As August comes to a close and Edinburgh Fringe winds down, it’s time to turn attention to the autumn season, which has some great things coming.

Also, I’m writing this just after the announcement of Dolly Parton’s death, so please enjoy a couple of Dolly themed stitches I did.

[Image description: cross-stitch: Equal parts goth and Dolly Parton]

Theatre in September

Northern Stage’s first big show of the season is Othello, a co-production with Home Manchester and Citizens Theatre, in association with Royal and Derngate. Directed by Anthony Almeida, this promises a fresh take on the Shakespeare classic. It’s one of the few Shakespeares I have never seen - yes, I’m still bitter I didn’t see the Chiwetel Ejiofor / Ewan McGregor one a few years back - so I’m excited to see this. It starts 11 September.

The Customs House First Play Club has produced some bangers, and been a useful proving ground for new talent over the past few years. So I’ll be interesting to see Bundled, a new darl comedy by Jamie McLeish & Lynne Patrick, which runs 9-11 September. While I can’t find where I read this, I believe the cast includes Dean Logan, of Gerry & Sewell fame, who is always worth watching, and the tickets are pretty cheap so why not take a punt?

Over at The People’s Theatre is The Wasp, Morgan Lloyd Malcolm’s twisty thriller, which runs from 7-12 September (why is everything the same week? It’s tough on us low-stamina folk!) This is followed later in September by the Arthur Miller classic, A View From the Bridge. I saw the acclaimed Ivo Von Hove / Mark Strong version of this at the National a few years back, and I admit I was less taken with it than most people seemed to be, though Strong is a great actor and it was undeniably dramatically staged. It’ll be interesting to see how this version compares.

Although it’s mostly dark at the moment, Alphabetti is still hosting the occasional event, and the WIP The Departure looks like an interesting offering. These Work in Progress nights give you a chance to see early versions of things and provide feedback - think of the bragging rights! This piece stars Tom Wells, who also wrote, and who will be familiar from a host of TV roles. It is on Sep 11.

Award winning playwright Alison Carr’s All At Sea, which is loosely based on the infamous ‘canoe man’ story, opens towards the end of September at Live. It opens the week of my birthday, so if you see me feel free to buy me a drink.

I’ve seen a couple of pieces by Umar Butt and enjoyed both, so remain annoyed that shitty public transport makes ARC Stockton such a pain for me to get to. But if it’s easier for you, do check out Jolt!, 3 short plays that form an ambitious trilogy spanning from the Indian / Pakistan partition to race riots in Middlesbrough. Ideally, I’d like you all to go see it so it's such a success that it tours and I don’t have to rely on once-an-hour-finish-early trains to see it…

Where I have been

I had a friend in town over the weekend, and trod a path of some of my fairly predictable faves: Cafe Mercy for cocktails, Kafe Neon for food, my couch for gossip and fizz. But we did head out to Whitley Bay and ended up checking out Flock, which has been on my wishlist for a while. Located on the increasingly fancy Park View - a stone’s throw from the excellent eateries Kith and Kin (which does a fantastic brunch) and Little Lobo, which is just as good as the Jesmond branch.

With a distinctly coffee shop feel to its decor, Flock also offers a range of food (mostly small plates and pastries, from what I could tell), coffees, beers and wine, with a decent range (including orange wine, so you can definitely tell the area is becoming gentrified). The staff are friendly, the vibe is chill, and I would definitely go back.

What I have been watching

Do superhero shows not like the word ‘green’? Much like the grittied up CW take on Green Arrow, Arrow, Lanterns ditches its colour qualifier to tell the story of Green Lantern legend Hal Jordan (a rugged and grizzled Kyle Chandler) and his trainee Jon Stewart (Aaron Pierce). This HBO series has been described as a True Detective take on superheroes, and so far that seems fairly accurate. The special effects count is low, the body count (moderately) high as the mismatched pair are drawn into a small town murder mystery where the victims may not be what they seem.

The leads are supported by a raft of familiar faces (Kelly Macdonald as the local sheriff, Jason Ritter as her husband and Garrett Dillahunt as her aliens-obsessed father in law).

It’s dropping weekly - HBO seeming to realise that shows that are binged on drop day are forgotten quickly - and so far it’s very promising.

I’ve also been watching Best Medicine, the American take on Doc Martin. I never watched the British original, but this Josh Charles vehicle (which also stars Timeless star Abigail Spencer) is a solid addition to the ‘outsider comes to quirky small town’ genre, and makes for undemanding and engaging fare.

What I am reading

A friend sent me a big box of books last week - man, I love my friends - one of which was Mary Beard’s How We Look, which is a companion to her BBC series Civilisations. It’s an interesting if not particularly in-depth look at how we look at art and centres the idea of public art and assessing it in context. There are some great photos, too.

[Image description: cross-stitch: Be More Dolly]

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

Remember: everything included is my personal preference / opinion, and while I strive to be accurate, I always advising checking with the relevant venue.

What I have been reading

With much of the theatre community decamped to Edinburgh for August, I thought I would keep things brief this week and focused on books.

After what feels like an age of missing my reading mojo, I finally feel like it’s come back, and have about 10 things on the go at any one time, in part because I honestly just want to read everything, all the time.

Mere by Danielle Giles is a compelling historical novel set in a medieval convent, with a (potentially?) supernatural air and a mature queer romance at its heart. I’m about halfway through and finding it pretty gripping so far.

[Image description: Witchland by Marion Gibson]

I enjoyed Marion Gibson’s Witchcraft: A History in 13 Trials, so was keen to read Witchland, which covers very similar ground. I admit I had the same frustrations with this as I did its predecessor - I find Gibson’s conversational style engaging but also over emphatic (there’s a lot of ‘astonishingly’ and ‘horrifyingly’ and the like, which occasionally feels like Gibson doesn’t trust her audience to realise that objectively horrible things are horrible.) But this won extra points from me because it featured tales based in two settings I’m familiar with: Framlingham, which I visit regularly, and Newcastle. The Newcastle story was new to me, and a fascinating slice of local history.

I’ve been on a Homer binge lately, partly inspired by all the publicity for The Odyssey and reading both the first in Pat Barker’s Trojan War trilogy, Silence of the Girls and Emily Wilson’s excellent book on translation, Crossing the Wine-Dark Sea. (I still have her Odyssey sitting on a shelf, but do plan to get to it soon, honest!) I’m currently reading Adam Nicholson’s The Mighty Dead: Why Homer Matters, which is a fascinating look both at the author’s connection to Homer and the wider Homeric legacy.

Not quite connected to Homer, but set in ancient times, is Glorious Exploits. Ferdia Lennon’s debut novel won a ton of awards, but I admit I am struggling a little with the (deliberate) clash between the modern tone and the historical setting. Still, it’s a fascinating subject – based around (true?) stories of Athenian prisoners of war winning better treatment if they were able to recite plays and poems by classical authors – and I just started it, so it might yet win me over.

A book I didn’t actually expect to have any Homeric themes which turned out to, is Hello, Stranger. Subtitled Stories of Connection in a Divided World, this looks at how, after the death of his partner, Will Buckingham was driven to examine how we connect with strangers and why that matters. It uses examples from his extensive travels and studies, including examining traditions of hospitality from around the world (and from the time of Homer, who is extensively referenced). Its ‘there’s more that unites us than divides us’ theme has never felt more relevant, even if occasionally it feels like he ignores how a woman travelling alone might have very different experiences and anxieties than he had on his travels. (Though, to be fair, he does reference the work of female explorers, sociologists and anthropologists).

[Image description: Monsters in the Archives by Caroline Bicks]

Monsters in the Archives was perhaps a weird pick for me. The only Stephen King book I’ve read is On Writing (and I like that less than most people seem to do) and I’ve never managed to sit all the way through an adaptation of his work. So, I’m honestly not sure what drew me to this book by Caroline Bicks, University of Maine’s inaugural Stephen E. King Chair in Literature. Despite her title, Bicks is actually a Shakespeare scholar, but as part of her research she decided to spend a year in King’s extensive personal archives, examining how his work changed and progressed, both between projects as he developed as a writer, and how individual works were amended. (She focuses on Carrie, The Shining, Nightshift, Salem’s Lot and Pet Sematary).

If you’re interested in writing, publishing and adaptation, it’s a fascinating look at how novels are written, edited, published and adapted for screen, and how even minor changes can be surprisingly impactful. If you’re a King fan, you’ll likely get even more out of it – and despite being written by an academic, it’s a remarkably easy read.

Speaking of filmmaking, The Last Kings of Hollywood by Paul Fischer is probably the best thing I’ve read this summer. Subtitled Coppola, Lucas, Spielberg - And the Battle for the Soul of American Cinema, this looks at the early careers of three Hollywood titans and their very different, but interlocked paths and personalities. Inevitably, it also folds in other big names who crossed their paths – most notably Martin Scorsese (and a cameo from ex-wife and Artists Way scribe Julia Cameron – which I am also currently (re) reading…), Paul Schrader, John Milius, Harrison Ford, Al Pacino and Robert de Niro.

As the list above implies, it’s a very male book, which it acknowledges, though it’s also very good at recognising how the talents and contributions of women like Marcia Lucas, Melissa Mathieson and Kathleen Kennedy were often diminished or overlooked as they were cast in the role of scorned wives and girlfriends or assistants. But the real skill is making such a well-trodden path seem as tense and gripping as a novel. I obviously know Star Wars, Jaws and The Godfather were hits – in fact, last year one of my favourite books was Mark Seal’s in-depth look at the making of The Godfather, Leave the Gun, Take the Cannoli, so I know just how fraught the creation of the film was. But I still found myself racing through this, caught up in the tightrope tension of getting these ground-breaking movies made.

That’s it for this week – back to normal next week, as there are already some great shows announced!

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

Remember: everything included is my personal preference / opinion, and while I strive to be accurate, I always advising checking with the relevant venue.

Review - Homelessness in Performance, Art and Society: Becoming Visible

I was grateful to be given a review copy of Nadine Holdsworth’s book on homelessness and performance, tackling as it does the intersection of a number of subjects that appeal to me: homelessness, working class (or dispossessed class) art, and how organisations can engage with creatives who come from less privileged demographics.

The first thing to say about Holdsworth’s book is it is an academic text, written by and (presumably) for academics, and published by an academic publisher - Routledge isn’t putting out your mass market paperbacks. So while I think it has a lot to offer creative practitioners interested in this area, it’s not a fast or easy read and you have to go in expecting the kind of language and framing academics use. But it definitely has a lot to offer beyond the narrow fields of academia.

The book focuses on several key strands. It opens with the work of individual artists (including North East based artist gobscure, whose artwork adorns the cover, and who has performed at a number of North East venues, including Live and Alphabetti, and who also has a Substack - see below). Analysing how these artists’ work is grounded by and often stems from their lived experience of homelessness (often intersecting with other experiences, including disability and mental health issues), it then moves onto looking at creative organisations that focus on work with and performances by individuals or communities who have experienced homelessness.

gobscure’s Substack

asking questions, collecting tears, rewriting futures

By love&rage

Holdsworth also examines the tensions between the goals and impact of organisations which take a more ‘capitalist’ approach to their work with homeless individuals, who emphasise stories of creativity, triumph and personal redemption, thereby minimising or even ignoring structural and systemic issues, despite the practical good they might be doing.

