Things I don't want to ever hear again

"Dad, its the Munch. I've been shot in the leg."

I hold the phone to my ear. Already I am up from my seat and heading down stairs to find Mrs BW.

"You've been what?"

"Shot in the leg dad, I'm at the hospital in Buxton."

"Shot?" I repeat. Mrs BW looks up from her knitting. Concern etched across her face. "Alex says he's been shot" I tell her. Well there is no easy way. " He is at Buxton hospital." Jenson Button would have come second in the race to the door. She grabbed her car keys "I'll phone you when I get there" she says as she disappeared into the damp dark night.

The line is dead. I stand and stare helplessly at the phone. And wait. Twenty minutes, half an hour, a year later it seems, she phones. He's okay she says the police are here. He has been shot in the leg. They think its a high powered air rifle. He has a nasty wound in his thigh. The armed response unit are here.

None of this really sinks in, accept for the bit about him being safe. And I had been speaking to him. He must be okay. I phone the Weasel to give her the low down before the face book rumour mill starts cranking into action. She is understandably mad and upset by turn. She vows vengeance on the bastard who did it. "If I find him Dad I'll......"

24 hours later a friendly genial PC sits in the front room, sipping my Ethiopian Highland coffee. "Nice coffee, this, I'd like some for my flask. Anyway so where did you feel the pain in your leg exactly." This to the Munch. He sits at the table, a strained look on his face but half amused. This is not me, this is somebody else.

He still has the pellet in his leg. He has been shot, had a general anaesthetic, and woken up in a strange hospital bed all in the space of 24 hours.  That's enough excitement for 24 hours thank you.

If only you had gone to Spec Savers Sir!

I had the pleasure of referring Buxton Thirds against Ashbourne Fourths on Saturday. For the record Buxton won 19-14 and no one got yellow carded or red carded. Sir kept his hands firmly in his pockets. Well it was a Sunny fields and its blooming cold up there. The Ashbourne scrum half, obviously yearning to give up sniping and living off the crumbs of his forwards and take up the whistle was ever so supportive, telling me every time there was a Buxton error. I thanked him early on in the game and asked him nicely not to. Then not so nicely. Then I reversed a penalty to try and get the message across. It worked. However he then seemed bothered about my time keeping and sought to help me out by asking how much longer there was to go? Every two minutes or so it seemed. That is the rugby equivalent of the child on the back seat of a long car journey asking if we are nearly there yet. Irritating and not at all helpful. As we all trouped of headed bar wards some of the players thanked me. One of the grizzled, scared, seen it all front row; suggested that it was a pity I didn’t go to spec savers. I made a note to keep an eye out for him in future games. I drank my beer and headed homeward. I’m not sure about referring yet. The jury is still out. But it was nice to know that tomorrow morning I would wake up and be able to leap out of bed and not feel if I had spent the night beneath a heavy roller.

What a Good Dog!

I don't take Lilly to Monks Dale very often. Not because its remote and difficult to get through. Its just around the corner so to speak, if you allow for a little bit of down the valley and over the hill. Rabbits are the problem. There are lots of rabbits in Monks Dale and Lilly, a normally sensible, well mannered, considerate Collie, just can't help herself. She goes mad dog and runs around here and there in a seemingly aimless fashion, deaf to my commands. It normally takes ten minutes to get it out of her system and then we have a proper walk, with lots of ball chasing and hide and seek and all the other things that people do with their dogs.

So this afternoon I braved Monks Dale again. I could sense the excitement as we left the car and headed for the stile. No sooner was she off the lead then she was off. We didn't see any rabbits, but their scent must have been all around. Several times she disappeared into the woods only to emerge, tongue lolling, ears pricked leaping and racing across the hillside, searching for the elusive rabbits. Of course she calmed down after a while and then it was back to the ball. An hour later a happy but knackered Collie trotted by my side as we walked back to the car. What a good dog.

What a tackle, What a decision!

First let me make a confession. I am an Englishman who has never supported Wales before nor wanted them to win before. Well okay I did once support Cardiff when they were playing Leicester Tigers but I mean that was the Tigers! This morning I got up and wanted the Welsh to win. Its simple. They have been the best side in the tournament to date, entertaining, inventive, a credit to their nation and people. An All Black Wales final would be a mouth watering prospect.

And for the first seventeen minutes it looked as if the Welsh were going to win. They were starting to dominate the set piece and their runners looked dangerous and sharp. Until that tackle and that decision.

