Defintely nothing rude. At all.

I can fit the whole of my fist into my mouth.

I didn't claim it was attractive.

That's all.

PS. I had to try very hard not to call this post "Fisting".

A Mystery Guest

You can call me Caroline.
In response to my whinnying on about not being able to blog whatever I want, the lovely Miss Tickle offered me a safe blog to come blurt in.

This is to be my happy place for the day.
It is a place where stalking former boyfriends can not find me.
Even though they are clearly dedicating their lives to the task.
It is a place where I can say bollocks and shit without receiving a reprimanding email from anyone.
I am 33 years old for fuck’s sake.
And I don’t feel like I’m being watched.
Because I’m just here for the respite.

I don’t have to perform.
I feel calm.
This is a much nicer place to be.
The air is fresher.
Thank you for your hospitality Miss Tickle.

I’m going to sit here a while.
Read a book. Bask in the sunshine.
And eat a whole packet of ginger snaps, because I’m in someone else’s blog and so calories don’t count.

Any questions?

More money than sense.

In his job, hub has to go to rich people's houses. He fits swanky furniture that he has created with his bare hands. Like the clever thing he is.

He often returns from these houses a bit angry.

(That is putting rather a positive light on it.)

Because these rich people are, well, rich. And rich people seem to be depserate to spend their money.

All over the place.

Including the toilet.

Exhibit Number One:



















PS. I have not had a single biscuit.

And Life Goes On.

Yes it does. And depsite my considering more seriously than ever the plan in which I move to Cornwall and keep chickens and bake cakes while hub creates wonderful furniture from driftwood, I find myself still in London and still alive and still, against all odds, planning to do the plays later in the year.

Although I am still £1500 worse off than I was on Sunday. Grr.

While our lawyer friend is checking the contract to see if the money really is legally keepable, the theatre have offered us a half-way house type deal where we get to do a week's "development" on the shows. This means working on them for a week and showing them to an audience to get (shudder) feedback.

I am not sure that this would be A Good Thing since the plays do not need developing, they are ace! But on the other hand, what would effectively be a week long advert for them might be at least vaguely useful. And it would mean the money wasn't entirely in vain.

*sigh*

I will be speaking to the theatre again today.

In other news, I am considering whether to give up biscuits for Lent.

And if a double decker bus...

squashed me flat I can't say that I'd be too bothered considering the way my luck has been going lately.

First. It was Damien Rice. Again dearest lovelies, the power of blogging. Amazing.

But this was not enough to send me skipping along the streets of London humming in a sort of an Irish way to myself (I am a bit Irish you know, a quarter or something. Descended from Murphys. Also, while we're on the subject, I am a bit French and a bit Scottish. In fact, I am one of the descendants of William Wallace. This gives me a very tenuous link to Mel Gibson, which used to be an Interesting and Good Thing, and is now a Resoundingly Bad one).

Anyway.

No singing.

And here is why.

I spoke to the theatre at which we were (sob) going to be doing the plays. They told me they are going to keep the deposit. (Wretch. And yes it does call for actual vomiting.) That is £1,500 dearest lovelies.

It never rains but it pours.

And when my eyes were pouring and I was leaning on a railing to hold myself up while my lovely hub was doing his very best phone-counselling, bloody Mark Kermode walked past and gave me a funny look.

It has been A Hell Of A Day.

And it is only 16.19. Or so.

The End (Or A New Beginning)

We did not make the money.

Grrr.

This is Rubbish.

Grrr.

So the lovely plays won't be going ahead.

In March.

But they might be going ahead another time.

We met A Lady who said she would be interested in Helping (please read Investing) but she is too busy at the moment. But she might not be too busy later in the year.

So it is not all Doom and Gloom.

Hoorah. A bit.

So to all you lovelies who bought your very own word, thank you! It has not been in vain and you are ace.

PS. Someone called "Damien Rice" bought "quietly" for ten squids. This was an exciting moment.
PPS. If you know your friend-who-lives-round-the-corner is called Damien Rice, please do not shatter my illusions by telling me. Thank you.

A CAMPAIGN

Like they do in politics and stuff.

So I've got to raise ten thousand pounds to do two LOVELY plays. (In saying this I am giving out a Crucial Clue about my chosen career. It is true, boys and girls, I am a Theatre Director!)

Blimey.

I have invented a Clever Thing.


Would you like to buy a word? They are only a pound and you can choose whichever one you want.

You will be the envy of your friends!

"I own a word!" you will be able to shout all over the place.

"I have contributed to The Arts!" you will be able to say a bit more quietly.

"For a simple pound" you will be able to whisper to yourself as you drift off to sleep at night, sighing gently with contentment.

*sigh*

All you need to do is a very little click.

Here.

(Then tell anyone you have ever met)

An Explanation

"But why Miss Tickle?" I hear you ask, "Do you have to raise so much money so very quickly? Are you a slattern?"

The reason is this (it is not very dramatic): we were given the slot only a very short while ago. The lovely directors of the theatre were appointed only a bit more of a short while ago. They had to put together their first season within two weeks of being appointed.

