It was John Barrowman

That I wanted to tell you. That was linked in some way with Caroline (author).

I love him.

So the show went well and people came to see it and laughed and sometimes said "you are a bit peculiar" but in a friendly and loving way.

And another theatre thinks that they might want us to do it there for a bit longer. Which is clearly as ace as things can be. I will keep you updated with its progress.

In other news, the Brighton-moving-date has been set back because of jobs for hubs. He has taken the unusual and brave step of running to Austria to climb some mountains (not literally. He has in reality gone by plane. Running to Austria would take some considerable time. And probably involve some form of drowning.) When he returns I shall not be surprised if he announces he has decided to become a something-other-than-a-furniture-maker.

So it will not be until the end of August that I will be able to frolic by the sea.

*sigh*

Also, my music plugged into my ears did a wonderful thing this morning that went like this:

1) Must I Paint You A Picture - Billy Bragg
2) Feeling Good - Nina Simone
3) S.O.F.T - Elastica

This made me think about Desert Island Discs.

I would definitely have the first two, and certainly one Elastica song (but maybe All Nighter, not S.O.F.T) and almost undeniably Lady Grinning Soul by David Bowie.

Other than that, I'm not sure.

You?

A flying visit

*rushes in breathlessly*

Hello!

Sorry, I've been rushing. Doing a show you know. Being a director an' all.

I was weeing in my knickers at the beginning of the week (from fear, you understand, not from, well, incontinence or indeed, preference) but now, I am getting into my stride and Having Some Ideas.

It is good.

And really I just wanted to say hello and that I haven't forgotten you.

"Hello!"

Also, there was another thing, which was linked with Simon Cowell in some way (hello Caroline, Author!) but I have forgotten it.

Maybe I will remember.

At some point.

Miss Tickle holds forth. A bit.

I just spoke to a man who literally sounded just like Franck from that hallowed cultural totem, the film "Father of The Bride".

"Jhallo. Ey vood lak to chek a foo dataysez viz za peepa ov ya compnee."

He was marvellous.

So having whinged about not feeling free to spout forth on matters artish, I open with a classic.

*tuts*

*at self*

I haven't been to the theatre for two weeks actually. The last thing I saw was Kneehigh's A Matter of Life and Death at the National, an adaptation of the Powell-Pressburger film with David Niven. As a rule, Kneehigh are my absolute favourites, and two of their shows are in the Miss Tickle top-five-shows-ever list, an honour indeed I think you'll agree. Their work is magically inventive, gorgeously imaginative and always for the audience (as opposed to those awful intellectual things that ignore you all the way through.)

But. They have a style. A very particular style. And they use it every time. It is a style I love, one that speaks to my heart, but watching the show at the National I did begin to wonder if they were stuck in a rut.

Which made me think: what is the difference between artistic vision and taste? I make theatre based on what I like and what I believe in. But I bloody well hope that changes and evolves over the years otherwise I'm going to bore myself, not to mention any lovelies who are nice enough to watch what I make, to death.

Do go and see it though. If you have the chance. And keep your peepers peeled for any Kneehigh shows that head in your direction. They will make your soul sing.

A ticklish conundrum

I have been wondering, or more acurately considering, as I browse the interweb, whether I should write more about theatre.

Being an artiste an' all.

There are so many excellent theatre thinkers and bloggers around, and reading them all makes me want to wade in and join them, join the commentary and carping and general opinionating.

But I like you.

A lot.

And a lot of you are not here because of my theatricals, but because of my ticklish nature.

It is a conundrum.

I am not a good spy. (New title. Better.)

I went to a party. It was really completely lovely with food and special fruity wine and ridiculous games and everything.

But I overheard a conversation and I think it is giving me anxiety dreams.

The party was held by a friend of mine who works in the theatre (I do have other friends. No I do. No I do. No. I do.) and so inevitably it was a bit like a who's who of budding young theatricals.

And as I was sitting on the lawn with hub, runkling my feet into the summer grass, I heard them discussing Big Brother.

"I just don't understand where they get these people!" said posh-sounding first person to posh-sounding second person.

"What I think," posh-sounding first person continued, "Is that they should put a load of really intelligent people in a house together, provide them with newspapers every day and see what happens."

"Yes!" said posh-sounding second person excitedly, "It would be rather like an extended version of Front Row!"

"Exactly!"

And on they blathered, poshly.

I can't get this damnable conversation out of my head. And I fear I am not doing it justice. I would like to provide you with a full description of the perpetrators, but I can't because I was eavesdropping.

That'll learn me. Next time I shall be suitably kitted out with secret cameras.

PS. Hub's tattoo...

Getting to be less.

In the past year and a half I have put on a stone and a half.

And it keeps coming.

I used to be just like a pixie. Or an elf.

Now I am considerably more like a gnome.

I like to blame the little pills, since they have side-effects including both weight gain and increased appetite (which I don't really understand since I did rather consider the two to be inextricably linked. Shows what I know.) but I think I am going to have to face up to the fact that it is actually because I eat a lot. And don't exercise.

For a while I blamed hub. He is diabetic and eats muchos carbohydratos. But then I realised that I am not diabetic and so have no excuse.

He also feeds me a lot. He is, what I think is called in some pop-psychological places, a "feeder".

But I do not have to eat all that I am fed. I am human after all, and have free-will!

Although I am not very good at exercising it.

Or at exercising.

As I mentioned.

In any case, I am attacking the more of me! With a campaign! Of no biscuits or cake and salad instead! And ruthless amounts of walking!

I shall let you know how it goes.

I am confused.

Still no news.

Ho-hum. But then he is international an' all.

So, other things.

I have been working for the past two weeks with a lady who is a psychic. (I do not know really if that is the correct classification. Is it a job title? Or is it like saying someone is a woman or a man? Plus, should it be "claims" she is? I do not know. Help me if you like.)

Anyway. That has been strange. She has told me about angels and stuff. Following people. And twice she read my angel cards. Which are different to Tarot cards. Apparently.

Also, I am a Buddhist (shock revelation! It will probably make the evening papers and I will be mobbed in the street. And on the bus. And again in the pub later.)

My point is, although granted I am taking some time getting around to it, that I do not believe in Fate.

And this does sort of clash with the particular school of Buddhism I follow (Nichiren Daishonin, since you ask. Like Orlando Bloom. And Courtney Love. Although not such a good idea to brag about that one.) And it certainly clashes with angels.

I get confused. I am not a very good Buddhist, I am easily distracted and don't do it properly. Although when I do do it, I am happier and easier in myself, which is why I started doing it to begin with. And to be fair, the Buddhism I practice is all about realising potential and having the strength to try.

Lawks, this is getting complicated. I think I just sort of resent the idea that we are destined for things, or things are destined for us, although I can see how it is comforting. Having those angel cards read and getting "Prosperity" and "Relationship Harmony" and "All Is Well" certainly made me feel smug. But I do like to feel that I have some influence on life generally. Even if that influence is me cocking it up in unexpected and spectacular ways.

Well I meant to write a witty, entertaining and incisive post about a crazy psychic lady. And look where I've ended up.

I need a large glass of wine.