Warburton's tackle on Le Clerk which ever way you view it, was a spear tackle. Spear tackles are dangerous and the only sanction the referee has is to give is a red card to the tackler if he deems the tackle to be a spear tackle. It does not matter that it was a semi-final, it does not matter that it was in the eighteenth minute, it does not matter that there may have been no intent. It does not matter that other referees have given different decisions during the tournament. And for the record Alain Roland is an excellent referee. It was dangerous and it was a red card.

It was tough on Wales. They responded magnificently. They could have won, they should have won, perhaps if they had taken the drop goal option? Les Bleus looked ordinary, with little real idea how to beat 14 men. They scraped through. But they are in the final, and as we know in finals anything can happen. I am gutted for my Welsh friends and for the distant relatives we have in Monmouthshire. But be proud of the way you played and as importantly the way you accepted the referees decision. I can think of other sports that would have treated the official differently, but you showed true sportsmanship and got on with it.

And spare a thought for Les Bleu. They won the game, they probably didn't expect to, it was not their fault that Warburton got sent off. Lets hope that they find that special something next weekend and make the final a memorable one for the right reasons.

Merde! You fool.

For several months since they moved in, I have greeted our new neighbours with a Bonjour here and an au revoir there. I think I even ventured to comment on the weather in my clumsy school boy french.I have always kept it light and happy, wanting them to feel welcome and part of the little community that we have here. You know the sort. We exchange Christmas cards, vow to see more of each other during the year and then don't. Anyway our neighbours have always smiled at me, and replied in English. They wave when ever they see us out and about, and were very understanding when Lilly the Collie decided to try out their front lawn as a toilet. Well they smiled and waved from their window as I went about the business of collecting Lilly's offering. So I was a bit disappointed as you can imagine when a few days ago during an increasingly rare conversation with Mrs BW, I explained to her how nice I thought our French neighbours were, only for Mrs BW to look at me with that quizzical, slightly patronising look that she has, and reply, "You mean the Polish ones?"  

Comings and Goings

All the comings and goings are unsettling Lilly the Collie. She cannot get used to the fact that several of her pack are absent at anyone time. She was beside herself with excitement last Friday when the Wiz came back briefly from Leeds Met, only to find the next day that the Wiz was off again. And then on Tuesday Mrs BW left for a trip down to Wales, leaving the house quiet and empty apart from the Munch and I. Several wet and muddy walks in the Goyt have not improved her mood. The pheasants don't want to play and the Grouse sulk in the long grass and taunt her with their grating call. There are other dogs of course but these are usually the small yapping kind, that bark and growl at her and refuse to be herded into any sort of order. All this is distressing for an intelligent collie. I feel guilty. She should be out on the hillside rounding up sheep. If I had the land and the money I would buy her a flock. And then there is the rain. Apart from the indignity of having to be towelled off after a walk, there is also the vexed issue of muddy feet on the stairs. After a marathon cleaning spree Mrs BW announced that from now on it was not necessary to wear shoes up stairs or indeed on the stairs. There was now no excuse for muddy footprints beyond the hall. Perhaps she should have included paw prints, as I can see us having to resort to a legal technicality on her return. Of course I could just clean the stairs. No I think the technicality is the better bet.

Congratulations Wiz

So the next adventure starts. A place to read dance at Leeds Met. Fantastic. We are very very proud of what you have achieved. Its been quite a journey with one or two rocky bits on the way but your got there, as of course we always knew you would. Poor old Leeds, it won't know what's hit it. Buxton will be quiet though.

All our love

Mum and Dad xx

Not the Goyt

A confession. I have not been to the Goyt for a while. The main reason is that Lilly, our excitable Border Collie has a habit of chasing birds and rather than take her there and keep her on the lead all the time I decided that while there were nesting birds around it was better to stay away. So we have been exploring the dales nearer to home. Cunningdale is the banker. Its only a short walk from the house. Its a bit litter prone and there is a dull and boring walk through an industrial estate to get to it, but Lilly likes it. Apart that is when it is full of cows. She is not fond of cows. They don't like to be herded and unlike sheep gang up on her, so if they are around she tends to hang around with me.