The book concludes with a deeply moving section on projects that memorialise deaths among those who experienced homelessness, and how a deliberately performative element to these projects can increase their effectiveness, drawing on parallels with other memorialising projects such as the deeply memorable ‘AIDs quilt’.

Holdsworth doesn’t seek to offer simple solutions, but the book gives us lots to think about when it comes to artists affected by homelessness, how organisations can thoughtfully engage with and support those experiencing homelessness (including tapping into the creativity of those who would normally not consider themselves ‘artists’), as well as looking at how art and performance can be acts of solidarity and (hopefully) catalysts for change.

[Image description: Homelessness in Performance, Art and Society by Nadine Holdsworth]

And in honour of this book - and in part to explain my personal interest in it - I thought I would reshare this earlier piece on my own (obviously limited) experience of homelessness, which I would offer as evidence that ‘homelessness’ isn’t some vague thing that happens to Those People (who probably deserve it, right?) but something many of us are one lost job or bad landlord or relationship breakup away from.

(Originally published in around 2018, I think).

[Image description: Tracey with Mam, standing in the grounds of some fancy place, in front of a fountain]

The Summer I was Homeless

Some words have such a weight you can’t carry them. They are so freighted with import, with the expectations of others or the ages, you shy away from applying them to yourself because you simply can’t live up to them. So, five years ago, when I became, in fairly rapid succession, both homeless and an orphan, I found myself in the curious position that the words that most literally described my situation didn’t accurately describe it at all.

After all, I was a woman in her 40s, not some Dickensian waif left to fend for herself in childhood. I was hardly unique in having lost both parents at that age (I presumed, at least – if you’re out there, hi Dad! Fuck you!). Unusual, perhaps, in the extent of my aloneness – only child of a single mother, without siblings or a partner or children – but certainly not worthy of any special pity.

Then there was the homelessness. I wasn’t homeless, surely. That was ridiculous. I had a job (OK, I was freelancing, but I had a regular income from my nascent business). I had savings (OK, not much, and even less when I took the costs of my mother’s funeral out of them). I wasn’t on the streets, or in a hostel. I wasn’t homeless homeless. I just… didn’t have anywhere to live.

And then I still didn’t have anywhere to live.

At first, it seemed a temporary inconvenience. The flat I had spent a decade in – at first shared with others, latterly alone – abruptly became unavailable, as the friend from whom I rented it at ‘mate’s rates’ broke up with his partner, and needed to move back in. So, without a contract, I had to leave, and I was suddenly faced with a rental landscape that had dramatically changed in my absence, and which I was now brutally priced out of.

I wanted to stay in my neighbourhood – an up and coming but not particularly salubrious part of South London – but even a cursory scan of the local estate agents made it evident that my freelancer’s income would barely afford me a partially furnished cupboard. Having had my share of creeps and crazies, I had hoped I was done with flat-sharing, but partnerless and without access to the parental purse (my mum was a pensioner, on benefits and in social housing), living alone seemed beyond me. I had to face the depressing possibility of sharing with someone a decade or two younger, trapped in some extended kidulthood by my lack of finances. But still, I decided to give it a go, even though the first flatshare I investigated turned out to be a dodgy sublet with a landlord who insisted there be no paperwork and that he be free to let himself in without notice, ‘day or night’ to collect the rent – in cash. Clearly, this wasn’t going to be easy.

Then my mum died, and I had a whole other set of problems.

[Image description: slightly blurry photo of me and my mum]

Well-meaning middle class friends, while sympathetic to my loss, assured me this would at least solve my immediate housing crisis: I could move into my mum’s flat in Newcastle while I sorted out her things. But they were oblivious to the reality of social housing, which has no space for grief. I had to strip away two and a half decades of my mum’s life in mere days* to make way for the next tenant. And, because her benefits were cancelled on the day of her death but her bills were not, the fact that she died at the start of the month meant I was also charged rent to do so.

‘You’ll regret not taking something to remember her by’, people told me, as if the most complicated relationship of my life could be encapsulated in a souvenir. But more than that, the practicalities of possessions were beyond me. I was living out of a suitcase, the meagre belongings I had were in storage (not much, since I had always lived in furnished flats). The logistics – and cost – of putting my mum’s things into storage in Newcastle, then transporting them to some as-yet-undecided destination, seemed overwhelming to me.

My business – and therefore my income – was suffering. On top of the fallout of grief, there was the enormous amount of paperwork death generates, the red tape and official incompetence I had to manoeuvre to detach my mother from the world, from sending out death certificates to everyone from the TV licence people to the insurance company (and then, doing so again, because the latter lost the first one), to endless form filling and phone calls, the wearying litany of constantly having to reiterate your loss for an uninterested audience.

Then there were the practicalities of trying to do any of my own work in a flat that was being dismantled around me, no longer had a landline, and had neither wifi nor a decent mobile signal, meaning the only way I could get online was to walk 10 minutes to the café down the road: a partial, but not always practical, solution to the demands of a business I was attempting to grow.

With time, I might have managed to sell her things, dispose of them thoughtfully and maybe even to my profit, but with the clock ticking on eviction, clearing the decks was a priority, so I ended up frantically trying to give away a house full of furniture I desperately needed.

And still I had nowhere to live.

Favours were called in, Facebook posts put out. And people were lovely beyond my expectations. Over the next few months, I was, time and again, stunned by the generosity of the friends who opened their homes to me. Friends invited me to housesit or pet-sit when they went on holiday, thus clothing their kindness in the pretence I was doing them a favour. People I worked with years ago got in touch to offer their spare room for a week. Acquaintances messaged me to say their parents had a holiday home I could rent out for a month; a woman I met once on a hen night a decade earlier offered me her flat for a week while she was away.

There were some cutting absences, true. Grief frightens some people, and they have to steer clear, and by now I was doubly grieving, since in the midst of this chaos I was rocked by the unexpected death of an old friend, far too young, reinforcing my impression of a world gone off its hinges. I was tired and weepy all of the time (the one thing that nobody tells you about grief: it’s utterly, bloody exhausting), so not exactly the cheeriest of friends. I get it, I do: other people’s crises wear thin after a time, and everyone has their own drama and daily life to deal with. But still, I was hurt by the disappearance of some people – some of whom emerged, later, with talk of having wanted to give me space (when space was the last thing I needed), others leaving cracks in our friendship that would prove impossible to heal over.

But, in the main, kindness followed kindness followed kindness. It wasn’t an ideal life, by any means, but I kept reminding myself I was lucky. I was spending a fortune on train tickets as I travelled from one city to another, lured by the offer of a spare room or a holiday flat-sit, but hey, at least I was getting to travel. (My stays in London were limited by the fact that, no matter how generous my friends were, most were as constrained by economics as I was: spare rooms were in short supply, and there’s only so long you can kip on someone’s couch without seriously straining a relationship).

My job – while suffering from the instability and the time I spent looking for somewhere to live and/ or arranging and travelling to somewhere to stay – was at least flexible enough that I could do it from anywhere. And while my savings were rapidly diminishing, I had credit cards: if things got too desperate, I could stay in a hotel, and worry about paying it back later. I was painfully aware that I was better off than many, and terrified that if I complained about – or even identified as – homeless, I was belittling the genuine strife of the ‘real’ homeless people.

So, I soldiered on in a swirl of grief and fear, made worse by refusing myself the freedom to articulate – or even admit to myself – how scared and alone I felt. Because I was scared, and I felt alone. Friends reassured me, ‘you’ll always have somewhere to stay’, but how to explain the shame and the terror of starting the week not knowing where you will be sleeping at the end of it? How could I be confident with my clients, when I was constantly anxious that they would find out my situation and decide I was clearly too feckless to be trusted with their work?

My situation not only triggered a sense of shame at how I had allowed myself to fall into this state of affairs, but it threw all my other failings into sharp relief. If I was more skilled at my job, a more talented writer, a more organised or successful person, I would own my own place by now. If I wasn’t such an unlovable, unfuckable car crash of a woman, I would have a husband, a boyfriend, a partner to share the burden. In short, if I were just better, I wouldn’t be carting my life in a suitcase from one sofa to another.

I was grieving not just my mother, and my friend, but my life. And my grief felt toxic and infectious. I curtailed visits with friends, desperate not to outstay my welcome, keen to maintain the pretence I was a fun guest, not a charity case (not sure how much fun I actually was, mind, since after the third glass of wine I had a tendency to cry). But I also felt like if I hung around with anyone too long I would somehow taint them, and our friendship would never recover.

(My one, spectacular breakdown came in private: or, at least, the strange privacy of the public meltdown. Back from my friend’s funeral, trekking to a flat I had never seen that had been kindly proffered for a week by someone I barely knew, the wheel of my suitcase broke halfway up Herne Hill. And I sat down in the street and bawled my eyes out, utterly convinced that, even if someone had run up and pointed a gun at me, I would have been unable to physically move another step. I have no idea how long I sat there, cradling my laptop bag, sitting on my suitcase, oblivious to the concerned stares and curious mutterings of passers by, until I managed to drag myself up the road to once again go sleep in a bed that wasn’t mine, but it was probably longer than I have allowed myself to remember. ‘By Herne Hill Station I Sat Down and Wept’ doesn’t have quite the same ring to it as Grand Central, but it might well be a chapter title in my autobiography.)

I had set my sights to Brighton, drawn by the idea of the sea and the fact that I had friends there. I foolishly believed it would be simple, not taking into account a fiercely competitive rental market where a flat was often let before I turned up to view it or, on one occasion, while I was still being shown around. I wasn’t in Brighton all the time, not wanting to wear out my friends’ welcome before I even moved into their neighbourhood, so the time I could spend flat-hunting was limited. My freelance status was a hurdle I hadn’t anticipated; agents required a guarantor, which I didn’t have. (‘Can’t you ask your parents?’ one asked, cheerfully, and I had to flee before I cried). Or they wanted six months’ rent in advance, plus deposit, an amount that was impossible, especially as I had no deposit from my last place.

But finally, I got lucky. I found a flat that was just outside my budget but miraculously not rented the minute I looked at it, and affordable at a stretch, even if ‘at a stretch’ meant living on my credit card for a while. By then, not paying London-level rent for five months had allowed me to put aside a deposit, and a small insurance pay out meant I had recouped at least some, if not all, of my mother’s funeral expenses.

It wasn’t a smooth transition, and it brought with it another reminder of my shortcomings. I was 43 years old and had never owned furniture; I had no idea how to buy it, or how long things took to order, so I slept on the living room floor for two weeks, until the sofa bed arrived (the bed took six – six weeks! Who can wait six weeks for a bed?) My house ended up furnished mostly by friends who, serendipitously, were having a remodel of their own place, and generously gifted me their old things. Even now visitors marvel at the fact I have a dining room table, their confusion only clearing when I tell them I got it for free.

The aftermath

Reframed by hindsight, I can see the positive side of the experience. It kicked me – with more force than I would have liked, admittedly – out of the London bubble I had been in and reminded me there are a whole load of ways of living that are Not London, and yet still worthwhile (a lesson it is shamefully easy to forget). It showed me, time and again, the hearts of friends and strangers, while also providing a tough lesson in just who my friends were.

