can you blame me?