Woodale is another favourite. Depending on time we can either walk to it or take a short car journey. Usually its the latter because of work etc. Its bigger and deeper than Cunningdale and the wild flowers are better and more varied. The downside is the occasional mountain biker. I've nothing against Mountain Bikers, but Lilly does. She likes to round them up. This is not a good idea, so we have to keep an eye out for them and put her on the lead. Sadly it seems that Woodale has been selected for the route of the proposed cycle track to link to the Monsal trail. This will be a shame. It will mean that a tarmac path will be laid down the dale. It will get busier. There will be more litter. On Monday the Wiz and I took Lilly for a morning walk and watched a pair of Buzzards lazing around on the warm thermals. It was peaceful and quiet despite the A6 being half a mile away at the end of the dale. The cycle path will take this away. In fact it will ruin a lovely quiet place. Bloody planners!

I am a Prat. WARNING HARRY POTTER SPOLIER

Well okay I guess for anyone that knows me well that's not exactly front page news. But I am. We went to see the last Harry Potter film last night at Didsbury. It was excellent and I shall write about it later. But when we got home I put a status on facebook about how sad I was about the death of a certain person. Someone commented that I had now ruined the film for them, there was no point in going to see it now and that I was a **** !!!. I felt awful. What an unthinking selfish pillock I was. So I deleted the post and after dwelling on my selfish behaviour on and off during the day decide to text an apology. The reply was "LOL don't be daft I've read the books". But that's what I am daft. And a pratt. I rest my case.

The Wanderer returns

If you had been at Heathrows terminal one international arrivals, on Sunday, you may have observed a slightly scruffy, dishevelled, middle aged man waiting anxiously by the barrier. He had already had a difficult and scary Saturday letting his over active imagination fear the worse, and if he was honest with himself there was a little bit of him that was convinced that the Weasel, the Wiz, his brave and lovely daughter, would not be on that flight from Addis. If you had been there at 1.05pm you would have seen his face light up as he spotted her strolling through the barrier. If you had looked really closely you might have seen him wipe away a tear before he gave her a hug.

Rewind 28 hours. Early Saturday morning, Birdwatcher Towers. My mobile sings to me. I have a text. It is the Wiz. "Hi Dad, I am in Gonder airport, have checked in. Will try and text you from Addis. See you soon x"

That was good news. I got up and gave Lilly our Border Collie a run out. Mrs BW decided to go down into Buxton and get some bedding for the Wiz. We had changed her room about a bit, so that she now had a double bed, and it had been given a thorough clean. It looked lovely, and Mrs BW was rightly proud of all her efforts. 

Her flight was due to land in Addis at 9.50am UK time. She then had a long wait for her flight to London via Amman, but despite my offer to find a hotel,she said that she would prefer to remain in Bole airport.  No text. Well I sort of guessed that there wouldn't be. The signal in Bole airport is apparently pretty bad. At 10.15am, I decided to just call her and see if there was a signal. If not I would conclude that she could not get a signal and get on with my day. I dialled the her number and waited, there was a hissing noise and then a dial tone. Great I had managed to get through. I waited to hear her voice. It was I confess a bit of a shock when an man with an African accent answered it. There was the sound of voices and shouting. I tried to talk to him, I even think I asked if the Wiz was there, but he rang off.  I redialed and the phone rang briefly only to be cut off. I tried again and this time it went straight through to answer phone.

For a few moments I confess I did not know what to do. I checked the number that I had dialed and it was the right one. I double checked, no doubt about it. Clearly something was wrong. I felt sick. I was starting to panic. I needed to do something. I searched the web for numbers for Bole International airport. I was convinced that she had had her phone nicked , I just hoped that it was nothing worse. I tried the numbers but the lines to Ethiopia were either "busy" or no one was picking up. After half an hour I gave up. What now? Supposing she had been hurt? Supposing she had been abducted. A small piece of me tried to remain rational but it was swamped by the much bigger and better practised irrational bit.

Mrs BW came home. I told her what had happened. Now we were both worried.

I decided to phone the Embassy in Addis. They were closed but there was an emergency number. I didn't expect to get through and if I did I expected them to be dismissive. I got through first time and they were brilliant. First some reassurance. Its actually a safe place, some low level crime, pick pocketing etc, but rarely anything worse. They gave me some more numbers to try, and told me to ring back in an hour if I had no luck. I didn't and Phoebe the duty officer said that she would try and contact the airport. Half an hour later she phoned me back and said that she had asked the airport to put a call out asking the Wiz to contact the information desk. Hopefully she said they would let her call the Embassy from the airport. She suggested we gave it three hours.  Three hours. Somehow I managed to get through them. Every time my phone hummed I grabbed it hoping that it was good news, only to feel the crushing disappointment when it was not the Wiz or the Embassy.