But it changed me in other, less positive ways. It made me more insecure. Despite growing up in a household with precarious finances, I always assumed I would have a roof over my head, and I am now grimly aware of how naive that was. My anxiety, certainly, has a new focus, when any lost contract or slip in perfectionism can trigger a spiral of ‘will I lose my clients, my business, my home?’ I know now it can happen, because it did.

It also put me in the disconcerting position of being a writer without the words to describe my own life. Even now I stumble over saying it, as if I am claiming too much (I wasn’t really homeless. I just didn’t have anywhere to live. For… um, several months.). I still feel a buzz of embarrassment that I somehow let myself go so off track. There’s probably some snobbery in there, too, if I dig deep enough: I am not like those homeless people.

Most of all, it made me angry. Angry that I could live in a city for a decade, working hard and doing, by most standards, quite well, and still couldn’t afford to rent there without reverting to the flatshares of my youth, while all around me I see shiny new buildings springing up with little purpose other than to stand empty and serve as some oligarch’s investment or money laundering scheme. It’s an anger that has only strengthened as I have seen Brighton neighbours forced out of homes they have lived in for years by landlords who want to double the rent or don’t want to fix the roof. When I saw my mum’s community dismantled, long-term residents displaced by the economic pressures of the Bedroom Tax. When I walk back from town and every shop doorway hosts a sleeping bag. Anger that I am living in a flat at the very top of my price range – and way, way out of the range of many – and still have to put duct tape on my windows to cover the holes in the frames that let the wind in.

And maybe the reason I am writing this, five years after the fact, is that I am realising the anger is more important than the shame. Because shame – shame that I failed at a system that was always stacked against me, that I never agreed or aspired to, and that, at its roots, will never value people like me – is debilitating and silencing. Anger is loudness and power. Anger spurs you to speak up: to recognise the struggles of others, the inherent unfairness of the system. Maybe I can’t change anything. But maybe by articulating my own experiences, I can validate the feelings and experiences of someone who can. Maybe that’s nothing. Or maybe it’s a start.

*I managed to extend this to just under a month, through various flimflam and because my mum died on a Bank Holiday (and I paid the rent for the full month), but the reality for many people in council or social housing is they have to clear out in a ridiculously short space of time after a death.

(This piece was first published in 2018 - and the housing situation has only got worse since then, so if you fancy sending some pennies in the way of Shelter or a similar charity, please do!)

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

Remember: everything included is my personal preference / opinion, and while I strive to be accurate, I always advising checking with the relevant venue.

[Image description: flier for Bridesmaid Blues]

Firstly, a huge thank you for all the lovely feedback, comments and messages I got last week, after sharing my story. I do think there’s a usefulness in talking about health, particularly women’s health, and I’m grateful it resonated with so many people.

If you missed it, here it is:

A new bookshop arrived in Newcastle at the weekend. The Sinful Spine in Heaton is a lushly decorated shrine to romance that also offers coffee, cake and cocktails (I think) and is open late several nights a week. My friend and I went to check out the opening on Saturday, but the queues were literally around the block. Neither of us are natural queuers, so we bailed, but apparently the opening was such a success the shop had to close for several days to restock.

I’m actually not much of a romance reader, but my friend is, so we definitely plan to return, but it’s a nice problem to have, a new bookshop being so busy you can’t get through the doors!

We consoled ourselves with a trip to another Heaton bookshop I’ve been dying to try: 1B Books. A much sparser décor but a broader range of books, with particular strengths in LGBTQ+ and a nice mix of fiction and non-fiction (I spent a fortune). The booksellers were friendly and knowledgeable, which is always good, if not necessarily for my wallet (I bought Hunchback on a rec, after we discussed Freakslaw and Geek Love). Heaton Perk next door is a nice place for coffee, too.

Speaking of books…

What I have been reading

I’m definitely getting my reading mojo back, though the downside of that is I want to just sit around reading all day. After all that trekking round Heaton, I was pretty worn-out Sunday so allowed myself to give into that a little.

The aforementioned Hunchback by Saou Ichikawa (translated Polly Barton) is one of those books that really they are a bit cheeky selling as a standalone: it’s not even 100 pages long and the spacing and font are generous, disguising the fact it’s less a novella and more a short story. Still, I am a little bit of a sucker for these kinds of books – they’re so cute! The material itself isn’t, in this provocative tale that challenges attitudes to sexuality, disability, morality and privilege. I can’t say I loved it, but I’m glad I read it.

A lot more fun was Jillian Laine’s historical romp, Henry Tudor Must Die. I think I might have already talked about this retelling of the story of Henry VIII’s wives, with a dash of magic thrown in, but if you can look past the odd Americanism, it’s a good time.

Very squarely embracing its Americana is Grady Hendrix’s My Best Friend’s Exorcism. I bought this because I enjoyed (if not as much as some) The Southern Book Club’s Guide to Slaying Vampires, and also because the cover was designed to look like a video nasty VHS cover and I am a sucker for that sort of 80s nostalgia. It captures the era well, and though again I don’t think I loved it as much as a lot of people did, I enjoyed a story of female friendship and how that can be complicated by class, peer pressure and sex (including sexual trauma).

[Image description: cross-stitch: Be all the beautiful things you can be, and be them without apology]

What I have been watching

On the topic of vampires, the long-awaited sequel to Interview with the Vampire arrived on BBC 2 and iPlayer this week. Rebranded The Vampire Lestat and based on that novel, it focuses on Lestat in his rockstar era.

If I’m honest, I didn’t love it quite as much as the first two seasons. Reid is astonishingly good as Lestat, a role he was born to play, and clearly having the time of his life as Lestat rocks out. The rest of the cast continue to be fantastic, and the mix of high camp and horror is (mostly) effective. But the pacing is uneven, the action occasionally a little too frenetic, and I felt like they rushed through Lestat’s backstory to focus on the present day, with nearly all of the historic flashbacks unsatisfying. (Also: I love her, but WTF was Jennifer Ehrle’s accent?!)

Still, it remains one of the sexiest and most stylish shows on TV, so definitely worth watching.

And if it’s given you a taste for vampire stories, do I have a series you might like…

Laing Gallery

I had friends in town a couple of weeks ago and we went to the current exhibition, the Herbert Smith Freehills Kramer Portrait Award 2025 and Exploring Identity. I’ve always enjoyed the portrait awards, back through all its sponsorship iterations – I used to visit the National Portrait Gallery every year to see it when I was based in London. So it’s great to get a chance to see it outside the capital, in this case loosely linked to an exhibition about how identity is explored via portraiture. The exhibition closes on September 5 so do get a move on to catch it.

[Image description: Hunchback by Saou Ichikawa]

Tish Murtha at the Baltic

Another exhibition I am keen to see is Tish Murtha & Kuba Ryniewicz - Close to Home at the Baltic, which opened in July and (luckily!) runs till next spring. I’ve long been a fan of Murtha’s work, and was disappointed that I just missed an exhibition of it at Tate Britain last time I was in London, so I’m excited that she has come home. (I am unfamiliar with Ryniewicz’s work, so it will be interesting to contrast and compare).

Murtha was a North East photographer who specialised in documenting working class life, particularly around Elswick and Scotswood. If you want to learn more, I highly recommend the documentary Tish, which is on iPlayer.

Fringe coverage to read

I’m still not up to travelling, so won’t be making my usual fleeting jaunt to Ed Fringe, but as well as The Stage’s usual comprehensive coverage - worth reading in particular because it resists the urge to give everything four or five stars, which a lot of Fringe coverage seems to lean towards - I recommend checking out the following Substacks:

Natasha Tripney, who is particularly good on the tensions between Fringe and privilege, and an expert on international work.

Café Europa

A weekly newsletter by Natasha Tripney dedicated to European theatre. You can expect a mix of in-depth reviews and profiles of the artists and companies that excite me, plus other stuff.

By Natasha Tripney

Fergus Morgan’s Crush Bar: as a native Scot, Morgan has the benefit of in-depth knowledge of the scene, so feels less parachuted in than a lot of ‘oh where oh where can I buy vegetables in this [checks notes] international capital city?’ coverage you can sometimes get from London critics.

The Crush Bar

The UK's leading Substack about theatre.

By Fergus Morgan

Exeunt - which not only has a decent spread of coverage, but also features the glorious annual tradition that is La Tripney’s Fringe Poem.

Exeunt

Exeunt's big Edinburgh Festival Fringe preview

It’s August already – and very nearly time for the Edinburgh Fringe. We’ve got a crack team of brilliant critics, new and old, heading up there to bring you loads of reviews and coverage, from sauna parties to interactive Ibsen sequels to the return of Forest Fringe. Before the madness begins, here are the team…

Read more

a month ago · 5 likes · Exeunt

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

[Image description: cover of A Vampire In Edinburgh by Tracey Sinclair]

Remember: everything included is my personal preference / opinion, and while I strive to be accurate, I always advising checking with the relevant venue.

Something a little different this week, and obviously something more personal, so -please be kind. There’s also limit to how many times I could bear to read this to edit it, so apologies in advance for any typos or errors.

Also please bear in mind I was on a lot of medication, so my recall may be hazy!

[Image description: picture of Tracey in a hospital gown and socks, from the waist down]

The body is a complex, multipart machine and that is never more evident than when multiple elements go wrong at the same time. The NHS has many, many strengths – and I’m lucky to have witnessed those first hand – but it is a big, disjointed beast. Having spent a week in hospital with sudden onset heart failure, been diagnosed with a massive fibroid that needs urgent removal to avoid organ damage, and also discovered I have a weird blood condition that increases the risk of heart attacks or strokes (see Part 1), I’m seeing this disconnect in real time.

Over the few weeks after my hospital stay, as my operation is scheduled and planned, I’m frustrated time and again when various teams don’t seem to have any idea what is going on with each other. There is no one who has complete oversight of my health. I have to apologise for snapping at a lovely, well-meaning heart nurse in the pessimistically named Heart Failure Team (really? You guys couldn’t have picked a better denomination?) about the fact that here seems to be no record of key conversations. She has to patiently explain to me that the bulk of my records are on paper, so rely both on them being present and being filled in. Having already spent a lot of time sitting in wheelchairs while orderlies searched high and low for the files I need to accompany to my scans, this does not fill me with optimism.

Still, they are extending every care. I have a High Risk Assessment appointment (seriously, these names!) with the same anaesthetist I had for a minor operation last year, a cool and eloquent woman I would like to be when I grow up. Except it turns out cardiology isn’t convinced that my heart can withstand the operation, and my blood is a more serious issue than I thought.

The treatment for the latter sounds positively medieval: blood drained from my system on the regular for a few weeks to lower my haemoglobin. My friends all make the same jokes about the fact that I write vampire books. Surely there’s a plot in there somewhere! I’m pissed off at the inconvenience of regular hospital trips, until I realise my venesections are happening in the same ward people are getting chemo, which is a fast lesson in ‘there but for the Grace of God.’

