It has been a bit quiet here of late, as foolhardy woman that I am, I am once again packing all of my worldly goods into boxes and ferrying them from one bit of south London to another bit of south London. There were good reasons for doing this, I’m sure there were, I’m just struggling to remember them now as I unload books from shelves (books that appear to have independently bred in the last twelve months) and empty kitchen cupboards. Again.
Oh, how I wish that I had a handy transportation device that would whisk me and my things straight into the new place. But I do not, so everything must be wrapped and hauled and lugged, fortunately we have many kind friends who have offered to help share wrapping, hauling and lugging duties. And though the process of moving is daunting, the prospect of setting up somewhere new is rather exciting; I am not good at staying still, I like newness and adventure. Uncharted waters and all that.
Lately (perhaps in response to the inherent passivity involved in sitting in so many darkened theatres - even if you are, you know, actively, critically engaged like what I am) I have been writing stories and painting mediocre - but oh so satisfying - pictures of flowers and grapes and peppers, and baking cakes and cookies; revelling in the feeling of creating and completing a thing even if its edges are a trifle charred or smudgy with blue. It is a nice feeling.