I will cut a long story short. At five we agreed that there was no point in trying to contact her. It was probable Phoebe said that she was sitting outside in the cafe between the Domestic and International terminals so would not hear any call. The best bet was to wait until check in at 10.30pm. Phoebe said she would arrange for BMI to contact the Embassy as soon as she checked in. As soon as she checked in, not if.

I tried to distract myself. I took Lilly for a walk, tried listening to the radio, tried reading, tried sleeping, but it was hopeless. At 10.00pm I got a text. Susi from the Embassy to say that BMI had all her details and would be on the case as soon as the check in opened at 10.30pm. 10.30pm came and went. At 10.40pm I had a text. I grabbed the phone. It was the Munch wanting to know if we had heard anything. I went upstairs and lay on the bed. I was fearing the worse. If she didn't check in what then? My phone rang. It was the Embassy. She was fine, first in the queue to check in. Slightly surprised to be talking to the British Embassy, and she had her phone with her all the time, she had tried to text but could not get a signal. So she had waited in the cafe, soaking up a little of the sun between rain showers and finishing off her book.

Sunday 12.50pm Heathrow. Her plan landed an hour ago, and no sign of her yet. But it takes a long time to clear the luggage from flights from Addis apparently. I get a text. Its from the Wiz. " Hi Dad landed at Addis, am just having a tea in the cafe and about to order some lunch.See you soon x" I felt a slight feeling of anxiety. I dialled her phone and it rang and the dial tone was the normal British one. So the text was the one she thought she might have sent yesterday. A minute later another text, "Waiting for my luggage x"

And then there she was. Smiling, looking lovely, with a stack of stories and tales to tell.

We sat in arrivals  for a coffee and some cake before setting off. She was travel weary and a little tired.

"Oh yeah dad, I know what I want to ask you. When I got to check in at Addis, the British Embassy wanted to speak to me. What was that all about?"

Welcome home Wiz. XX

A bit of a catch up

With the Wiz in Ethiopia, and the Munch working hard as an apprentice chef, I was home alone with Lilly the Collie for most of the weekend. Mrs BW made a brief appearance in between shifts at Hardwick Hall, and we shared a silent pint together at the Wye Bridge on Saturday evening. We took Lilly along who livened things up by barking at a group of lads at the next table. Luckily they thought it was funny or else I might have had to place Mrs BW in between them and me. For her own protection you understand.

I amused myself by wandering around town and taking in the sun and the festival crowds. It was certainly busy. And every available space seemed to be occupied by Morris Dancers. Of course Lilly barked at them and briefly thought about rounding them up, but they kept on waving their hankies in a mildly threatening way and she decided that they were not worth the bother.

On Friday evening I went to see Ed Reardon in a writers burden. Now I am a bit of an Ed Reardon fan. Its therapeutic to come across someone more miserable than ones self. But I was a bit sceptical about it transferring from the wireless to the stage. I need not have worried. It was excellent. And I laughed. Disappointing that the theatre was only half full, but I guess that Buxton just isn't ready for this kind of show, or that they have not managed to find radio 4, let alone radio 4 extra on their wireless dials. Which leads me onto another point. Which twelve year old decided to change the name of the best listening on radio from BBC Radio 7 to BBC radio 4 extra. Pointless. As pointless as the Post Office changing to Consignia or what ever it was several years ago. No doubt it cost a lot of money and involved many wine fuelled lunches with clever consultants. Will they be ditching BBC radio six music to BBC radio one and a bit?

Well that's it for now.

The Wiz is off on her travels.

Sitting in what I grandly call the office, but which is in fact a spare room that we do not need. Well its a space with my stuff in it anyway. Looking out of the window, I can see that the rain has arrived. So it must be Buxton carnival tomorrow! Feel pretty sad at the moment. I took the Wiz to Heathrow yesterday. She has gone to Ethiopia with Link Ethiopia to do some work with them in Gonder in the North of the country. Not heard from her since but Link E, tell me she arrived safe and sound this morning. I guess she will be asleep. Feel excited and scared for her. It will be a wonderful experience, at least that's what you are supposed to say. Sitting drinking coffee before she boarded she said that she was glad she was going to Ethiopia and not Ibiza with the rest of her friends. Wow she has changed. She is a brave young woman and I am very proud of her. This time last week I was watching her play Alice in Billy Liar at the Buxton Fringe. She was so good, well they all were. They worked really hard on the performance and the efforts showed through. Soon she will be leaving home to go to Uni (fingers crossed). Where has the time gone? Anyway Wiz be safe and take care, have a wonderful time. Miss you, love Dad xxx

