According to weather reports it's going to rain hard all day, so I'm quite happy to go to the post office in only a bit of drizzle and mail off Just For You to an English actress MBS has introduced me to via email. Mission for the day accomplished, I decide to go to Goodwill on my way home and see if I can find a pair of casual pants, as after looking for a favorite pair since I got back to New York, I've realized I must have left them in Silver for the winter. This leaves me with a pair of black Levis that I can just about squeeze myself into if I hold my stomach in as far as I can and never sit down while I'm wearing them and three pairs of black stretch cotton pull on straight-let pants that I've been wearing for at least 10 years and that are literally beginning to shred.
I never get to the thrift shop though as I run into F, the man who runs the Drama Workshop at the Isaacs Centre where I used to go when I had transiting south node conjunct Pluto a couple of years ago. He seems genuinely happy to see me as I am to see him, and we do a quick catch up in the middle of the sidewalk while I tell him I'm living most of the time up in Cambridge being a nanny and he invites me to a reading at his theatre on 81st Street that night. I ask him if I've ever shown him a Just For You script, he says no, I say I'll take one along when I go to the reading, which I do that evening.
By then it's pouring with rain and getting windy, and I'm very grateful the theatre's only seven blocks away. The reading is of two one-acts, one I've never seen that I guess the premise of long before I'm sure the playwright would have liked me to, and the other a rewrite of something I saw there last year which has been rewritten and toned down a bit, which, IMHO, it desperately needed. F is glad to see me, takes the script, which has about as much chance of being of interest to him as it has to the Royal Court but never mind, and introduces me to a couple of playwrights in the audience - one the author of the play I'd seen before and the other the author of I'm not quite sure what.
He tells them I'm about to go off to London where a play of mine is being produced. "Oh, in Hampstead?" one of them says. "No, other side of the river," I say, without elaborating further, and the lights go down, the reading starts, the reading ends, F says thank you to us all for coming and invites us all to stay for wine and cheese and Miss Twelfth House, who's been sitting in the back row, sneaks out the front door into the rain and wind and scurries home, wishing Sweet Pea were there to greet her.
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