Friday 15th April 2011
RUSH to finish this before heading to the Oxford Playhouse and meeting teenage actors we’ll be asking to devise and deliver a Play-in-a-day for 6pm tomorrow. Will do Call My Scientific Bluff scripts on the bus and leave finding two writers for Wales till after the weekend. Am dreading a build-up of text traffic, tailback of emails, delays on the M-obile, gridlock on Facebook, and a queue at the answerphone box.
Ruth, a dear friend who died young of cancer, was of the opinion that a socialist God would have blessed humankind with a Redistribution of Time scheme (see also, Signifying Nothing, the opening entry to this journal).
Those who complain about being bored could hand over an hour a week to those ridiculously busy. This would have enabled someone like her to leave the desk at lunchtime, spend fifty-five minutes at home polishing off that evening’s chores, making a few calls, decorating a bedroom… and she’d still be back in the office in time to do some photocopying before taking a break for lunch.
Too many wonderful people I’ve known have died. I’m the smoker, goddammit. Isn’t it time we had a fairer system?
…the journey of today will bring a croon of passengers, flirtatious landscapes, a lemonade breeze, the throb and thrum that is theatre; as well, of course, as the possibility of scattered showers. Expect the unexpected and all that.
No doubt everyone, reaching the later years, reflects upon things they’d like to have done, seen, experienced. But, as far as I know, nobody on the death-bed has grabbed the arm of a loved one, urged them to come closer, and whispered a croaking, choking, “My only regret is… is that… I didn’t go into the office more often.”
The quill quivers, seeking attention. Almost a dozen days of doing this now, but still no understanding why or whither points the plot. Only words demanding edgeways and begging letters.
That the time? Better be off.
But slow shall be my walk to the bus-stop. Life is, after all, too short to hurry.