Smell this morning first thing from the cafe downstairs was unexpectedly chickeny. Had a phone call from Jillian George-Lewis, director of entertainment at the Hippodrome, about my show there on April 3rd. Jill and I are often accused of conversing in a kind of interracial Gaelic. Today's was in full flow. 'Please get your tech specs over as a matter of urgency... ...In a ballet company she would be sixth swan on and keep her very wing-flaps shtum... ...And your postal address for the contracts... ...He'll no doubt soon acquire himself an even higher horse and need to be climbing out of second storey window to get up on it...'
Email from, let's call them, Animated Brain Tableaux, apparently from my future self warning that if I won't sign up to the full A.B.T. course, having watched the introductory weblog on dissolving negative self-beliefs (with Esther Rantzen's double telling how a lay nun prayed her out of certain and untreatable kidney failure) then I will suffer a complete cosmic collapse. Have replied to my future self with an apt Madame Galinaism: 'Desperate is never attractive!'