My week has been as rammed packed as Imelda Marcos's shoe cupboard. Not one moment have I had to down tools and give any of you a second thought. Thank God I'm not a mother, my children would now be dead. As it is Poppy, that most excellent beagle, has even stopped saying hello to me when I come in. It's like "So you're back. Whatever."

Oddly, even though I haven't stopped not one incident is leaping out at me as a suitable blog subject. Naturally I could just list what I've been up to (summer quizzes, dinners, voiceovers, auditions, plays and festivals) but you know, blah blah. I have always tried to fight against this blog ever reading like a diary of events, choosing instead to focus on tiny moments that happen in any day. But when no tiny moments occur (or they are uninteresting) then it's something of a struggle. I suppose there was a moment on Friday when I found myself sitting outside the Royal Court before a play (the excellent Relocated starring my old mucker Nicola Walker - sadly it's now finished so bad luck Walker fans). There's something about the steps outside the Royal Court that seems to breed an air of over familiarity. You may recall that the last time I was there a man sneaked up behind a phone exchange box and took some pictures of a pretty ladeee which left me simultaneously stunned AND impressed.

So I'm sitting waiting for my friend to turn up. I'm eating a massive banana. Someone behind me to the left has just, inexplicably, announced that she "hasn't got any Welsh" in her. I raise an eyebrow but think no more upon it. My thoughts are elsewhere, thinking about an email session that went awry (don't you just HATE it when that happens?) and then a voice and a bodily presence shadows up next to me.

"I hate it round here," said the voice. I looked up. It was a woman of around 50, short blond hair, face like a punched potato. And that was my first mistake. NEVER make eye contact with a random chatter. You will be stuck with them until the end of days. But I had forgotten that golden rule and had caught her eye. And lo and thus, I was now trapped in the stranger chat vortex.

"There's nothing to do," she continued. "Because my husband has got the tickets. And he's late. He drove. I came by train. Come by train I said. It'll be quicker. But no. He wanted to drive. And now he's late. He's a twat. And I've got nothing to do. Because there's nothing round here. There used to be a WH Smith on that corner. Not any more. Could have gone in there and looked at the magazines. But now it's a Boss. Who wants to look at that? And then I thought I'd go and have a look at Peter Jones. But it's their summer sale so they've got nothing in the windows. And there's no nice pubs. Just poncy wine bars. The area round the Bush theatre is much better. I hate coming here. I hate the bar downstairs. It's always packed. Totally claustrophobic. Feels like being in a dungeon. And the prices! Oh! Awful! Not like that at the Bush. They've got good restaurants round there. A really good Italian. They've got a marinara that's as good as I've ever tasted. And a polish restaurant. But you shouldn't go there BEFORE the show because they give you loads of vodka. But round here, nothing."

This went on for ten minutes. I was a tractor beam of chat. And now I think about it, I don't recall saying ONE word. I just sat eating my banana and nodding and making the occasional "Hmm," noise. To say I was beyond relieved when my friend turned up is an understatement.

And then we went into the theatre. It was unreserved seating. "Oh God," said I, when I realised that the worse case scenario had just happened. "Whatever you do," I said to my friend, "do NOT look at the woman you're sitting next to."

It was her. But then my friend did. Like a reflex.

"Don't think much of this set," began the woman. "What's this? Gauze? That's not going to be there for the whole show surely...."

And on she rattled, her seamless chat drifting off into the horizon.

Mon 30th Jun >>