In March, like many performers, I watched six months of gigs fall out of my diary over about 48 hours. Usually, I do 75 shows a year, in theatres and schools, book festival tents and universities. I\u2019ve probably done more events than ever in 2020: podcasts, Instagram Live chats, school talks, library and bookshop events. But they have all been online since the spring, except for a small festival in August, and one theatre show in October. I miss audiences\u2014live audiences I can see and hear\u2014more than I can easily explain. I miss the sound of them, I miss seeing their expressions, I miss the sense of improvising something with them which belongs to us all, just for an hour or so. I miss this more than socialising: I like being outdoors anyway, so I\u2019m always delighted to meet a friend for a walk in the park rather than a drink in the pub. I didn\u2019t\u2014at first\u2014miss the travel, most of which I do by train. I thought last week, as I scooted between events in Doncaster, Glasgow and then Trafford and Bristol libraries, that I would have struggled to do this in real life. But my diary reminds me that a couple of years ago, I did shows in Cornwall and Devon three days apart, with an appearance in Dumfriesshire between the two.<\/p>\n
***<\/b><\/p>\n
I probably have the pandemic to thank, however, for making my West End debut in November as a playwright. That\u2019s how I\u2019ll describe it on my CV, anyway. A more accurate description is that I loosely translated and modernised an Ovid poem (a letter from Hypsipyle to her errant husband, Jason) for a set of 15 short plays, based on Ovid\u2019s Heroides<\/i>, for the Jermyn St Theatre. Olivia Williams performed my monologue, which was screened as part of the mini-season. I\u2019ve been performing since I was a student, but I\u2019m no actor. Watching someone at the top of their game take a character and occupy every corner and crevice of her, seeing what happens to a piece of writing when an actor and director turn it into a theatrical (and cinematic) performance was properly thrilling. I think I\u2019d always vaguely hoped that if I made it to the West End, there would be more people and glasses of champagne on press night. But it turned out not to matter at all.<\/p>\n
***<\/b><\/p>\n
My concentration seems to be shot this year for anything except work. I have entirely failed to learn a new language, finish a novel (unless I\u2019m reading it for work, in which case I still seem to be able to power through at speed, but as soon as it\u2019s for pleasure, I slow to a sloth\u2019s pace), or\u00a0 watch anything more demanding than repeats of Morse<\/i>. I want to join in with the collective watching of various shows, but I couldn\u2019t get into Normal People<\/i> (too many sad-eyed pretty people having sex they didn\u2019t like to John Lewis-ad covers of songs I do like) and I have yet to commit to The Queen\u2019s Gambit<\/i>. I wonder if I\u2019ve lost my taste for jeopardy. This month, I\u2019ve mainly been watching Inspector Montalbano<\/i>. This is partly because I like a murder mystery, partly because the conventions of crime dramas in other languages are intriguing (why can Catarella not open a door properly? Was the actor famous for slapstick before he was cast in the show? Don\u2019t write in, I enjoy not knowing). But it\u2019s mainly because I like the feeling of seeing people somewhere hot and beautiful, eating delicious food. I\u2019d probably be just as happy if he didn\u2019t solve the crime.<\/p>\n
***<\/b><\/p>\n
I\u2019ve been hopeless at Christmas for the past two years (I used to be excellent at it but I lost my way, so now I mainly try not to be Scrooge and ruin it for other people). I have a little wooden tree I might put up, now I\u2019ve finally cleaned my flat. But I can\u2019t remember enjoying other people\u2019s Christmas decorations more than I have this year, even though they\u2019ve been up since Halloween. The lights on London\u2019s Oxford Street, and in Covent Garden especially, have a defiant quality to them which makes me tear up when I go walking through the unseasonally quiet streets. I think it\u2019s the refusal to go into winter without offering up a little light in the dark.<\/p>\n
***<\/b><\/p>\n
One of the happier aspects of taking everything online is that last week I interviewed Douglas Stuart, the Booker Prize winner, for Hay Winter Weekend. Neither of us was in Hay: I was in London and Douglas was in New York. The pandemic means that he has yet to see a copy of his book in a UK bookshop. His winning novel, Shuggie Bain<\/i>, is a remarkable piece of work: a dark, bleakly funny account of addiction from the perspective of a child watching his mother fall apart. But even though I was in the enviable position of being able to ask him anything about his writing process and his inspiration for an hour, I got sidetracked when he mentioned knitting. His day job is in textiles, and we ended up comparing notes on our knitting projects after the event was finished. We hope to meet in real life in one or other of our cities at some point. I plan to wear a woolly hat.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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