I am well pleased like you cannot imagine.

Ashley is having all sorts of artistic differences going on at her play, nothing to do with her, but she is suffering the fall out of others being difficult. I empathise with her. I cannot seem to help her as I am so busy, though I wish I could.

The private bars here in Edinburgh are so packed, they all give you a wrist band and the fucking things take forever to rip off, I feel TAGGED like a prisoner. I am so annoyed at them but the private performers bars insist you have them on.

Life at the flat is mad, having that many people stay with me is making me nuts, and I keep tiding others people’s possessions and they can never find them. But they should keep their stuff tidy or I will stuff it under a table. Ashley’s room is a complete swamp.

I am sure there are five Romanian orphans, two broken bikes, seven smelly hippies and two racoons camped in the corner. I even think I saw a Buffalo run past her en suite toilet yesterday. What the fuck is she doing in there? How can she live in that mess?

It is starting to resemble Hiroshima, post atom bomb.

My room is tidy and organised and all my clothes are on hangers, Ashley’s clothes look torn, raped and abused. How they look ok on her is an amazing feat of magic.

Meanwhile husband is cooking more food than an old Irish housewife and keeps making me sit down to dinner, has the man no idea how life at a festival works?

“Eat your roast beef and have some cabbage” he shouts. Cabbage and stage time do not work together, its like mixing heroin and brain surgeons- bad things will happen-I am farting like a sailor.

He may as well give me a whoopee cushion and a megaphone and let me loose on the crowds.

My manager John, spends most days surrounded by computers and printers, he looks like the head of Jodrell Bank Space Mission, what the fuck is he doing?

Working on the next flight to the moon?

Printing out the transcripts of the Oliver North Trial? Contacting the entire national staff of the NHS to inform them I got a five star review?

I have threatened to wrap him in crepe paper, hang him from the light fitting and invite angry Scottish children to use him as a piñata and let them loose with sharp sticks.

Meanwhile husband thinks that despite working like a fucking coal miner down a smelly dark pit for hours a day, I am up for gymnastic type sex!…at night my calves are so sore from walking up and down cobble stones I feel like one of those Egyptian slaves who carried slabs on their back up a pyramid and then died on the way back down the hill.

I need SLEEP…not sex…or cabbage…or…tidying up, I need sleep.

Talk soon.