What can I say... Our little show opened to a full house and closed with rave reviews. Three days of rehearsal hell followed by 48 hours of footlight glow. Those pesky egos were brought under control, the sets didn't collapse and everyone was fabulous, daahlings. F-A-B-U-L-O-U-S. Mwaah mwaah.
But I'm never doing it again. Writing, directing and producing, that is. There are a thousand other fun ways to shorten one's life. I could, for instance, eat frittelle every day. 24 days till Carnevale and frittelle are in the pastry shops already. Some filled with zabaglione, some merely studded with raisins and pine nuts. Deep-fried sugar-dredged gobbets of yummitude, each one fast-tracking to the waistline, via the coronary arteries.

Now I have my life back and all that energy to spare, spring-cleaning seems to be the order of the day. Gonna tidy that show right outta my hair. Anyway, we have to create space to store the goose costume. Unless anyone.... No, the idea is too preposterous.
So Mr F is in the attic - no joyride that. The headroom is only 5 feet and Mr F is 5'10".
He did find a forgotten Basque beret in one of the boxes and that has saved his head from a few bruises, but every few minutes I hear, '!**!' followed by a weary, 'Do we really need this?'

I told him, junk the lot of it. Whatever it is, if I haven't used it in seven years I'm not going to miss it when it's lining a landfill. Apart, that is, from my castanets, my childhood Teddy bear and two pairs of high heels I'm going to fit into again any day now. Am I ruthless, or what?