2.30am, 10 July.

They’re right that the days get longer as the summer goes. Or perhaps it’s just my perennial problem of not getting enough sleep; if there’s a theme to my days, it’s that. Though it’s not clinical insomnia; it’s more not letting myself sleep until I’ve done what I intended each day, and pushing the boundary of what know is healthy.

This week’s a prime example; was in the pub watching the Greece game until late on Sunday followed by a daft piece of freelance. The following morning I rolled onto my stereo’s remote at 5, setting off what I think is my alarm. Am ready for work by 6.50, when I realise the time. So was tired for work. Monday night came home and played City of Heroes (where I am a tough mutant dwarf called Y’gor who can jump and building) till the wee hours (I think.) Am woken at six by builders pouring liquid bird crap through our window by accident.

Tuesday night went to see Don Juan, translated by Simon Nye from Moliere. (Irredeemable shite unfortunately; the two male leads were passable, and Rebecca Hall is delicious as always, but the script was dull, unfunny, certainly not witty and the supporting cast was mostly dross. The movement on stage was uninspiring, and the whole thing was over before I’d noticed it’d begun.) Then went onto Moles cheesy night – very good, though too out of shape to Cossack jig properly. Have cold bath and can’t get to sleep until 3. Woken at 6 by builders.

Wednesday night Katy Marshall’s leaving do – at about 11 I stagger home, and get soaked to skin while tapping and ‘Singing in the rain.’ Dry off, play some City of Heroes, go to be about 1.

Woken by alarm at 4.30. Get-up, run bath, groan a bit on bed, have bath, grumble around the flat packing my bag, come here. (Here being the Futuroscope in Poitiers.) The PR accompanying me misses the flight so am on own. Finally arrive here about midday. Make way to Futuroscope, gawp at surroundings, watch a little CounterStrike, see the new SLI set-up from NVIDIA (who are kindly paying me to be here.) Then shipped off to a local race track where, non-driving me finds himself packed into a blue jumpsuit and put in control of a racing car. Make it round one lap in the wrong gear before misjudging a turn and ploughing into gravel. Vow never to race again (until I can drive properly that is.) So Luciano (great head PR for NV) gets this feller, who turns out to be some sort of racing champion, to give me a spin. Terrifying, worse than Jonty’s driving. Amazing feats of sliding the car, spinning it round corners, hardly ever braking… then flown back to Futuroscope in a helicopter (some sort of Little Bird alike.) Knackered and feel sick. No chance of sleep though, seems a *big* night is planned…

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GriddleOctopus

There are few harder things in life than introducing yourself, especially in print where mellifluous nuance can turn to indulgent wankery. So. I am definitely a 'writer'. You could also call me an 'artist'. I could probably put the words 'designer' and 'consultant' here too, but they feel crass.

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