Diamond Geezer today salutes the persons who have him on their blogroll, me included. Why, it's nothing, dear chap. He also asked, whose blogname do we like?, and this place is mentioned in despatches. I blush with pride to think of it. One blogger even gives it the affectionate abbreviation, 'Bob Crusoe'.
My day is made.
A couple more things of note. B and I are doing stewarding (on alternate nights) for the walkabout Canterbury Tales production running at the moment, out of the mighty Southwark Playhouse. I think it's pretty much sold out for the run, but if you're keen, give the box office a call. Anyhoo, as they say downunder, it's a roister-doister of a night out (and about). Unless, that is, the gods are agin you, in which case, just as you're settling into your foldout chair in the Gardens of St.George the Martyr to hear the Knight deliver his tale of courtly love (complete with jousting), the heavens cry havoc, and before you know it you're dodging thunderbolts and scramming for the nearest pub. Given that the show opens in the courtyard of The George, 'London's only surviving galleried coaching inn', you're alright on that score, you just retrace your steps. This happened last night. The rain lasted just fifteen minutes, but it was a biblical affair, and if the audience of 150 had moved on to the next venue, it would quickly have become quagmired. "We don't want a Glastonbury on our hands", opined the production manager, shortly after announcing the cancellation.
Otherly, I am coming to terms with nearly having an agent, nearly finishing the play, having to do my tax return urgently, hosting a rejection of playwrights tomorrow night (cooking vegetarian...), and the pressing need to compose a letter to the Liverpool Everyman on the subject of The May Queen and other matters.