Beautiful sevens

Yesterday evening when I checked we had sold one ticket for the first show.

That's all folks. That's all I wrote yesterday. I'm thinking of giving myself yesterday off. I wish I'd thought of that earlier though, then I could have enjoyed having the blogday off. As it was I kept trying to think of ways of crowbarring in a shoehorn of of writing, between seeing my first show (a fantastically entertainingly odd affair) and rushing around with Martin and our friend Julie who's over from Brussels, failing to get into shows that had sold out.

We finished the day sitting in a pub readinig our books. I'm now only 80 pages from the end of A History Of The Arab Peoples. That is, I'm 80 pages from the end of Albert Hourani's excellent A History Of The Arab Peoples, not anywhere near the end of the history of the Arab peoples. I'm a very slow reader and I want to maintain the momentum and therefore the enjoyment of the book. Very rock 'n' roll, me and Martin, the odd couple, sitting in a draughty pub, me sipping on my cranberry and soda.

No, actually, we finished our day talking to our flatmates. Here we are at the Fringe and I'm already pretty tired, but mostly due to walking around a lot carrying bags of vegetables to juice and staying up late talking to people I'm going to see every day for the next month. Wild.

So, the first show ended had an audience of seven, in the end, as did the second show today. By that I mean they both started with seven as well – no one stormed or, indeed, snuck out. I confess that some of the audients were our chums. It's a very different show for people who've shared any part of my strange journey since 9 February 2005, the day Kate was murdered, I think, to how it is for people who've never met me before. The reactions vary from friend to friend – some cry a lot (my lodger) and others laugh like drains way way before the punchlines (my mother, but then she knew all the stories already).