The final slice

I'd been looking forward to it all evening, that last slice of apple pie, left over from Sunday lunch. And there was double cream in the fridge. It was a big fat slice with crumbly bits and apple oozing out. I would treat myself. That and a hot chocolate. We BW's now how to live. I heard the munch thunder downstairs. I had a nasty feeling, a sixth sense that there might be competition for that last slice. I waited and debated whether to check. I hesitated then strolled casually into the kitchen. The Munch wasn't there. I felt relieved. Then I heard the ping from the microwave. The utility door opened and there was the Munch with my slice of apple pie.

"What are you doing?" I asked as politely as I could.

"Having this apple pie, what does it look like?"

"I was going to have that actually" I said as reasonably as I could.

"Well I'm having it" He brushed past me and grabs a plate from the kitchen loaded with cookies.

I put the kettle on. At least I could have a hot chocolate.

"You can make me one as well" this shouted from the top of the stairs. The door to his room slams. I swear. Lilly who had been hanging around in the hope that a little something might fall on the floor slunk off and hid under the table. She has been around when I have sworn before.

I slam the mugs down on the work surface and spoon liberal amounts of hot chocolate into the mugs. To the munch's I add sugar. A lot of it. Its not much of a revenge but its a start. He doesn't like his chocolate to sweet. I take the thick sickly brown drink up to his room. "Thanks" he grunts and takes a sip. "Nice one, thanks dad, its really good."

There must be a cat to kick somewhere.

Bit of a winge

Mrs BW is out on a course, the Munch bored in his room, Lilly asleep on the bed, and the Weasel has just popped out for a bit. I am sitting here resisting the strong desire to go down stairs and make a hot chocolate and then join Lilly. Its one of the many disadvantages of growing older. Weariness. Trouble is I feel it most of the day. Is it possible to go to bed, sleep and then wake up feeling more tired? I think it must be. It must be the stressful life we lead. Its been a fairly uneventful day though. I drove to Bakewell for a meeting where the sun was shining the birds singing, and it felt like spring. This cheered me up. Then I drove back to Buxton where the sun wasn't about, the birds were hunched in the trees trying to keep warm and winter was strutting about flexing her muscles and making it clear that she was hanging in there thank you. Winter does seem to hang about up here. Its not so much the cold. I can cope with that, it the grey foggy, damp days. Months of them. No wonder Buxton never really took off as a Spa town. Its fine having a warm healing spring but it helps if you have the climate to go with it. Still look on the bright side, the days are drawing out, its light enough in the mornings now for me to take Lilly for a decent walk. If only I could drag myself out of bed.

One slice of toast please.

2.30am Sunday morning. I am awake but only just. The wireless is still on. Radio 7, I think its a play. Sounds like a Morse. I reach out and grab my phone and check it for texts. There are none. Lilly shifts irritably and sticks her paws in my face. The house is quiet, apart from my radio. The Munch has been in for ages and Mrs BW sleeps peacefully. The Weasel is still out, partying. She is almost 19, well 18 years 6 months. Still worry about her though. I check the phone even though I know it hasn't bleeped. So I settle down ,a little uneasy in my mind, to listen to the play.

2.45am Lilly raises her head and gets off the bed. There is the faintest sound of a key turning in the front door lock. Lilly dashes off downstairs and I hear the Weasel whisper "shush Lilly shush" and then "Oh Lilly!" She will have done a little pee of greeting like she always does. (Lilly not the Weasel) And I am happy. Everyone home safe and sound. I resist the urge to get out of bed and go downstairs. I can hear the Weasel unsteady in the kitchen, the sound of the toaster being popped, the kettle switched on.

3.05am. The Weasel comes upstairs swaying slightly on the top step before noisily closing her bedroom door. Lilly, mission accomplished leaps onto the bed and with a big noisy sigh, flops down and falls asleep.

3.15am. I sneak downstairs to make a drink. (And to check that the Weasel has locked the front door!) She has. I take my coffee back upstairs and settle down to listen to the rest of the play.

3.19am. My mobile hums. A text. From the Weasel. "Can you make me one slice of toast with marg please x."

Is this reasonable I think to myself as I shuffle downstairs? Well obviously else I would not be making it for her would I?