(Fun fact: I genuinely thought these were called Venus sections, and was scrabbling my brain for any connection between the Roman goddess and blood, assuming it was some ‘feminine’ connection, until one of my med friends wrote it in a WhatsApp. Sometimes, the answer to a baffling question is that you are dumb.)

Eventually, though, the rescheduled operation comes around. It’s a startlingly short waiting period for the NHS, fast-tracked because of potential organ damage leaving the fibroid untreated can cause, including putting pressure on my heart. I’ve spent the days before stressing over being left with a possible stoma, which I was warned might be an outcome, and the fact that the vertical cut I am getting - from my pubic bone to my breasts, due to the size and placement of the fibroid - means healing takes longer, the scar is worse and there’s more risk of the wound opening. I’m too scared to discuss my fears with anyone, terrified they’ll think I’m overreacting, or worse, I’ll speak them into being. It’s not been fun.

The surgical and anaesthesia team are friendly and professional, telling me I need a spinal anaesthesia as well, warning me I might need a central line so not to be scared if I wake up with one, reminding me they are keeping a bed free in the Critical Care High Dependency Unit free for me, as I might need to spend overnight there. Their calmness is contagious, and I let myself slip under, confident in their care.

I wake up to neon lights and vibration, a roving seasickness I can’t figure out the source of. There’s a weird, heavy feeling between my legs and a crowd of people all around me. Someone nearby is screaming, and there’s a radio playing trashy music overly loud. I am connected to more tubes than I’ve ever seen, my wrists bristling with plastic, tubes in my nostrils, a bloodied tube coming from a bandage in my belly. Most concerningly, there’s the absence of the scar I expected – instead, I have a bandage where I’d have been cut for a Caesarean. Also, I am mortified to notice, my pubic hair has been trimmed or shaved. I vaguely have the offended thought that I could have done that myself in advance if I knew that was needed. Why didn’t they tell me to expect that?

Turns out, there was a lot of things nobody expected. Things didn’t go quite as smoothly as hoped with my operation, and I did indeed wake up in Critical Care. Nobody is going into detail. But nobody is acting like this is just overnight.

When I’m able to speak, I tell them I need to call my family. I know my cousins well enough to know they’ll not only worry, but take it upon themselves to visit. I am literally explaining this when a nurse comes up and says I have visitors, and two of my cousins arrive, having phoned the hospital to find out where I was when the expected post-op text didn’t come through. It’s nice to know that in the midst of all this chaos, some things are predictable.

I have no memory of that visit, only the swirling strangeness. I realise the motion sickness is in part because the bed actually does vibrate, a rolling massage aimed at reducing bedsores. The weight between my legs is a catheter tube, the tube in my belly a wound drain. The multiple thin tubes coming from my hands and arms – some so lightweight I worry constantly I’ll snap them every time I move – are apparently for oxygen and blood pressure and maybe something else: people explain things to me, but I’m too woozy to take it in. The screaming was coming from a fellow patient – I catch sight of him in the bed opposite, and his hands are heavily bandaged. The music is being played because it’s the only thing that seems to calm him. Human distress is the soundtrack of Critical Care, and I once again marvel at those who have chosen this career, who have made it their life’s work to care for those at their lowest points.

There’s a constant stream of people at my bedside, kindly, explaining, though even now I’m not sure how much I took in, whether I got the details correct, whether I hallucinated things in a morphine and migraine haze. The operation was both worse and better than expected: I lost a lot of blood (I have the figure of 2.5 litres in mind, but surely that can’t be right?), and sustained damage to my bladder, hence the catheter. While the ‘thick’ nature of my blood saved me from needing a transfusion, yet another of these weird serendipities I experienced, the fibroid was bigger than expected, so the operation took longer and was more complicated. My uterus is gone, but my cervix remains because the cavity was too flooded with blood and urine to safely remove it, so no dodging my future smear tests, dammit! People tell me the fibroid was the size of a 24-week-old baby, but I have no concept of what that means, happier when they explain it in terms of melons and basketballs.

I feel bad when I’m told two other operations had to be cancelled because mine overran. There’s that guilt again, that fear of making a fuss, but I can’t help thinking of those women who had their relief torn away last minute to accommodate mine. My surgeon cheerfully tells me that despite this, they managed the less invasive operation, hence the different, better scar. I had actually been worried I’d woken up to be told they hadn’t managed it, so this is a relief. I’m less relieved when he tells me this assessment was achieved by having one of the anaesthetists, with her small hands, ‘reach in and have a feel around’. Afterwards, this is another conversation I’m not quite sure actually happened.

I’m bombarded with information, and I can’t quite take all of it in. The complications not just of surgery but of everything else are multiple, and confusing. I’ve gone from having too much haemoglobin to too little, and the blood loss has pitched me into anaemia. I’m told I’m severely nutritionally deficient, since my squished intestines weren’t absorbing my food properly. I’m briefly cheerful when the doctor prescribes me ice cream, only to be disappointed when they discover there’s none to be had. A supplement regime that includes potassium sachets and the biggest vitamin D tablets I’ve ever seen is complemented by frequent bottles of Fortisips, a fortified juice drink. It’s vile, especially since the bottles tend to sit out on my table for hours so are always lukewarm, but then I never normally drink juice, so I can’t tell if that’s just how those things taste.

The staff are kind as they try to accommodate my vegetarianism within the constraints of the NHS catering service, even if I get the sense this dietary choice disappoints my doctor. I can tell that my already plummeted weight is an issue. For a while, I secretly enjoy the idea of being properly thin for the first time in years, but when I take a selfie, I look so frail and old that I don’t send it to anyone. I look like my mam, in hospital towards the end of her days, and it scares me, though the similarity also means I still can’t bear to delete the photo.

My blood pressure is dangerously low, and the main reason I’m in HDU is because the drug delivery machines I’m rigged up to aren’t available anywhere else. The first attempt to reduce this medication results in a crash so dramatic I feel like I’m in a TV show, swarmed by doctors and nurses, a canula inserted in my nostrils then quickly replaced by a mask. It’s simultaneously terrifying and thrilling. I’ve always loved a TV medical drama, and this feels like a behind-the-scenes look at the action.

The second crash is weirdly more scary. An overly blithe nightshift doctor, who annoys me from the start by discussing me as if I’m not there and handling my catheter tube with a casualness that belies the fact it is extending from my crotch, decides my medication levels are overcautious and reduces them, only for my vision to completely white out at 2am, the world suddenly sheathed in lace.

It’s the only time my fear spills into frustration, infuriated by his casual ‘oh, we expected that might happen’. ‘Congratulations, your experiment worked!’ I snap, before yelling at him and his team to leave my cubicle. He leaves, stumbling apologies and clearly shaken, but I’m furious. Hospital is dehumanising enough, without being treated like you are only incidental to your own condition. It’s only minutes later a gentle voiced Scottish nurse comes in – he’s in charge of the ward, maybe? – and apologises and offers to bring the doctor back to do the same. I say it’s fine: I made my point. But it isn’t lost on me that in 2 years of medical care, the only real problems I’ve had have stemmed from being dismissed by posh Southern white men.

Everyone else is lovely, and that helps, because the whole process is an exercise in indignities. I can’t leave my bed for days, which means bed baths, and the only reason I don’t expire from embarrassment is that when I’m being shunted onto a bed board I pretend I’m on TV and have Noah Wyle yelling ‘stat!’ over my head. I feel sticky and sweaty the whole time. The first time a nurse washes my hair, still in bed three days in, I cry with gratitude. Despite my daily clean ups, when I am finally able to have a seated shower in an actual bathroom, the stench of sickness on me is so strong I think I might vomit. I stay under the hot water so long the nurse, sitting behind the curtain, has to ask if I’m OK.

I’m still on a catheter – I’m told the bladder injury means I’ll need to be on it two weeks, including at home. Mercifully the morphine (and, presumably, limited food intake) means I don’t have to use a bedpan, despite being given a constant diet of laxatives. When I finally do use the toilet (a bedside commode, in the middle of the night, so one step up in terms of humiliation from being rolled on and off a bedpan in broad daylight when the ward is full of visitors), it’s so painful I have a panic attack. Some poor nurse has to first lift me off then sit with me until I stop shaking, and I’m in such a bad state I don’t care that he’s a man. There’s lows, then there’s panic attacks over pooping, folks.

[Image description: photo of Tracey in a hospital bed in a courtyard, attached to multiple tubes]

But everywhere, everywhere: kindness. The nurses, a mix of cheerful working-class Geordies and (mostly Filipino) immigrants, are universally a wonder. The care isn’t always perfect, of course. One night when I’m back on a ward an overworked and overwhelmed nurse rigs my nighttime catheter bag incorrectly and I wake up in a room flooded with urine (bye-bye, slippers). But time and again, I am taken aback by moments of gentle thoughtfulness.

The HDU has no windows and nothing but neon lights, so twice during my stay I am wheeled out into a tiny little courtyard so I can actually see daylight, despite the fact that such an exercise needs navigating more equipment than your average Arctic expedition. My vegetarianism remains a frustration for my care, but one of the nurses excitedly tells me she’s discovered the hospital has a vegan menu, and presents it to me like she’s unearthed treasure. Another nurse found out I wrote about theatre and we chatted about what shows her musicals-obsessed teen would like (she was delighted when I told her Six was on tour). Many of the women had had caesareans or fibroids - it’s a common truth that as soon as you discuss any feminine health issue, you discover a vast swathe of your acquaintance has experienced it, part of the reason I’m sharing this. They were intimately familiar with the recovery process I would be facing, and happy to offer sympathy or advice.

Flawed as it undeniably is, the NHS still generally handles crisis well, and the HDU was an example of the system at its best. For the first time, my care felt joined up, like every aspect was being taken into account in my treatment. I don’t see much of my surgeon or my cardiologist – an in-bed echo cardiogram aside, which makes me feel weirdly guilty for dragging them to me rather than being wheeled to them. (There’s that guilt, again!) But there’s a whole team of support, including at least one doctor with whom I have multiple conversations, and both a physio and mental health support that follow me to the ward.

They try to both ease my stay and soften my departure. I’m warned that moving to a ward and then home will be disorienting and even scary. I inwardly scoff at the notion, sure I’ll be delighted to be in a less invasive environment, but they are right. Not having access to constant care after a week of help never being more than a minute away is actually quite anxiety-inducing. It probably doesn’t help that I fall over the minute I get home. Having forgotten my lack of lower body strength, I crouch down to get something from the fridge and topple over, which hurts more than you can imagine. I’m only calmed when my nurse friend assures my frantic WhatsApp messages that I would know if I’d ruptured something.

There’s a lot of frantic WhatsApp messages. Last year when I was briefly in hospital, I didn’t tell anyone. It was a procedure whose details I wasn’t minded to share (hey, remember embarrassment? I’m so beyond that now). Plus, it was day surgery, so I figured I’d be in and out without anyone needing to be told. When I ended up readmitted after a trip to A&E and faced with an excruciating and debilitating recovery period, I was roundly told off for my secrecy, so made up for it this time. I was definitely oversharing; I’m sure lots of my friends didn’t need a play by play of my hospital visits and test results, including a late-night freak out over the cancer scare. But hey, in my defence, hospitals are boring and there’s only so many episodes of The Mentalist I could watch on my phone. (All of them. I watched all of them.)

