so, anyway, i got this email from the national theatre saying they'd liked my last play and wondered if i'd be interested in attending a workshop there early next year, a number to call them on. more than a part of me was pretty suspicious - knew that workshops are often paid for, and therefore (paranoid) formulated model in head of what was maybe (probably) happening here - fifty peeps paying £100 each... extremely targeted marketing.
...but still potentially useful - so i called them in the end, guy answered, and explained the workshop wd be for a 'small group' of writers who'd impressed the literary dept most over the last year (this is the national theatre, let us not forget) to be introduced to the NT, to the business end of things in general, with an analysis of the work submitted and a guest director/writer etc... i was sold at this point, but then he said it'd be a paid weeklong course and i took a breath, enquired tentatively how much i'd have to pay. he said: no. no, we'd be paying *you*.
my brain started to emit a noise not unlike insect opera, and then made a lap of my skull, but i drove my voice down the octaves and affected a devil-may-care tone to cover it. oh, i said, one of those... then he took my (real) name for the accounts dept, we said goodbye and i danced around the house to hip-hop/R&B for about half an hour. then i called friends and bragged at them. then i called in sick to work - i've felt ropey all day - i was going to come in but - not to put too fine a point on it, i've just thrown up... - then danced some more, fell asleep, woke up, went shop, bouht treats, tried to read but felt like a humming bird in a jar, played gamecube game drivey bought me for xmas and i've never allowed myself to play 'cause it seemed frivolous and wasteful.
later, on my way to drivey's to make ICFTHS cult xmas ceedee, turned the corner to witness fireworks exploding out of shopping centre and open-top bus with a brass band playing on the top deck. i thought: this is a pretty good day.