ID pass

Remembered my work ID pass for the first time in two weeks, which meant that I could walk past the security guard with smug satisfaction. He told me a while back that there was now ‘zero tolerance’ on anyone that turned up without a pass. Very odd. Locking your employees out the building because they don’t carry the correct paperwork – what’s that all about? I can’t ever imagine a time when I would argue to be let in to work. “Nevermind. I’ll come back tomorrow.” Without the pass. It’s better that way.

Britain is now warming up, although Mayfield Grove is still looking like the perfect venue for the Sheffield Steelers should they move the franchise to York. Last night I passed an unwelcome amount of military vehicles on the A1079. I’m sure they were all being deployed on some snow clearing manoeuvre but still unnerving. Whenever I see more than one personnel carrier I assume that something is going on that they’re not telling us about. Perhaps Etton has been invaded. As I drove out of Mayfield Grove I passed a woman sliding around like a cartoon character. And laughed, thinking that ice is so much better than banana skins. If she is still laid in a prone position tonight when I slide back down I shall stop and help her up.

Am hoping that today will not result in any interviews with obnoxious people. Spoke yesterday to some horrible woman who is in charge of a ‘project’ at Skidby Mill aimed at letting people know that it’s there, with some ‘end-of-research’ performance piece in May. She is from Manchester. The young people involved will, mainly, be from Cottingham and Beverley. I think they will know more about Skidby Mill than she ever will. Knowing I worked for The Stage, she was fishing for contacts that she could exploit. “You know what you media boys are like,” she said, “You all drink together.” That’s right. All lads, together. Slapping each others backs, indulging in anal sex with the editor and congratulating each other on keeping women out of it. I pointed out that women worked in the media too, and increasingly so. “I was only joking,” she faux laughed. Only she wasn’t. It’s odd when you realise that you’re more of a feminist than a woman. And such arrogance. Why is it that mediocre people in the arts world have a horrible air about them, when writers like Alan Ayckbourn and David Hare are so approachable and humble?

Later, am off to Life’s A Beach at Hull Truck with Danielle. I feel an uncomfortable weight for once about being a reviewer, having met Alison, the writer, who is a very nice person. Unusually, for a new work, I have read the script in advance so will know what’s coming. I hope its good. Will ask Danielle’s opinion and base everything on that and leave the cynicism to one side. Am hoping that taking Danielle to the theatre might even get her writing a play. She didn’t, I should point out, pick up the pen after seeing Black Tie & Tales, which is understandable. I am sure that she is more than capable of penning four interlinked plays that run in real time performed in the same venue at the same time with the same cast inbetween listening to Busted.

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