I know my posts have been a little excitable of late. But life has been a little excitable of late. So there.
A week ago the Young Vic announced their Autumn season. Opening it is a piece called Fragments - five short Beckett plays directed by Peter Brook.
Now I am sure that most of you (with some exceptions, hello Mr Witness!) have not heard of Peter Brook. And why should you? You have lives, and lives that do not entail obssessing about theatre. It must be marvellous.
I wrote my dissertation about him. And suffice to say I admire him enough to make him my password to Some Things.
Anyway. I saw the show coming up and I thought "How marvellous it would be to be the assistant of Peter Brook!" and in the next thought "I am too small to think of so mighty a thing" and off I went.
Two days ago I got an email from the Young Vic. Advertising for an assistant for Peter Brook!
I replied in no uncertain terms that I would happily donate my arm to the cause.
Yesterday, I got a phone call! And in it the person said "Can you meet Peter Brook today at 5.45 at this top secret location?"
"YES!" I yelled.
I met Peter Brook.
I had 15 minutes.
He asked me why I love theatre.
I told him. In a sort of wittery excitable way.
He shook my hand warmly.
I have been touched by Peter Brook.
I do not care if I get the job, I do not care!
PS. I don't know if you are aware, but I met Peter Brook!
Thursday, 31 May 2007
Tuesday, 29 May 2007
I am the wife of a tattooed man!
I never would have thought it.
He is so manly.
It is an enso.
And apparently, the thing about an enso, is that you have to draw it (paint really) yourself.
So on Saturday we went trolling into the City of London, and he ran about trying to find Special Japanese Paintbrushes, and then Special Japanese Ink, and finally A Book to tell him how to do it.
Later that night, when I had tired of 100 films to watch before you die (Erin Brockovich at number 28, really?) and I slowly pushed open the door to our bedroom, I got an awful shock to see him sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by hundreds of ensos and breathing out carefully while painting more.
One must suffer for one's art. Bodily or otherwise.
at 5:14 pm
Friday, 25 May 2007
Caroline and Stray have been doing a meme. A clever one. And although I haven't strictly been tagged (Caroline did tag everyone, which I have a sneaking suspicion is not how these things are meant to work, but frankly, hoorah! For rule-breaking an' that) I liked it a lot so did it.
Type "your name" and "needs" into Google.
I was astonished to find:
"Your search - "miss tickle needs" - did not match any documents."
I need nothing!
I shall cast off the shackles of this material existence! And become a nun! Or a monk! Or a wondering nomad! Or some such.
PS. If I do it with my first name, for of course it is my surname which is Tickle, I discover that what I need most of all is your backing to beat the scourge. Which can only be utterly as it should be.
at 3:43 pm
They were £6! It is extraordinary. I am trying not to think of the poor people who made them being paid tuppence a week and beaten by large men and locked in tiny, cramped, dark rooms and being shouted at a lot.
I do not like them so much anymore.
BUT! Have I mentioned I have nice feet? They are by far and away my very favourite bit of myself (and along with my ears, the only bit I can really claim to like. Properly. Without thinking "Oh if only it were in some way less. Now did I start this in brackets? It seems I did. Best end it then.)
Anyway. None of this was the point. The point was that this morning when I was waiting for the bus I saw a woman whose toenail was literally four metres long. It was the big-toe nail on her left foot. It almost made her trip over as she clambered aboard the bus.
Why? Why would one grow a toe-nail of such length? I cannot think of any useful purpose.
Also. I love my hub. But he believes in cynicism and I think that is a pile of old balls. Soon, I might write more about this.
I sure know how to dangle a good cliff-hanger.
at 3:25 pm
Thursday, 24 May 2007
Have you heard tell of a place called the Isles of Scilly?
It sounds unlikely, I know, but it is true.
A group of tiny islands 28 miles south-west off the coast of Cornwall. And Heaven. To me at least.
We went every year when I was little. And when I was bigger. And I still try to go every year now. (My parents have a little house there - they rent it out.)
In Scilly I learned how to jump (did you know you have to learn?), ate my first fried egg and watched my youngest sister walk for the first time. I also smoked my first cigarette and did some rude stuff that I am far too discreet to mention here with a boy for the first time.
It is a place of seminal moments.
This year I am not going to succeed in going because I am moving to Brighton (have I mentioned that?) This makes me sad (the not-going-to-Scilly, not the moving, that is ace!)
So, dear readers, if you are looking for a holiday destination this year, go to Scilly! And then tell me all about it, so I can live vicariously through you.
PS. You will only like it there if you like sleepy Cornish sort of places with pubs and walking.
PPS. Me an' hub got married there.
PPPS. I am not getting paid by the Tourist Board, it is honestly just lovely.
at 9:00 am
Wednesday, 23 May 2007
Tuesday, 22 May 2007
I feel better!
No snarling, no grumping, no one-minute-this and the-next-minute-that.
It is a relief.
I am still being wary and watchful (a bit) but I can feel the weight and haze of hormones have lifted.
Now obviously I do not want this blog to turn into a blog about lady-things, but I just want to take a small moment to register my Disapproval and even Outrage that such things exist.
Tra la laaa
PS. How are you?
PPS. I'm moving to Brighton, did I mention? In July actually.