If the medical staff were professionally kind, my friends and family were personally more so. I’m an independent person and asking for help doesn’t come easily to me. This, combined with a lifelong fear that everyone secretly thinks I am a lazy shirker prone to being a drama queen, made me reluctant to admit how bad things were, until I simply couldn’t hide it. Plus, there’s only so many times people can extend help before you realise acting like they don’t mean it isn’t self-effacing, it’s insulting.

(Even now, I regularly find myself torn between being annoyed if people act like this whole thing was No Big Deal, with wanting to minimise it and pretend it was nothing. I regularly found myself – still find myself – saying I was in HDU, rather than Critical Care, even though they are the same thing, because the latter felt I was laying claim to a false sense of urgency or import.)

But the fact was: I needed help, so I needed to ask for it. There were basic, boring limitations that I simply couldn’t overcome – I wasn’t allowed to pick up shopping or put the bins out. I couldn’t walk very far or sit at my desk (which was a concern since I don’t get sick pay so still needed to work as much as I could, literally, stomach). I needed a huge amount of help. I got it, a dozen times over.

It’s humbling to be on the receiving end of so much kindness. I could write another thousand words on all the generosity, acts both small and large. The thoughtfulness of gestures – whether sending me noise cancelling headphones or post-op support pants or bringing a long phone charger to hospital because I couldn’t stretch to reach the plugs or theatre PRs booking me aisle seats because even when I could go out, I wasn’t sure I could sit through a whole show. Buying groceries or books, stepping in with practical or emotional support. So, so many lifts to hospital appointments. Sending messages or memes or pictures of cute pets. (Because, as stated, hospital is BORING. You cannot possibly send me too many pictures of your cat). Not just from the people I was close to: near-strangers and new friends stepped up in ways I would never have presumed to expect.

It wasn’t everyone. Anyone who has been through any kind of life trauma knows it comes with a period of re-evaluation: of realising some friendships simply aren’t what you thought they were. This isn’t my first rodeo – a period of loss and homelessness a few years back thinned out my address book – but it’s still a bit of a sting to realise some people in your life think one or two ‘let me know if I can do anything’ texts in six months with no follow up is their duty discharged.

It’s also a salutary lesson in how bad we are as a culture in dealing with long-term trauma. There were definitely a sense from some quarters that I got all my goodwill on my first diagnosis, and when everything went tits up the second time, there was no more attention to be spared. I minded that less, if I’m honest, because I think we are all to some extent guilty of that. Life just gets in the way and we let it, and everyone has their own shit going on. How often do we forget that someone is dealing with chronic illness or disability or long-tail grief? If anything, I was grateful for the lesson, because it made me committed to being more careful in how I allocate my own attention, more determined to not simply assume someone was OK because the initial storm had passed.

Gratitude, in fact, has been the overwhelming emotion throughout this whole experience. Fear and anxiety and pain, sure, there was plenty of that. But I live in a country where healthcare is still generally free, and the health service is staffed for the most by those who go over and above to provide care. I’m lucky enough to live close to a big circle of friends and family, something that wasn’t true for much of my life, so have a support network many could only dream of. My work might not have sick pay but it’s more flexible than most jobs and can be done from home in my PJs. (And the good thing at least about being sick is you don’t go out and spend much…)

And mostly – and perhaps most surprisingly – I’m grateful to my body. Like many women*, I’ve long had a complicated relationship with my body, and it’s not always been a happy one. I’ve treated her in ways that did neither of us any favours and then blamed her when things went wrong. And yet, here she still is, still standing. Still miraculous. How can I not be thankful for that?

So, maybe, it isn’t My Body, My Betrayer. It’s My Body, my Best Friend.

*I use this in an inclusive sense. I don’t make any claim to understand how trans women feel about their bodies, but can only imagine it’s equally if not more complicated.

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

Something a little different this week, and obviously something more personal, so -please be kind. There’s also limit to how many times I could bear to read this to edit it, so apologies in advance for any typos or errors.

Also please bear in mind I was on a lot of medication, so my recall may be hazy!

[Image description: Tracey in a hospital bed, outside in a courtyard. - That’s explained in Part 2]

To grow up a woman* is to be, to some extent, always at war with your body. Obviously, this isn’t an original thought. Not if you’ve read a single feminist text. Talked to your friends. Watched the Barbie movie. Lived in the world.

Before we have even established ourselves as private entities, girls are public property, subject to comment and censure. The hormonal hellscape that is puberty and periods. The struggle to avoid or achieve pregnancy, the outcomes that pregnancy brings. No one’s experience is universal, but there’s plenty of common ground, and most of it’s rough terrain. Then you hit your forties – when you are simultaneously expected to be your most confident while entering the age of invisibility – along comes perimenopause and menopause to knock you on your ass.

And knock me on my ass, they did. I’m not the only woman I know whose body and brain went maverick, who walked past a mirror and didn’t recognise who looked back. I’m a writer – I literally get paid for my eloquence – and I struggled to articulate what was happening to me, because words were no longer my friends, dropping out of my head and my vocabulary without warning.

Like many – most – women, I’d spent a lifetime having medical issues diagnosed as moods. And God does menopause come with a raft of new symptoms, most of which are underexplored or ignored. At my GP surgery, you can’t even see an actual doctor about menopause: a nurse is as far as you get. You get so used to dismissing your own body, that it can take you a while to realise when it starts to fail.

In retrospect, there were plenty of symptoms, but they were all too easily explained. Exhaustion, but everybody’s tired. Bloated and fat, but that’s just a slowing metabolism and too much cake. They talk about menopause-belly for a reason. Erratic bleeding, but that’s been my whole adult life, why start worrying about it now?

The problem with not listening to your body is, it eventually starts to shout. And still, you can train yourself to ignore it. I was sick at Christmas, but everyone gets ill around the holidays. Post-pandemic, there’s always a bug going round, and Covid isn’t as done as we want to think it is. I’ve always had poor circulation, so maybe that’s why I look in the mirror and my lips are purple and my chin is the blue-black shadow of a man overdue a shave. I feel only a shade more shit than normal, because I’ve been feeling shit longer than I can remember, and everyone is already bored hearing about menopause.

Except I can’t breathe. I lie down and I think I’m dying, and I sit up, gasping for a breath that’s always just out of reach. I get diagnosed with a chest infection – not by a doctor, because it’s almost impossible to get an appointment with an actual doctor – but by someone whose qualifications I don’t feel up to investigating. When that doesn’t work – when I swell up so much my shoes don’t fit, and a nurse friend firmly tells me over WhatsApp that isn’t OK, no matter my denial – the not-doctor orders blood tests. But nobody other than said nurse friend seems overly concerned, and she’s not here to actually see it so I tell myself she’s being overcautious. (Sidebar: always listen to your nurse friends, people.)

Then the tests come back and suddenly the doctor’s surgery is the one making the appointment, and my GP is making time for me. There’s a conversation with a lot of frightening words: in this frantic stream of terrifying information, I latch onto heart failure. There’s also something else, something about blood, but heart failure is crowding that out of my brain. The GP talks about follow up future appointments at the hospital, except when she turns from her computer screen to me, I’ve gone blue again, and ‘the future’ becomes right now. So, an hour later I’m sitting in a hospital corridor in the same day assessment unit having only stopped off at home to pick up a spare pair of pants, a toothbrush and my phone charger. After an unexpected post-A&E stay in hospital last year, I’ve learned my lessons and I’m prepped for an overnight stay.

It’s late by the time they see me. The department is closed, most of the staff have gone and I’ve been moved from the now eerily quietcorridor to an examination room, one of a handful of stragglers, everyone else now directed to the waiting room at A&E. I’m starving – the department provides sandwiches, a thoughtful touch I didn’t expect, but only meat ones were left by the time I arrived, and in my haste to pack my charger I forgot I would also need food. I’ve had a chest x-ray and a raft of blood tests, and eventually a kindly doctor – almost everyone I encounter, now and later, is kindly – arrives. And there are those words again: heart failure, an enlarged ventricle (maybe?), blood going into the wrong place or not going at all. A virus gone rogue, they think, settling on my heart instead of my throat or my stomach or any of those other places viruses land and are shaken off. Not a heart attack, which might have caused damage that drugs couldn’t manage, so not the worst news.

No: that comes next.

I’m in my own room – score! – and attached to a portable heart monitor with so many cables that I accidentally detach myself every time I go to the bathroom, which is often. Menopause bladder, what can I say? Tumultuous guts, probably age and hormones. The nurses make me toast when I arrive, just before midnight, and I’ve never been more grateful for food in my life. A cardiologist comes to visit next day, and seems unworried, until her hands stray to my belly, and suddenly more tests are required.

[Image description: a hospital table with toast on a plate]

They’re moving me to the cardiology ward, which I’m both pleased and not pleased about. I won’t have my own room, but it’s one step closer to freedom. I want to be home, for all the normal reasons, but also because I have the freelancer’s fear of missing, and thereby losing, work. It’s that I’m scared about most if I’m honest, when I sit through the scans. (You’ll feel like you wet yourself, I’m warned by a friend who has been through similar. I scoff, then spend the time thinking, shit, I wet myself.) My cousin has just left from her visit when they wheel me down to cardiology: only to be met at the door by a nurse frantically shaking her hands. ‘Oh no, we can’t take her. We can’t cope with that here.’

So: that’s not comforting. It’s even less comforting when one of the medics comes in and, looking around as if I’ve hidden her, asks if ‘my friend’ has left. When I say yes, he pauses. ‘Maybe you should call her and get her to come back.’

OK: obviously not good news. He tells me the scans found a mass – a giant mass, he says – in my abdomen. Not menopause belly or bladder after all. The denial I’ve felt for months – far longer than I acknowledge in the moment, so long I’m still struggling to acknowledge it now – cracks. I nod, because what else can I do? They’re moving me to the gynae oncology ward tomorrow. Nobody can do anything tonight.

The way he looks at me makes me feel like I’m failing another test. ‘It really is massive,’ he stresses, as if disconcerted by my composure. He offers to stay, to talk, but I demur. I’ll just have a little cry and go to sleep, I say, and I really am letting him down. He reiterates the size of the mass and disappointedly withdraws, leaving a weird sense of failure in this wake.

I send a few WhatsApps. I do indeed have a little cry. I’m shocked by how well I am taking it, to be honest. I’ve long been an anxious person, able to catastrophise a papercut into a potential amputation, but now push has come to shove I can’t find the energy to fret. I realise with a dull, tear-soaked laugh, it’s Friday 13^th. Decades ago I contrarily decided the date was actually lucky, ever since I’d accidentally booked a flight on that date and decided that if I gave into superstition I’d ruin my trip, so I leaned the opposite way. Unlucky for others, lucky for me, cos I’m not like other people. I’m special!

Guess everyone’s luck runs out.

