So I’ve been out and about a teeny, tiny bit looking at possible venues for a Fringe show. I’m looking at intimate venues. By which, of course, I mean small. The one I like best seats 38 (maximum), but because of the way it’s organised, wouldn’t be too bad if there was only 4 or 5 people in it. They could all sit in row about three rows back and they wouldn’t feel bad and neither would I. Of course if there’s none (people – I refuse to use the word persons) it will be pretty empty. And I could just go home.
It’s down what we now call The West End of town which is a fair way from the action. But I’m not really an action girl anyway. Plus, while it’s not free, it’s not toooooo expensive. I mean, I probably won’t lose too much money (losing money being a given).
I think I’ll book it. Unless you’ve got other advice. Which I’d listen to, because let’s be honest, I know fuck all about putting on a Fringe show. I’m aware I will lose money, but then what’s new?
We went to two excellent birthday parties this weekend (it’s the season for birthday parties to be sure). First one was yesterday at the Aquatic Centre. We were in the carpark when I said, really just as an aside, not expecting that anyone but me would care, ‘it’s Denis’s birthday today’ (everyone calls him Denis). Oh my. Littlest boy burst into gut wrenching tears and said ‘that means we shouldn’t celebrate’ and then ‘imagine if we had the funeral on his birthday, how bad would that be’. Still, in truth, it’s good to see him cry. I worry for him, that little boy. He doesn’t cry enough. And after he had cried for a bit he said ‘I need to stop’.
At today’s brilliant birthday (and how good was that sun – please remind me of these days when we’re back to March and its thirty five degrees every day) the mum had arranged for the woman with the animals to come. You know, where all the kids get to hold a bearded dragon and feed rose petals to the ring-tailed possum. There’s a snake too. A carpet python. Woman says ‘if anyone feels scared, you don’t have to touch them, just let me know’. Quick as anything, Littlest boy pipes up ‘actually, I’m allergic to snakes’. Hair-lairy-arse. Though as it turns out, he can pat them, he’s only allergic if he cuddles snakes. Kind of thing I would’ve rung my Dad about, and we would’ve had a good laugh.
But it’s all, as they somewhat annoyingly say, good. Really. It’s good to remember that I had a Dad I would’ve rung.