A surreal few hours. I read 105 pages of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’z’z 100 Years Of Solitude. Sat in a car park. In Bradford. Then I went to watch a bunch of nimble hotsteppers – Phoenix Dance – leap around and pack babies and adults in bubble wrap. At the end of their show an office/factory is trashed and debris is scattered all over the stage. When I exited the foyer looked the same – a woman had vomited everywhere and they had covered it up with tiny balls of polystyrene. “I’m just sorting this sick,” shouted one usherette to another.