Except, holy shit, take that, I am special! At least it feels that way, the next day, when hours after a gruelling MRI (I’m mildly claustrophobic, and my back isn’t great, so you can imagine) a female resident tells me that the mass – which is, indeed, living up to its name – is presenting not as cancer, but as a fibroid. A massive, organ crushing fibroid that needs prompt surgery to remove, but a fibroid, nonetheless. It’s not official – there’s more tests, there’s always more tests. But ‘I’d want someone to tell me, in your place’, she says, gently, one of a thousand tiny moments of humanity I am gifted throughout this experience.

‘Not cancer’ is what keeps me afloat through the next week, when they decamp me to the noise and disruption of the cardiology ward. The NHS is wonderful in many, many ways, but it’s rarely so obvious that it’s under-resourced then when you are on a shared ward and the nurses are valiantly trying to care for everyone, juggling pensioners with dementia whose needs are clearly so complex they need more attention than can be spared. A visibly fragile and disoriented elderly lady has a spurt of strength and makes a run for it and falls, triggering a crisis. In the corridor, an old man is yelling abuse, wandering the hallways. The nurses try to calm him. What else can they do? There’s no one else to take him. His constant, misdirected anger is the soundtrack of my stay.

After a week, I am begging my cardiologist to let me leave. I haven’t slept in days, and the lights give me near-constant migraines. My monitor beeps every time it becomes detached, which is often, since I’m attached to the bed now – mobile monitors are a precious resource, so on the main ward it’s all static monitors. But the combination of diuretics and what I now have been informed is the giant fibroid crushing my belly has me constantly in the bathroom, so the beeping is fairly constant. I’d worry about annoying my wardmates, except the woman in the bed opposite tosses and turns in her sleep, detaching her monitors and unleashing a similar storm of beeps.

I have a rash from the stickers used to attach me to the sensors, and showering in a hospital bathroom never leaves you feeling properly clean. Everybody snores. (I would probably snore, if I ever managed more than a light doze). I haven’t eaten a single good meal since I came in, hospital food being exactly as bad as advertised, and delivered at times to suit pensioners, so usually too early for me to eat, anyway.

I am surviving off chocolate (which I feel less guilty about eating, now I can say my belly is not my fault) and cheese sandwiches my friends are buying at the Subway in the hospital food court. My friends and family are superstars, especially those who are no strangers to hospital stays themselves. A friend who has my housekey brings me a bag from home to get me through my unexpectedly lengthy stay, so I spend the week in mismatched PJs using whatever toiletries she could rustle up from my bathroom cabinets. My visitors bring me so many supplies that it’s a mission carting them from my private room to the ward, and one of the nurses tells me off for taking up too much space. I am as spoiled as a person in hospital can be, but I want to go home so much it sticks in my throat, and my voice shakes when I ask him.

I like my cardiologist. He’s a smiling, down to earth Irishman. At least half the staff I encounter are immigrants, and most of the patients aren’t, because nothing lays bare the lie that immigrants are more a drain on the NHS than an asset than being in the midst of it. He shows me my scans, the frankly alarming size of the fibroid, the distortion of my heart, and explains to me I also have a complicated blood condition, found usually in heavy smokers or those who live at high altitudes. There’s a debate over what caused it, and therefore how to treat it. The best outcome is the fibroid, and that removing that would resolve it. The worst, or one of the worst, is that there’s a problem with my bone marrow. I’m rather too casually informed that this was picked up on last year when I had post-op bleeding after another, less serious but more embarrassing operation, and should have been followed up on then. But as is the way with the NHS, it seems to have simply fallen through the cracks.

The gynae team come visit me, and talk me through the operation I need, and the frankly horrific list of possible side effects due to the fibroid’s size and placement. Laparoscopic surgery is impossible: I’ll likely end up cut from pubis to breasts, with a recovery time that runs into months. I might end up with a temporary stoma. My surgeon – another immigrant, saving lives in this city that is a stronghold for Reform – is cheerfully matter of fact, and everything he says just makes me feel worse.

But it’s Friday, and hospitals tend to wind down at weekends. My blood is a later problem, my operation can’t happen until my heart improves, though I’m told it needs to be soon, or my kidneys might be damaged. There are no great immediate options, but also no immediate needs. My cardiologist’s about to go on holiday anyway, so my care would be passed to someone else. The drugs are already causing an improvement. I’m no longer swollen and bloated, for a start, all those toilet trips having at least one advantage. My friend is getting married the following week, and I am desperate to go to the wedding. I’m not above begging to be let out. I’m given a final heart scan, a raft of follow up appointment, a shit load of medication and I’m gone.

I’m lucky, I tell myself. I get to go home. I’m hoping that luck holds out, but it turns out there are still some more surprises.

*I use ‘women’ in an inclusive sense. I don’t make any claim to understand how trans women feel about their bodies, but can only imagine it’s equally if not more complicated.

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

[Image description: a cross-stitch on blood spatter fabric: Here come the gays, here comes the fear]

PSA: The Vampire Lestat lands on iPlayer and BBC Two next week!

Durham Fringe

Durham Fringe is one of those events I always mean to go to, but somehow often miss and regret it, because it always seems to have a really fun programme, and Durham itself is always worth a visit. Running across the first weekend in August (July 29-August 2) it offers a fantastic mix of comedy, performance, music, dance and spoken word events, as well as cabaret and physical theatre.

Two themes seem heavily represented this year. Shakespeare / Shakespeare-adjacent shows abound. These include a 60s-set Merry Wives of Windsor, at least two modern takes on Romeo and Juliet, a Regency-era Twelfth Night and Mabel, which looks at the final moments of Mercutio. If Jane Austen is more your thing (or also your thing), you might enjoy Menstrual Rage Theatre’s Emma: Oops… I did it again, which sees Emma Woodhouse take over the story (with a dash of Britney Spears).

There are also a lot folklore and folk stories or themes, both in music and performance. Olivia Graham’s Legends and Lore offers music and storytelling, while Heroes and Villains by Pen and Stu tells stories of Northumbrian history and Finding Folklore is a night of spoken word and poetry. This doesn’t mean the event is leaning into parochialism: Kópakonan is a story of selkies based on Faroese folklore, while Lament of the Wandering Head by Sun Son Theatre uses Southeast Asian myths to explore migration.

Blind Dating sounds intriguing: a disabled circus duo who offer a circus performance while examining what it’s like to be blind in the current dating landscape. If you like puppets – and I love puppets, I have literally cried at puppet shows before – you should check out Liminal, from Newcastle-based Tatwood Puppets. I am also intrigued by Thao Cao’s What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Funnier (possibly because of my own hospital experiences this year!).

There’s more on offer than I could possibly cover – and I know nothing about comedy so you should definitely check that out as I’m probably missing out some big names – but you can find the website here.

Durham Free Fringe

Running alongside the main Fringe, Durham Free Fringe, now in its second year, seems to be going from strength to strength, offering three times as many acts as last year as well as being hosted in two new venues. The Miners Hall will be the hub for spoken word events, while most of the music acts will be at the Market Tavern – new for this year – and the Holy GrAle.

Modelled after Edinburgh Free Fringe, it’s free for artists to take part and performances are free (though donations are welcomed). Highlights include organiser Chris Neville-Smith’s comedy game show, It’s Not Cluedo, Adam Kelly debuting his new album, and spoken word events by performers including Mwelwa Chilekwa, Pip MacDonald, Keith Ford (winner of Geet Muckle Slam 2026) Tom Priestly, Aaron Wright and Dan Husband.

The event also runs Friday 31st July to Sunday 2nd August, with a music finale on the Sunday. You can find details at the website.

[Image description: Tonight the music seems to loud by Sathnam Sanghera]

What I have been reading

George Michael is one of those artists so ubiquitous it’s easy to forget how much you like him. I remember being shocked by the outpouring of grief at his death on Christmas Day 2016, the unhappy cap on a year that saw the Grim Reaper take a scythe through a raft of celebrity faves, despite how upset I was myself at his passing. (Hey, remember all the jokes about this being the worst year of the century? How things had to get better? Fun times.)

Sathnam Sanghera’s Tonight the Music Seems So Loud: The Meaning of George Michael, while written from the perspective of an admitted long-time fan, is a fascinating and even-handed insight into the man and the myth, including the public perception of him and the legacy he left behind. It’s not a straightforward biography, more a thematic examination of his complicated relationship with (astronomical) fame, his later (and also complicated) status as a queer icon, how his perfectionism was both a strength and a weakness.

Sanghera is an engaging writer, and not above examining his own motives – why was the larger than life Michael so appealing to a shy, straight Sikh boy and why does he still have such a hold on his affections that he’s taken a break from his ‘serious’ history books to write this? It adds a pleasingly personal touch to the book, which I read in 3 sittings and which made me want to dig out my Wham! CDs.

What I have been watching

I continue to be searching out reasons to keep my HBO subscription beyond just The Pitt, so last week watched the well-reviewed 2018 miniseries Sharp Objects. Based on the Gillian Flynn novel, this has all the usual Flynn themes - messed up and messy female protagonist, complex family relationships, sexual disfunction and dark secrets.

Marti Noxon - whose work I was more familiar with through Buffy the Vampire Slayer - creates a sweatily atmospheric small town murder story that rises about the ordinary thanks to tight writing and direction, and stand out performances from a cast led by Amy Adams and Patricia Clarkson (I also discovered where the ‘stop writing that down’ meme comes from - the scene where Adams is taking notes during a funeral.). Plus a perennial fave of mine, Miguel Sandoval, who offers one of the rare notes of warmth in this.

I’d read the novel, so the show didn’t offer anything I wasn’t expecting - even in the novel, I didn’t find the twist as shocking as many people did - but as ever it’s nice to see a female-led series where women are allowed to be complex and difficult.

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

Remember: everything included is my personal preference / opinion, and while I strive to be accurate, I always advising checking with the relevant venue.

[Image description: programme for The Girl on a Train]

The Girl on a Train

The novel The Girl on a Train was one of those books that seemed omnipresent when it came out. Everybody was reading it (including me) so it was perhaps inevitable that it ended up made into not only a film but a play (adapted by Rachel Wagstaff and Duncan Abel).

Now, full disclosure: I didn’t much like the book. I enjoyed, as I always do, that it had a messy, messed up female protagonist, but the actual plot felt fairly predictable. The murder at its core was so obvious I actually spent the whole time waiting for some last-minute twist that never came. For this reason, I skipped the film, but when work necessitated seeing the play, I found it suffered from much the same problem, amplified because it’s much easier to sympathise with someone when you have access to their interiority.

Unfortunately, I felt much the same about The People Theatre’s adaptation. As tends to be the case with the People’s, it looks amazing: Stewart Dives’ striking set is complemented by clever lighting from Will Burn and Emily Jeffrey’s soundscape. The vivid staging is well done, and dramatically engaging.

The cast are generally competent, though neither they nor director Sam Sanford can quite rise above the limitations of the material and emotional nuance is lacking. (Though in fairness, a downside of the People’s is the high production values lead to you forgetting you are seeing an amateur production, so expectations need to be managed accordingly).

Kate Plass is sympathetic if lacking depth as the titular commuter Rachel, whose already chaotic life unravels further when a neighbour (Lauren Urmson) of her husband (Sam Hinton) and his new wife (Ellie-Brooke Adamson) disappears. As Rachel tries to piece together her alcohol-fractured memory, under the scrutiny of an inquisitive policeman (Mark Buckley), new suspects swarm into view, including the victim’s husband (Tom Kelly) and therapist (Callum Mawston).

