Here is a diary entry of mine from the year 2000. One day from august each day this week.

I think you'll remember that Nikolai Nekrasov once wrote, "You do not have to be a poet, but you are obliged to be a citizen."

And that's how I feel mostly except of course to say maybe not.

Last week has past and now I'm over the exhaustion, I feel looking back might be an interesting exercise in expansion and completion of the cycle. Perhaps if you know what links those distant parting memories of Monday night and where I am right now then perhaps we can move on...

Monday - Garden

Lots of mixed feelings floating across us and questions on our theories for Mr. Ayckbourn: "Obviously there was a conscious thought to make one of your plays less accomplished than the other. Why did you do this and what message were you trying to convey?"

You left at Victoria and caught the same train as my mother or so I hear. She asked you a series of grilling questions and you managed not to melt before she left at Haywards Heath. I wonder if you've remained stripy or if that has worn off by now. I when I got sun-burnt it healed quite quickly, I think this might be the same kind of thing. Painful at the time, but no lasting damage. Or at least none that is immediately obvious. Perhaps a melanoma which will hit you later but for now is silent. Watching.

So I was home before you, but my parents were home before me. At least my father and Ellen. No guests, which made things easier. Sleep deprivation over the last few days (6 hours Friday, 4 hours Saturday, 6 hours Sunday) is forcing me to bed more quickly than I would have expected or rather wanted. But everyone goes to bed, so things seem normal.