Decidedly post-viral, I've felt some anxiety today, though this evening it's back to the fuzzy glow of new dad-dom. The hiccups are probably due to the oddity of having the new play read tonight, somewhere in Soho, without me being there (too knackered, and needed here). On the other hand, I should probably have been more anxious if I'd been set to go and hear it. There was to have been instant feedback as part of the process, and as I'd only finished the thing yesterday I'm not sure I'm yet ready to hear about its weaknesses. Then there's the launch of The 50 tomorrow at the Royal Court (it's all coming out now). I sincerely do not wish to inspect the gums of any gift horses, but I'm not at my best in groups, and there's a two and a half hour 'group session' tomorrow afternoon led by Hanif Kureishi and Kate Rowlands of the BBC. I was once at a BBC Radio Drama seminar led by KR and with all properly due respect to her and the department, I found the thing so uncomfortable I began, unbelievably, to misbehave, looking at the ceiling and shifting in my seat and muttering things in a most teenagerly way. I quite shocked myself, though I'm sure KR didn't even notice. And if she did it's certain she's far too professional to rise to such nonsense from a no-mark like me.
Any road, the past is another country and all that, and what with my curating the Miniaturists in the past half year I've been decidedly more clubbable and outward-looking, so perhaps tomorrow will be Damascene in nature and I'll be a good person to have in the group. I'm certainly looking forward to meeting some clever and interesting writers, clubbable or otherwise.