If you liked the book or the movie, I’d suggest going to see it. If either of those left you cold, this production – no matter how well done – is unlikely to change your mind.

New Season at the People’s Theatre

The People’s has announced its new season, and it’s a typically bold line up. The Christmas offering is once again a panto (Beauty and the Beast) and they again have a relaxed offering available. Other highlights include 2:22: A Ghost Story – which you get to see here minus the gimmick celebrity casting, but also without the high prices that accompany that – the Arthur Miller play A View From the Bridge and Michael Frayn’s classic farce, Noises Off. If you fancy something a bit more contemporary, Morgan Lloyd Malcolm’s psychological thriller The Wasp is perfect.

I’m intrigued by the idea of Picnic at Hanging Rock, best known now for the classic 1975 Peter Weir film and, history nerd that I am, the Plantagenet story The Lion in Winter. Next year offers The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, so if you can’t get up to Glasgow to see it at the Citizens, you can hopefully get to see it here, and the famous Agatha Christie crime classic Murder on the Nile.

This year’s People’s Play Award competition is also now open, with a September closing date, so if you have a play in your pocket you think they might like, why not enter?

Live Unearthed

I didn’t get to see as much as I would have liked in the Live Unearthed Festival, in part because if I’m honest, I still find walking up and down that hill a bit of a struggle – turns out if you get your insides scooped out it plays havoc with your core strength. But what I did see I enjoyed, and would be keen to see more of.

I talked last week about Rachel Stockdale’s Mother?, which kicked off the Festival and was the most developed of the pieces I saw. The others were all rehearsed readings.

Juliet’s Confession: A Draft of Immortality by Volodymr Pitero saw Bridget Marumo put a fresh slant on Shakespeare’s character, tackling how we romanticise a teenager’s death, and making some attempt to reclaim her autonomy. Marumo is always a pleasing performer, and handled this solo show well.

Reverb by Maya Torres and Rosie Bowden is the second iteration of a musical, an early version of which I saw at Alphabetti. With the new cast including one of my faves, Becky Clayburn, I felt this was a much stronger version, so I look forward to seeing how it progresses.

The splendidly named Mam, Me, Mia by Chess Tomlinson was a fun (and often very funny) look at sex, sexuality and dating across generations, and though bits of it needed a polish (the Mia character, in particular, occasionally felt like a walking Tumblr post) I did love seeing such a female-centred story. The performances (by Tomlinson, Jess Johnson and Lucy Eve Mann) were great even as a rehearsed reading, and I would definitely be keen to see a fully worked out version.

[Image description: Aphrodisia by Dr Jean Menzies]

What I have been reading

As already well established, I’m a bit of a history nerd, and I particularly enjoy history with a feminist slant. So no surprise that I am enjoying Jean Menzies’ Aphrodisia: Women, Sex and Pleasure in the Classical World. The dedication – to Menzies’ first vibrator – sets the tone, which is a shame-free reclamation of women’s sexual stories, mined from classical sources.

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

Remember: everything included is my personal preference / opinion, and while I strive to be accurate, I always advising checking with the relevant venue.

Books on writing

Now, I must admit I have long had a Bridget Jonesian level of fascination for self-help books. I read them like other people devour thrillers or romances – for a dose of pure escapism. It doesn’t matter if they are not remotely relevant to my life, and sometimes, the more bonkers they are, they more I enjoy them (I have, despite being long-term single and uninterested in changing that, read both The Surrendered Wife – yup, yikes – and The Rules for Married Woman, which has a frankly insane level of suggestions, down to how many coats of mascara a married woman should wear.) (The picture below is me reading said book on my friend’s hen weekend – someone bought her it as a joke gift. Yes, this is precisely how much fun I am on a hen night.)

[Image description: Tracey with pink satin devil horns on, engrossed in a book]

There’s a lot to be sceptical of in the self-help section. Many books offer an unedifying mix of American syrupiness, white exceptionalism, over-fondness of religion (hey, you do you, but I personally find all this God stuff off-putting) and infuriating Western smugness (for instance, best to avoid such books when they try to explain the existence of poverty, illness and equality in the world, since even the best of them tend to spout guff about ‘soul choices’ instead of, I dunno, recognising the results of decades / centuries of political and economic exploitation, or even just bad luck.) There’s also a tendency in books about writing by men to assume it’s viable for everyone to devote themselves to their ‘craft’, mostly because they have a wife in the background handling the laundry. (Or, in the case of some very famous writing books, conveniently ignoring the fact that their impressive productivity was for a long time powered by a shit ton of drugs. IYKYK…)

But not all self-help books are terrible, and through years and years of searching (you’re welcome!) I have found some that I think are genuinely useful, or at least a useful prompt if you are struggling with your creativity.

We Need Your Art – Amie McNee

I started following McNee’s Instagram, Inspired to Write, and admit I find it inspiring and irritating in equal measure. Heavily populated with Insta-friendly slogans, which are replicated the book, it is all about the need for art in today’s world and why creativity is important. It is a bit heavy on the ‘creative people are special snowflakes’ mentality (and uses - or has used - the phrase ‘Muggle jobs’, which I find offensive for a whole range of reasons, and never ceases to give me a full-body cringe.) But, but… it also actually has some solid advice, and can at its best feel like a friend jollying you on.

I particularly found her idea of writing maximum not minimum amounts helpful (an idea Julia Cameron also embraces in some of her books), getting me through a particular dry patch when writing anything felt impossible. I’d recommend checking out the Instagram account for a free taster, and if you vibe with her style, try the book.

Embrace Your Weird – Felicia Day

I’m a big fan of Day through her TV appearances, and this book trades heavily on her geeky / nerdy persona, so her fanbase will love it. But it also has a wider appeal. Through a series of light-hearted exercises, she guides you through the barriers to embracing your difference, being creative and working past the fears that hold you back. Best read in hard copy because it encourages you to write, draw and doodle in the book, creating your own personal creativity journal.

Big Magic – Elizabeth Gilbert

I was super sceptical about Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear as I previously had an aversion to Gilbert, admittedly based less on having read any of her books (which I hadn’t) but mostly on the aforementioned Western smugness that seemed inherent in the very idea of Eat, Pray, Love. (Which I still haven’t read, so can’t comment on whether those criticisms are true - though it was interesting reading Gilbert’s perspective on becoming a phenomenon, and I did very much enjoy her New York novel City of Girls, because she is actually a very good writer).

But I read a few extracts of Big Magic online, and something just clicked with me, so I bought it – and I’m glad I did. I’ve read it several times now, and passed on my copies to friends with eager hands. It’s not going to give you any advice on the structure and process of storytelling or how to write a bestseller, but it’s excellent on getting out of your own way, and creating an internal atmosphere where creativity can flourish – and why you don’t need that expensive writing course.

Art and Soul, Reloaded – Pam Grout

Grout is another one of those authors I find engaging and annoying in equal measure. A big believer in both the Law of Attraction and A Course in Miracles, this means her focus on the positive to the exclusion of all else can seem blithely complacent in a world on fire. But if you can ignore that side of her work - and I recognise that might be a big if - she’s actually a very likable writer. The lengthily titled Art & Soul, Reloaded: A Yearlong Apprenticeship for Summoning the Muses and Reclaiming Your Bold, Audacious Creative Side, while occasionally a little silly in its suggestions (I won’t be going out in fancy dress or hugging a stranger anytime soon), is very good at identifying the ways we sabotage our own creative potential, and how to get around them.

The Artist’s Way – Julia Cameron

Probably the grandmother of books on creativity – and with a slew of other related titles, if you are interested – The Artist’s Way: A Course in Discovering and Recovering Your Creative Self is a course of weekly lessons focused on unleashing your inner artist. I have done this several times, and though I find some of the lessons not to my taste, there’s a lot to be gleaned even if you don’t manage the whole thing. I know some people are reticent about tackling this – Cameron talks about God a lot, and, as a former alcoholic and AA member, she leans heavily into that kind of self-help language, especially in her later books (which, as they are focused on the minutiae of her laid-back and privileged life, I actually found pretty dull.).

Some of the exercises might not work for you – the morning pages, which can seem like a hassle if you are not a morning person, and the non-reading week, which is difficult-to-impossible for those of us with actual jobs. But what I will say is that, even done imperfectly, this course has a lot to offer and I’ve never failed to have some kind of breakthrough when doing it. (Also journaling – at any time of day – is one of those things that I was reluctant about then annoyed to find people were right about how helpful it is. As well as being a good excuse to use nice notebooks, since Cameron is very strong on handwriting things, a stance I agree with!) I also recommend The Right to Write, which has shorter chapters and more exercises, focused on writing rather than wider creative pursuits.

[Image description: We Need Your Art by Aimee McNee]

The Gifts of Imperfection – Brene Brown

Again, Brown is very American, and shares with all the above books a sort of sentimentality and over-sincerity that can seem alien to British sensibilities. But there’s a reason she’s as well-known as she is, and this is a great read if you are finding your creativity stalled by imposter syndrome, perfectionism or procrastination.

A Year of Creative Thinking – Jessica Swale

Full disclosure: I have only dipped into this book in Waterstones, but I’m including it because I like Swale as a writer – she is, among other things, a respected playwright – and it’s pretty, which sounds shallow but I actually think is an important factor if you are seeking books to boost your creativity. It’s good to be reminded of the tactile pleasures of a well-designed and produced book, an item of art in its own right. A collection of daily prompts, exercises and ideas aimed at unlocking your creativity in small increments, this is perfect to dip into with no pressure.

Wintering – Katherine May

In some ways this is a book on not being creative – on how to cope when the creative urge stalls or even vanishes. Published in 2020, this is one of those things that hit the zeitgeist, since most of us were in some kind of enforced stasis, whether creative or not, so a book about the fact that some kind of retreat or fallow period is necessary and natural was seized by a grateful audience. Its popularity is therefore unsurprising, but also not undeserved, and I recommend it particularly if you are going through a stuck period and feeling bad about it.

Creativity on Substack

Substack is packed with newsletters on the site, some paid and some free (Katherine May has one) so it’s worth having a browse to see if there are any that inspire you. One I’d recommend if you enjoy a spiritually / nature-infused approach to writing is my friend Shimrit’s newsletter, And So We Dance.

and so, we dance

Poetry, reflections and words exploring... What stories want to be told? How do we fall in love with a dying world? What lives in the cracks between?

By Shimrit Janes

[Note: some of this is taken from an earlier blog post, mainly because I needed the memory prompt…]

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

Remember: everything included is my personal preference / opinion, and while I strive to be accurate, I always advising checking with the relevant venue.

This week is pretty full on for me: lots of shows lined up. On Monday I was at The Stand - a venue I always like but don’t go to as often as I would like, to see Hannah Walker’s An Evening with Savvy B, a funny, personable and engaging show about who we become when we drink, and the alter egos we create to survive. (Walker also passes out glasses of wine throughout the show, which I actually think slows it down a little, but since I scored a free glass of New Zealand white out of it I’m not complaining…)

[Image description: flier for An Evening with Savvy B]

Mother? at Live

Yesterday marked the kick off of Live’s Unearthed Festival, which runs until 11 July. Rachel Stockdale’s Mother? was the opening show, having already been performed at ARC Stockton, where it was developed.

