The Lost Echo

I know I should be reading Ulysses but instead I'm laughing at Mark Dapin's mum. It's not even very funny, but I'm weak with fatigue from a whole day and night of theatre.

I'm saying good grief at the rain and Ed says that I sound like Lorraine.

I think back to the blur of The Lost Echo. Those wistful songs. Gaden using his small and poignant voice. Songs of creation. Of destruction. Rape. Feathers. Blood. Shiny hair. Underwear. Tongues cut out. Stories recounted. Telling. Lots of telling. In the background the waiting room of the tyre shop. Then real people with possessions. Sorrow that the gods have gone. The tango. In underwear.

There's such a crowd on stage in their underwear. I imagine that Barrie's about to make us all undress. Secretly I'm happy that the washing status means I have my swimmers on underneath. Less exposed than the rest.

At the drinks I ask a boy if I can reach into the cupboard on which he's leaning. His friend says she thinks I can but am I asking permission? I give a narrow-eyed smile.

Act three was my least favourite I say. He explains why he liked it most. It makes sense but I'm drunk and when I go to pass it on, it's not there any more. All that I can remember today is that the moment when Martin brushes his teeth is, apparently, good theatre.