PPPS. Job suggestions still gratefully received. What do you think about being a teaching asssistant?
at 1:34 pm
Sunday, 20 May 2007
I know I have not mentioned it explicitly before, but I have done a sort of oblique-type sideways referral (sneakily). It is the old "lows" thing. I have suffered from them for a number of years. And I take little pill-shaped doodahs every day to help me fight them.
Of late, I have been feeling better. And with the approval of both GP and therapist (lord how I wish I didn't have to say that word) I have cut down on one of the pill-shaped doodahs.
And I have turned into a snarling, mood-swinging old bitch.
Now it has, unfortunately co-incided with lady-time.
It is possible that the snarling is entirely a lady-issue.
But maybe not.
I am going to be patient and wait another week to see if it balances out a bit.
Maybe it will ease up?
I hope so.
I hope you do not mind my sharing this with you.
at 1:45 pm
Friday, 18 May 2007
Have I ever mentioned that I am obssessed with buttons?
When I was a little girl, my mum used to make dresses and so we were quite often in haberdashery type shops. All the buttons were kept in small, see-through plastic drawers. You could see all the hundreds of different coloured buttons winking away. I used to steal them. We would get home and my mum would find my pockets full of buttons.
Hub just bought me a bracelet with buttons dangling from it.
It is so lovely that here is a link to the button jewellry lady.
*Admires bracelet. Jingles it a bit*
I really love buttons.
at 12:24 pm
Thursday, 17 May 2007
And you might well be treated (if that is an appropriate term) to Outings Of Miss Tickle's Voice. If I can work out how to do it. (And do not worry. I shall not sing.)
So. What else.
George Bush is annoying. I can say this having spent most of this afternoon looking at his face.
Not by choice you understand. That would be appalling.
I am temping in a place that has BBC News 24 on in recepetion, and seeing as him and Tony have been doing some kind of mutual under-the-table-cock-rubbing, it's been on all afternoon.
What I really, really can't bear is how utterly obvious it is that someone is feeding into his ear everything that comes out of his mouth. He doesn't even bother (or doesn't have the ability) to hide it. So his sentences come out in fragments and he does that toe-crunchingly hideous face where his nostrils flare and he looks cross-eyed and slightly constipated.
I shall have to stop talking about it or I will vomit on the keyboard.
In other news, the publicity machine for my new show will be chugging along soon. The delightful, mercurial and extremely artistic Mr Andre Jordan has been kind enough to let us use one of his Glorious Pictures. It is ace. So keep your eyes peeled dearest readers, do.
PS. No news on house fronts. But if I'm not larking daily on a beach within two and a half months I'll eat my beret.
at 5:22 pm
Tuesday, 15 May 2007
I am sitting at a large mirrored desk.
Out of the corner of my left eye I can see a huge red pair of lips doubling up as a sofa.
Out of the corner of my right eye I can see some correspondingly enormous lilies. They are not doubling as anything, just sitting there, gently scenting.
Behind me (I cannot catch it out of any corner of my eyes since they are in the front of me) is a giant picture of a lady's bottom.
There is also neon.
It is ace.
This is the sort of temping I like.
at 2:44 pm
Sunday, 13 May 2007
I can only apologise for my continued absence and poor attendence record. I have been working in Hell and this has rather restricted my actions.
So. Corporate-ness. I really wish someone would explain it to me. It beggars belief, it really does. (Origins of this phrase anyone? Mental note to use more often.)
I was working on a switchboard for a law firm. A tiny room with no natural light and just a computer screen in front of me. No internet access. Answering the phone in only one way. Like this:
"Good morning/afternoon name of law firm"
Person ringing says who they want to speak to.
"Repeat name (with questioning tone of voice) Thank you (non-questioning tone of voice)."
Put person ringing through to aforementioned person they want to speak to.
That was it.
For eight billion days.
Are people robots?
I was meant to be going back this week but I said NO.
I was proud.
So apart from working in Hell with chattering foolish girls (on informing one of them I will be moving to Brighton the answer came "Oh right! Actually, I don't really know where that is." *sigh*) hub and I have been considering this parental offer.
The offer goes thus: parents get mortgage and buy place, hub and I pay them. We do not ever get house as our own, they are basically our landlords.
This offer comes with conditions. They will only buy a house not a flat, and they only have a certain amount of money, an amount which completely precludes living in Brighton.
So we gallantly look at places around Brighton. And then weep into beer, for we do not wish to live on an estate, industrial or otherwise.
And then today my mother phoned and said that apprently it is ILLEGAL to do such a thing as they were offering anyway. And also you can't get a buy-to-let mortgage and then let it to members of your family.
So it seems it is all going to hell in a hand-cart anyway.
Good grief. This is what happens when I don't blog.
It is foolish.
I shall blog more.
at 3:21 pm
Monday, 7 May 2007
It is raining.
That has nothing to do with what I was going to tell you.
Actually, I hadn't quite decided what I was going to tell you. Maybe I can set up a vote. Would you like to know about the weird cat being sick on my feet or the fact that my parents have offered to buy a house for myself and hub to live in?
Also, I am listening to some utter crap. It is making me feel extremely irritable.
at 12:19 pm