Today was a world first.

I helped concoct and hosted the first skype linked episode of who wants to be a cosmic billionaire (it's cooler than it sounds).

Lucy Hawking did her first ever event for her book George's Secret Key to the Universe which she co-wrote with her dad, Stephen Hawking. She is lovely and amazing and she even brought the action figure of him based on his Simpson's appearnce as her pocket-sized dad since he couldn't come.

Then we called Stephen Hawking live from the Book Festival and asked him the kids best voted science questions (such as 'how far from the sun could you be and get incinerated?', kids never fail to please). Finally his digitised dulcet sounds came through loud and clear and I almost lept with joy and bringing the greatest mind alive in contact with the doe eyed youngsters.

Obviously any event that gets kids excited about science and makes books cool is ace by me (and vaildates my entire being), but one where the author shouts 'you're caught in an asteroid belt!' and pelts kids with space rocks (literally specially commissioned peppermints that say space rocks on them) is obviously the work of a family of geniuses (or geni as I will now refer to them).

that festival feeling

It's day 14 of 18.

It's sunny and sparkling. The school kids are all away to their buses, my floaty grace kelly cobalt blue dress is a hit all over town, and I've an evening of champagne and a picnic with my lover planned.

The garden is glorious (aside from it's boggy odour from the drying up swamps in the corners), the public is happy and all is well. I even got flowers from an appreciative publicist and managed to sound not-retarded on national television. It's manic and chaotic, frustrating and complicated. But I love it.

Things are remarkably good considering I've not slept in days, I'm not nearly finished and things are far from perfect.

I have never been too tired to have sex before. It's a new level of fatigue I could do without repeating. And the fact my schmancy online grocery order never came due to a server error at the store is a bit rubbish as I am eating complete garbage these days (today? stale bagel, 2 cans of coke, bruised apple and chocolate cookie).

But still, I haven't lost hope. And with the end in sight, I'm even more excited for the next one, which will be better planned, better organised and easier all way round.

I thought I'd take this minute (while my graphic novel masterclass begins and before my first aiding responsibilities commence for the night) to update you.

It's rough. I'm not going to lie. It's sneaking around in the darkness at 7am while huffy flatmates queue for the toilet to get ready. It's waiting on a jam packed commuter bus to reach a soggy muddy puddle of a garden for a day of standing around with demanding unapreicative artists, their sycophantic hangers on and gently coddling and foraying into the general uptight over zealous public.

It's fucking hard.

But everyday, almost every hour, something spectacualr happens. Whether it's seeing a whole bunch of grumpy goths literally light up at the sight of the master of horror, or the little pink clad tinies prancing about in their fairy wings, I have spent a lot of time and effort and tears on making this a place of joy, sancutary and comfort for thousands of people. No matter how old they are, no matter how much they make it can be inspiring. and fun. and exciting. the things that make life worth living.

and for all the 14 hours days. and all the back aches from carrying the endless spreadsheets on a clipboards, and the earaches from constantly wearing a wireless headset. and lack of sleep and decent food and recognition and assistance I crave - nothing in the world compares to the glow in my heart when I've created something people can care about and enjoy.

When it is possible, for one minute, to make a difference.

Bacchic Banter and Bumph

Last night I did a dash from work (literally unplugged the headset, ran to my desk, threw on a fab dress and grabbed a taxi in the pouring rain) to the Kings Theatre.

I had booked tickets for us to The Bacchae. Classic greek tragedy with a camp Alan Cumming - it sounded exactly our cup of tea (or mixed cocktail as such).

And as the gold lame kilted queen decended from the ceiling I had high hopes for a drama of decadence and retribution to be swift, sharp and slick.

But as the gospel choir of vegas showgirls glittered through the sloppy choreography and Alan was little more than panto tongue-in-cheek with little investment and less sympathy, I wondered exactly what Euripedes had to do with this.

When the bloody violence of act three rolls around, the raging, guilt ridden angst of grief and pain fell flat against a minimalist set and feather boaed crowd. And I must say, most of the audience was sniggering at the out of place melodrama in the otherwise flippant glitzy show that could have been good fun, if only they'd chosen another script.

A good laugh, a decent spectacle, but at the end of the day it wasn't much of a performance. I was a bit disappointed, but that said, we had a lovely evening out (beautiful dress, hansome partner, post-show mind blowing sex) and I'm happy.

the first day, saturday

6:45 - creep out of bed
7:28 - get the bus to work

8:00 - make the list of all the unfinished work (loose nails on the walkway, buggy park wall falling off, lock missing on storage shed, wireless radio battery dead)
8:30- staff meeting

9:00 - double check site. pre-set venues f0r first events
9:30 - soweto gospel choir sing as gates open, manage onslaught of stampeding teenage girls
9:45 - meet 3 authors for three events, introduce to three chairs, get them off to their events

10:00 - first three events start, go back and get the 2 10:30s

continue through morning

11:00 - take slight break to go to office as am soaked through and muddy. discover squelching from hole in my shoe, borrow flipflops from co-worker.
11:48 - radio call for missing storyteller for noon storytelling, source last minute replacement

12:15 - chat with publisher panicking on undersold event
12:30 - fetch coffees for lunchtime musicians
12:45 - commence afternoon events

1:50 - take "lunch break" to gulp a can of coke
2:00 - calm panicking author on empty event
2:30 - help storyteller unload 6 garbage bags of craft materials in my storage shed for tomorrow

3:00 - 2 more events take off
3:20 - clean workshop of glue and gitter for artist masterclass with famous illustrator
3:30 - get illustrator off the ground
3:40 - prep charlie & lola party

4:00 - get two more events off the ground
4:10 - furiously radio to find out where the refugee children attending are refugees from
4:30 - check email and do maintence for tomorrow

rain finally lets up

5:30 - 3events finish, man their signings
6:30 - last signing ends, start packing up events
6:45 - finish storing last of supplies

7:00 - call Liam
7:15 - eat left over burger and beging typing this

then:

7:40 - dress for opening party
8:00 - set up opening party
8:45 - guests arrive
9:05 - speeches
9:30 - band plays
10:00 - finish first aid duty, commence drinking
11:30 - taxi home
12:15 set the alarm for 6:30, go to bed,

sleep once, and repeat. for the next 18 days straight.

i have been on my period for a month.

not just spot bleeding. not just patches. full on clots and cramps and illness.

how can the doctor insist i am fine?

how can i be on the same perscription (refilled in britian, but the same chemical make up) and suddenly it doesn't work?

why does no one believe me?

now is not the time to be battling hormones.

as if there was a good time to feel this rubbish.

holy mother of insanity

jesus fucking christ.

i just need a fucking break from all this fucking shit and the dickhead retard cunts i seem required to interact with on a daily fucking basis.



i do feel a bit better now. thanks.

i don't want your dirty dishes in my sink. i don't want you calling me every five minutes with inane questions. i don't want belated impossible requests far too late in the game. i don't want your overflow piled on my desk. i don't want guff at the checkout counter. i don't want your skepticism tainting my shit. just fucking stuff it and let me get on with my own life.

there is a point at which one cannot be kind and tactful anymore. a point at which a spade is a spade, you are just wrong, it is a problem and i can't smile at incompetence or laziness anymore.

it's a real shame that point is still 8 days before the festival where all of the above tolerance, kindness and tranquility will be required of me 18 hours a day, 7 days a week.

i need a beer and a nap pronto.