In the last week I’ve done three things I’d never expected to do in my life. Two of them I enjoyed immensely, one of them went against every fibre of my soul.
On Thursday, I was Maid-Of-Honor at my friend’s civil partnership wedding. It was a beautiful day, overflowing with love, and best of all I didn’t have to do a speech!
On Friday, I performed street theatre for the first (and probably last) time, entertaining the Olympics crowds en route to Hampden. Brilliant fun, and I’m grateful for the rest of the crew for helping me through it.
And today? I burned a book. My mind hated me doing it, but weirdly part of me (some latent pyro freak, apparently) enjoyed the streaks of soot, the crisping and blackening of batter and page. I still smell of soot.
For the record, it’s a necessary prop for Israphel’s Book, which is our Fringe show about stories. For those who demand details it was a copy of Bruce Marshall’s Only Fade Away; a hugely appropriate title for the show. And in the interests of mitigation, it’s all exterior damage; you could still technically read the thing. Mostly.