Straight out of a successful run of "Witness for the Prosecution" with Swansea Little Theatre, and into rehearsals for the next show, an original Anglo-Welsh comedy by Dave Jenkins called "Land of my Father". I'm playing pretty much the only completely English character... which is a bit of a challenge, accentwise. Of course, most of my "Welsher" colleagues think I sound English enough already. Er... no.

Also trying to scramble together rehearsals for a performance of Aykbourn's "Confusions", or at least, some of them. Schedule clashes and cast casualties mean we haven't had a proper run-through yet... two weeks to go..!

No news is bad news on the surgical front, and I'm still carrying my left arm as an idle passenger. Bah. But H & I are on the home straight as regards getting our house sorted out. All the structural stuff is finally finished, and now - apart from upstairs carpets - it's just the painting. You can imagine, I'm sure, how much use I am to her with one arm. I boil a mean kettle, though...

Still Waiting...

...on the house sale, which is agony. Do we get a new kitchen, bedroom, carpets, and media setup? Or are we back to gold coving, magnolia walls and Value Baked Beans for the next X years? This experience is not endearing me any more to bankers, who I'd have thought were fairly keen to make a few friends at the moment. Ho hum.

A year of moderate-to-heavy carkage has now seen off J.G. Ballard, an author with whom I've had a love/hate relationship, but he never bored me. Despite writing the same two novels about five times each, he did have plenty of ideas, a healthy cynicism and an easier reading style than many other "trippy" authors. We were better off with him.

Recommended Ballards: The Drought, High Rise, The Crystal World, Crash.