3.23am. One slice of toast delivered to the Weasel, who smiles her thanks and turns back to the repeat of what ever it is she is watching on the tele.

3.24am. I get back into bed. Lilly sighs her disapproval at me. I listen to what is left of the play. I can relax, for now.

Dog hair under the bed

I think this blog has got tired like its author. Its a bit frayed around the edges, some of the bits don't work any more. A lot of the content doesn't make any sense and has a habit of repeating itself. Things have become neglected, scruffy. There is dust in the corners and little piles of dog hairs under the bed. So what to do? Emigrate somewhere else and start again? There is always word press, but that looks a little complicated to me to be honest. I guess I will just have to roll my sleeves up and tidy this place up. But not now, not tonight. Other things to do you see, like pick the Weasel up from the furthest reaches of Buxton. So maybe tomorrow. Or maybe not. There is always the weekend, that great repository for all the things that you have put off doing during the week. But England are playing Ireland and its for the Grand Slam, so beer maybe involved. I'll just leave it for now.

Muddy Dog

The Dale is very wet and very muddy. Lilly the Collie has managed to get quite a lot of the Dale on her paws and tail and other furry bits. Its getting dark as we trudge through the puddles, sneaking past the cows that gang up against the gate and the way out and back to the car. Lilly keeps a low profile hugging close to my legs. She isn't that fond of cows. Back at the car I make a man sized attempt to clean her up. Most of the mud stays put. Still we have had a good walk, and Lilly has chased the ball up and down dale and sniffed out a few pheasants and generally had a good old time. I am looking forward to a cup of tea and an early night. A bath, a book and clean sheets beckon. When we get back to Birdwatcher Towers I make another cursory attempt at getting Lilly clean, but give up and trudge off upstairs for my bath. Nice and relaxing, and hot with plenty of bubbles. As I dry myself someone nudges open the bathroom door and Lilly pads across the floor. She seems pleased with herself. And she has clean paws. I give her a tickle and go to the bedroom. Now I see why she is clean. Most of the Dale is on my now not so fresh and clean bedding. There is a large dog shaped patch of mud and dirt in the middle of the bed. Of well, its only dirt.

Back to the Goyt

I switched off the engine and sat in the car for a few moments taking in the familiar but recently much neglected view. I opened the window and listened to the silence. Lilly was getting restless in the back and the Munch who had agreed to come for a walk with me wondered aloud why we weren't getting out. I thought about explaining about the silence but as he had his ipod earphones in decided not to bother.

It was good to be back. Don't know why I stayed away. Inertia? Idleness?

Lilly raced off and then back, worrying us to throw the ball for her while she waited for some Grouse to fly off for her to chase. So intent on the ball was she that she ignored some hapless chap in jogging bottoms and a well worn tee shirt. Normally she would have given chase, deaf to my pleas and commands.

No curlews though. Only a few grouse well out of Lilly's range. So we walked along, father and son, and happy excitable collie, all lost in our various worlds and thoughts.

As we got back to the car, as the light was fading, I heard that familiar cry. Far off across the valley beyond the Wildmoorstone brook, faint, but a curlew nonetheless. "Did you hear that?" I said excitedly to the Munch.

"Yer wat?" he said. He had his headphones on drowning out the silence, so I just smiled and said "Nothing don't worry about it." Then added "me old", just to wind him up.

Blimey I have been away along time

Anyway have a wonderful midwinter Christmas. Take care and be safe.

A Proud Dad

Just got back from the Studio theatre in Buxton where the Weasel was performing a play that she and her drama group had written as part of their A'level work. Now okay I am biased. But they were brilliant. The Wiz, acting a part out of character captured her part perfectly. I know she has worked hard at it (they all have) but what they produced and wrote was a good as anything I have seen for a while. The play revolved around the death of a guy called Luke. It opened with his funeral. He was narrating, part biography part home spun philosophy, as well as slipping into the action as it shifted from the present into the past.. He had been two timing his wife (played by the Wiz) and as the tensions surfaced so each of the characters came to life. The narration was well done and slotted seamlessly into the action. They also handled the shifts between past and present brilliantly. Luke began quite upbeat but the end which was powerful and moving saw everyone move on, leaving Luke, well dead I guess. I forgot that I was watching my brilliant talented daughter, and was absorbed in the story and at the end had to wipe a tear from my eye.

Wiz I know you don't read my blog, but you are a star. You really deserve top marks for the performance and all the work that you put into it. Can't wait for your next performance at the fringe in the summer. Dad x