The Secretary-General of Amnesty International gave my wife some flowers last night. And no, it wasn't in a dream. Staff at Amnesty gave a one-off perf of The Cherry Orchard, and B was playing cello in the band. She was roped in by her mate Tom, double-bassist extraordinaire. The band were excellent, and used far too sparingly, he said uxoriously.
B's out at Cloud Nine as I write. She was at school with the director so likes to keep an eye on her progress, old girls' network and all that. I caught up with her monster production of The Emperor Jones just before it closed and was blown away. What a great show.
Later... Mrs S has asked me gently to point out that she's not stalking Thea. In fact Cloud Nine which she enjoyed hugely is the first Sharrock she's actually seen, implausibly. But she has been pleased to note TS's rise in the papers.
Meanwhile back at the ranch, I was supposed to be at J's birthday drinks but owing to a clerical error we are lacking a sitter, so I'm on watch, whiling the time by doing this and also reading the most harrowing book, The Road by Cormac McCarthy.