Opening night, and avoidance of thinking about it...

[desperance]

Oh, hey, I'm not worried. I just spent half an hour repotting my bay tree and pruning the lavender. Look, it's April: this is the time to do these things, okay? And then I changed my clothes, on account of being all covered with mud (the pot the bay had been in, though pretty, was bigger in the belly than in the neck: this made the operation difficult, and messy, and a little concerning as regards the poor thing's future health...), and now I'm going into town to get my watch-strap fixed that I broke at rehearsal yesterday and then to meet m'friend mantichore off the train (who has come! from France! to see my play!! Also to see Scotland and sundry other things, but has none the less come! from France!! I'm always impressed by travellers, and intrepidity and such) and then go for lunch with shewhomust and durham_rambler, and then find some way to fill up the afternoon. Ah, me. I shoulda stayed a novelist; the anxieties are not fewer - or at least I manage to fill up the anxious-space just as effectively - but they are at least slower and less immediate.