So, there I was, party at the Belvoir, glass of cheap, woody red in hand, and one of theatre's leading light's, Eamon Flack, turns around and there he is.
And there I am, stupidly opening my mouth and attempting to say something intelligent. Yeah, I think you know what happened next.
Could I discuss his fondness for keeping plays in their historical setting, there time and place, because I think it makes their relevancy pop when you get those sweet moments of recognition? Nope.
How about how, being self-taught, I enjoy seeing classic texts presented as is, no adaptations, re-imaginings, re-packaging, rebootings or frippery, just because I've not seen the original text and I need to see the original first before I can appreciate the cover versions, and what they bring (or, more frequently, don't) to layer upon, dissect, highlight, skew or reinterpret the original. Nope.
Did I ask him how he intended to be cunning in these difficult financial times, and how he would marry the need to stage commercial hits (and why can't these be creatively satisfying) versus the desire to stage worthy and confronting works, as being true to the ethos of a theatre tradition that was founded in the heady days of the 70s and 80s?
Did I even manage to squeak of that his productions have been highlights of my thus far limited theatre experience? Hell no.
It's not so much never meet your heroes as I should never be in places where people are, or ever open my mouth. I should never RSVP these things - no one knows you're a dog on the mailing list (worse, I have another one this week). I don't belong there, here or anywhere, that's the sad truth of it.
Mortified, I grabbed my vinyl coat and ran, never mind that Mitchell Butel, beloved local theatre babe, was standing right there, just there. By now I knew I could tell him how much I loved his Chocolate Soldier in that STC play last year. So I just left.
Did get home in time to see most of Supernatural, though. Much more my speed, tea, telly and the Winchesters.
Didn't do anything on the weekend. Was tired after a long, hard week and it was damp and windy and the crashing and thumping at next door's building site really gets to me, so working on anything isn't possible, I'm too cringingly skittish at every whallop.
So it was headphones on and Galavant, which I am coming to love as the only thing getting me through these weekends (weirdly I can hear dialog more clearly over screaming machinery when it is sung), plus it's very, very silly.
Also finally managed to get The Corbomite Maneuver to stream on Stan. Apparently, subconsciously, I've been shipping McKirk hard all my life without ever realising it, despite all the Aubrey/Maturin and Ripper Street I've devoured, but I knew, despite not having seen it in years it was one I had to watch. Well, golly (and ('d pay good money to see CP and KU recreate it). I couldn't pick a favourite scene (oh, so many), but the screaming fight on the bridge, with no-one knowing where to look, was a classic. Oh, you boys.
Did a few more, because I wasn't of a mood to do anything else (been sort of on strike since July though it's more the long hours getting me down and other folks could do the ironing instead of spending the day at the beach, just once) but Corbomite was the highlight. Nothing is too far now, as far as canon is concerned - smirk.
Oy, I've got it bad right now, but I think it's just a reaction to the demands of work, and that the hoarder at home has now made it so I can't get anywhere near the DVD player - I hate it all. So…off to my fetid imagination, the last resort of a scoundrel. I know, just stream it on my ancient tablet. Would, but the bastard sits at home all day and has eaten up the data limit again.
Which is why I was watching Karl on telly last night in my room. Well, off and on, but he was cute and I am fond, still, despite the whole don't meet your heroes thing. It's like that with Karl. I know, it's me, not him, just ask Eamon. Anyway, yes, Karl. Still fond. Can't believe my friend can't remember him being in Xena (boy, she had no eyes for, well, pretty boys, because how could you miss Karl?).
Ah, this week is so hard, and it was supposed to be fun, not a series of trials to surmount. Damn you, work and home. Mind you, I do hope no one has an accident this week because I was, for the sake of speculative research solely, looking up poisons and the like. I was just checking Agatha's accuracy, I swear. And does no-one ever comment that Agatha seems to have spent most of her time on digs and trains thinking up ways to kill people? Would that I got paid for it - as an author.
So, tonight, tickets to The Pine. Wish me luck. I'll probably have to stay back at work and miss it, as always.