Now, those of you who have applied for funding for "The Arts" will know that you tend to need at least eight weeks. In more cases, at least eight months. So people can read Things you have said about How your project will be of Public Benefit. In many cases, you need to be a registered charity to apply for funding at all (from grants or trusts). Obviously if you have a month or so, you don't have Time for any of this. See here for more on annoying funding things.

And anyway, I don't want theatre to be a charity. Although of course it has to be. Grr.

The theatre itself needs One Thousand Two Hundred pounds a week to cover its rent. It has a capacity of 65. There are six shows a week, one of which is Pay What You Can for poor and lovely artists. The tickets come in at a yield of £9.50, or £5 for Pay What You Can.

We have done some maths. The most it is possibly possible to make is £9,620. And we would only get 70% of that.

This would not cover the production costs. At all. Not even a bit.

Which is why I have been squeaking so much recently. The panic.

Obviously the theatre needs to have some guarantee that we are not nasty con-artists, which is why they have given us a deadline.

My £4,200 deadline.

So say yah boo to all those mean systems of bureaucracy!

And buy a little teeny word for hardly anything.

(Also, the theatre is in Wandsworth, the council that has recently threatened the lovely and hugely important BAC with funding cuts and a massive rise in rent. You would be saying yah boo to them too. Definitely worth it.)

In which I remember I forgot to post about Valentine's Day

Like everybody else has.

The reason is this: it is silly.

Hub did nice things because he is nice, but to be honest, he has done just as nice things at other times and they are lovely then too.

It is a stupid day which mostly makes people feel rubbish.

So I would like to apologise on behalf on Valentine's Day.

Sorry.

Woe is me

Well.

It got worse.

My heart almost broke.

Last night I got a phone call from my producer who informed me that she thought it best to drop out as she was finding it difficult to manage her real-work workload and the one generated by this project.

I drank wine. A lot. And cried. A lot.

Then I put on my battle gear (metaphorical, easy tiger) and I have been battling all day.

We are being shameless! Shameless I say! Phoning everyone we have ever met and asking them if they are rich or if they know rich people or if they have any idea where rich people can be found.

We must find three thousand pounds by 5pm on Friday or these plays, these plays that I love, shall not happen.

I am thinking of Buffy a lot.

My aching heart

Boys and girls it is going very badly.

I have been doing this for nearly six years. It has never been easy. I have had some good jobs, and some rubbish ones. I have never really made ends meet.

I love theatre, I really really love theatre. I love sitting in a room full of people watching something so beautiful that your heart aches. All watching it together. I love making people laugh, I love making them think, and I love just giving them a nice time so they go away smiling, talking to their friends.

But I am wondering whether I should just give up. It is so hard. It is so hard it makes me cry. Maybe it is too hard. Too hard to keep going every day. Without crying.

I have three thousand pounds to magic out of the air and five days to magic it. All to just make a bunch of people together in a room think and smile and love their aching heart.

I don't know if it is enough.

The Power of Blogging

It really is almighty you know.

So thanks to the absolutely SPLENDID Little Red Boat, I have a much higher soap box from which to peddle my words.

It is here

The National Press would you believe!

I am so pleased I might burst.

(I will try not to.)

Update #2

Good Morning.

People are still buying words! I am amazed and it is glorious.

Here are my top three new sentences:

1)Then suddenly there was a spurt and Purlescence
2)She WAS my Lucy Pepper
3)The surface of the water was covered in toes and Troubled Diva

Oh do tell me your favourites lovely readers!

A campaign update

YOU ARE ALL LOVELY.

67 people bought words yesterday.

Would you believe it!

I am pleased. And ever so grateful.

Thank you.

PS. Tell more people!
PPS. I might make a graph.
PPPS. It's here
PPPPS. Not the graph, the place you can buy a word.

A Love Letter

Fear. And power. Damn them both. Damn their blooming fascist hides. I do not want to be so controlled. I shall not be so controlled. I will fight myself tooth and nail, grit and claw, and prod and poke and worry away until I am fearless.

I will be fearless.

And I will make my daydreams real. And I will gaze and gaze and gaze until I fall asleep. And I will love every second of every improbably romantic thought because I know it is True.

The fear is on the surface.

And so the picture of two children playing on a windswept beach, running and flying, smiles open wide, will cling and even (even) be cherished.

The parallel lines which have bumbled through the past quarter of a century or so are insisting that I look them in the eye; they dance in front of me, sticking their tongues out, thumbing their noses, whispering: "It's all just been for this. Just for this."

Fear.

Because how can that be true? Or even real?

Isn't that what everyone always wanted?

Including me?

Yes?

Yes.

And nobody has ever felt this. And nobody ever will.

That'll Learn Yer.

My husband claims this is an American expression. Please help me prove him wrong.

In other things, here is a photo of the statue that was in the foyer of the South African mining company where I have been temping.
















Frightening.

Cripes!

I would like to know the origin of this rather scrumptious exclamation. I have a friend who uses it often and to good effect, and it holds a special place in my heart.

In other news, finding actors is quite hard. I wonder if this is because there are just loads and loads of them? There is a thing on the interweb called Spotlight where you put in the details of the sort of actor you want: 25-35, good at comedy, an additional head and so forth, and then it gives you all of the actors who fit.

In my search there are 1939 results. And that is just girls.

Grr.