Directed by Tracy Gillman and written and performed by Stockdale, this is based on a hundred or so interviews with mams, mums and primary caregivers (mostly, but not exclusively, women). It tackles motherhood in all its many forms, and the often-uneasy journey to having children (or not).

Emerging from a ball pit / birthing pool on a stage filled with toys, Stockdale is an empathetic, sometimes frantic figure, delivering a mix of personal anecdotes, quotes from parents and insight into her own life and family circumstances, the ambivalence about motherhood that kickstarted the project. Some of the participants’ comments are acted out by her, some relayed via recordings that she reacts to; sometimes she is directly addressing the audience, editorialising the content with her own views.

It’s a deeply humane show, recognising that while the challenges parental figures face may vary – there are some heartbreaking moments and some infuriating, as the show addresses the reality of dealing with children damaged by neglect, or navigating medical indifference or dismissal – but at their root, all mothers are connected. Even the school-gates stereotypes it’s so easy to dismiss – the posh mum with the nanny, the ‘slob’, the helicopter parent.

It strikes a good balance between humour and outrage – it’s often very funny, while quietly furious about how motherhood and caregiving is undervalued by society, how working class women are so often dismissed, how pregnancy and childbirth are too often dangerously compromised by dated medical attitudes. Stockdale has great comic timing, but she also handles darker topics well.

I enjoyed Stockdale’s previous work, Fat Chance, but I think there’s always a question over what happens next when an artist’s standout piece feels so personal: once they’ve mined your own life for material, do they actually have anything else to say? By broadening her scope, Stockdale shows she’s not just a storyteller for her own stories, but can deftly shine a light on other people’s.

[Image description: poster for Mother?]

I spoke to Stockdale after the show about her plans for Mother? and she’s hoping at some stage to tour, so if it comes near you, I recommend checking it out.

NOTE: If you do go see it, be sure to check the content warnings on the relevant website / with the venue beforehand, as not only does it deal with some emotive topics, it uses flashing and strobe lighting.

Live Unearthed

The rest of the Festival has some great stuff to investigate. A highlight I have already mentioned is Reverb, a rehearsed reading of a musical by Rosie Bowden and Maya Torres which promises to be a fun night out. I saw an early version of this, and it was charming and fun.

Another piece I am excited about is Mam, Me, Mia, which is written by the multi-talented Chess Tomlinson (a runner up in the recent North East Playwriting awards) and directed by Karen Traynor, who recently directed Live’s big show Astell & Woolf. Tomlinson also stars, alongside Jess Johnson and Lucy Eve Mann. A play about love, loss and family, this story of three generations of a family and the complexity of mother-daughter relationships, this sounds very much up my street!

I also like the sound of The Awakening, which is presented by ‘the feminist cult agenda’ and is a new show by Nicola Mantalios and Kerris Gibson. It’s on this Friday.

A Play for Breakfast offers a chance to read and discuss a play over free coffee and pastries: 1536 by Ava Pickett has had stellar reviews (and deals with a topic I am fascinated by, Anne Boleyn). Alas I am not a morning person so would not want to inflict my start-of-day presence on strangers, but you should all totally go. There are more of these lined up so check the Live website for details.

Beth Mullen’s Ulcers deals with the tricky topic of the impact of a child’s serious illness on their parents: this is a dramatic reading starring Chris Connell and Christina Berriman Dawson. Volodymr Pirerov’s Juliet’s Confession: A Draft of Immortality looks at Juliet’s side of the Romeo & Juliet story, performed by the talented Bridget Marumo.

There’s also a Scratch Night and a cabaret (Lasses & The Girlie Show, curated by the booked and busy Bowden and Hendrika Seguro-Bigg). The festival closes out with a double bill of Geet Northern’s Medieval Babes and a collaboration piece, What Adult Am I?

Tickets are mostly priced around £10 with concessions available (pro-tip: Live’s website is super annoying and shows its ‘with donation’ options first so it’s easy to end up ticking the wrong box and thinking things are pricier than they are. Click carefully and you can bag a bargain!)

You can read more about the festival here:

Two to book for July

On the topic of ARC Stockton and plays about families, I really like the sound of Let’s Love, Seemia Theatre’s piece centred on three love stories and celebrating Stockton’s diversity. There are small snacks and Persian tea on offer and it’s pay what you feel, so do get along if you can!

Over at the Theatre Royal, Project A (the theatre’s acting programme for young people aged 18-25) is bringing Laura Wade’s Posh to its studio. This look at privilege and class remains tragically relevant, and the tickets are way cheaper than normal Theatre Royal prices (it’s selling fast, too, so get going!)

Exciting new debut novel

I’m still reading the books I mentioned last week (that Phillipa Gregory is massive, cut me a break, it’s gonna take a while…), though that does mean I am doubling down on my rec for Jane Flett’s Freakslaw, which I am really enjoying.

So instead I am reccing a book that just got published: Lauren Mooney’s debut novel, Service. Mooney is a writer, dramaturg and theatre-maker best-known for her work co-running Kandinsky Theatre Company and her writing for Big Finish, for whom she and husband (Stewart Pringle, whose play The Bounds is a fave of mine – bloody power couples being annoyingly talented, eh?) write Torchwood and Doctor Who audio stories.

I know Mooney a little, and have always found her admirably eloquent and clear-eyed about privilege and poverty (she’s written before for publications like Exeunt on the arts and working class creatives) so this ‘workplace novel meets haunted house tale’ is definitely high on my summer reading list.

RSC new programme - including Newcastle!

Speaking of Stewart Pringle, his new play Brock’s Mill is part of the RSC’s new programme. Directed by Rufus Norris, this is billed as ‘a eulogy to the craft of stop-motion animation, it delicately examines nostalgia and the fragile truth of memory’. I love Pringle’s work so would say this is very worth it if you can travel.

If you can’t, all is not lost. The RSC has a long and distinguished relationship with Newcastle - I saw many of my first Shakespeares at the Theatre Royal as part of RSC tours, including shows featuring big names like Ian McKellen, Mark Rylance and Derek Jacobi. As part of a major four-year touring programme, Blanche McIntyre’s acclaimed production of Merry Wives of Windsor is coming here, so keep an eye out. I like McIntyre as a director - she has a pleasing lightness of touch - so I am definitely going to try and catch this when it goes on sale.

[Image description: Dark Dates book with a What We Do in the Shadows mug: Leave me to do my dark bidding on the internet].

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

Remember: everything included is my personal preference / opinion, and while I strive to be accurate, I always advising checking with the relevant venue.

[Image description: a programme open to Operation Mincemeat and a glass of prosecco]

My theatre diary

This week I finally got to see Operation Mincemeat, which, after winning widespread praise in London and New York, is on a national tour. I actually booked these tickets last year, convinced it would sell out, which is a bit of unusual advance organisation for me, so thank you, Past Me.

The verdict? I liked it. It was cleverly and energetically staged, great to look at (particularly in the second half) and an awful lot of fun. There were also some genuinely moving moments (I admit I had a tear in my eye more than once). I have been informed by a friend who is cleverer than me that the show plays a bit fast and loose with the actual facts and chronology, but since I haven’t even seen the film and my Second World War knowledge is patchy at best, all that happily sailed over my head. (Though if you want to do a deep dive into it, the film and the success of the musical have revitalised interest in the real life events, particularly in the role played by Hester Legatt - see the book Finding Hester if you want to read more.)

While I admit I remain baffled as to why so many people seem quite so obsessed with the musical – I can count among my circle multiple friends and acquaintances who have paid to see it at least twice, though possibly that is just proof that all my friends have more money than I do – I would recommend catching it if you can.

Speaking of musicals that have passionate repeat viewing fandoms, the Hadestown tour tickets are on sale now for multiple venues on the tour, so get booking if you don’t want to miss out. My friend has Theatre Royal membership so we got Priority booking but general tickets go on sale soon.

Tickets on sale now

If watching Tip Toe got you in the mood for more Russell T Davies, you might want to book Rambert’s new dance work based on his hit series It’s A Sin, which also comes to the Theatre Royal next year. (Again, this is just priority booking at the time of writing).

This weekend The Newcastle Jazz Festival comes to Live, with a range of performances across the main stage and studio space, and artists including Laura Jurd, Rory Ingham, Alexia Gardner and Clarke Tracey.

The BBC Proms comes to Gateshead in July, with a range of events at the Glasshouse, with a mix of classical and contemporary music (including Nadine Shah) lined up.

Having sold out a number of events at Live, Jimmy Nail is doing Stories and Songs at the Glasshouse this autumn. At the minute this is also looking sold out, but they already added one extra date so worth keeping an eye out.

I am notoriously bad for booking miles ahead, which means I miss out on a lot of stuff that sells out (though the Mincemeat and Hadestown tickets are showing I am trying to get better, mostly to be fair because one of my friends books ahead for her and her daughter and I benefit from her foresight). But another show that’s likely to sell out is the Trainspotting musical, which comes to Sunderland in 2027.

What I have been watching

I was excited to discover Canadian sci-fi show Killjoys is now on Prime. There’s so much to love about this show, which ran for 5 seasons (and has a very satisfying ending). It manages a tricky balancing act of being cheap and camp while also offering a compelling and clever Battlestar Galactica type oppression / rebellion story arc, a bonkers plotline about - I kid you not – semi-sentient alien green goo, and caper of the week style adventures. Featuring a diverse cast (including a badass female lead, the excellent Hannah John-Kamen), multiple queer relationships, and my personal fave Luke Macfarlane (who has never been hotter), it’s a really fun watch.

It also introduced me to the work of performer Viktoria Modesta, a model-actress-singer who incorporates her bespoke, gorgeously stylised prosthesis into her work (including, I believe, her role in this show). Search out the excellent, hyper-styled video for Prototype, which was produced as part of Channel 4’s Born Risky campaign to challenge attitudes towards disability - you can find it on YouTube).

Of course, this weekend I shall be bingeing the final season of The Bear, which lands on Disney today.

[Image description: Freakslaw by Jane Flett]

What I have been reading

History nerd that I am, I am very much enjoying Phillipa Gregory’s massive tome, Normal Women: 900 Years of Making History. An examination of how women lived, worked and loved against a backdrop of social and political change, it’s genuinely fascinating, particularly in exposing how many things we accept as ‘normal’ or inevitable were the result of deliberate strategies to control women and the working class, even if I have to keep putting it down because it’s so heavy.

A book I have just started but am enjoying is Freakslaw, by Jane Flett. This novel about a carnival of outsiders setting up camp in a rundown Scottish town so far definitely feels more Geek Love than The Night Circus and that’s a good thing for me – I enjoyed The Night Circus but Geek Love is one of my favourite ever books.

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

Remember: everything included is my personal preference / opinion, and while I strive to be accurate, I always advising checking with the relevant venue.

[Image description: exterior of Clayport Library building, with a sign that says Only you can write the next page]

My theatre diary

I have a busy couple of weeks with some great shows lined up. I’m excited to see Operation Mincemeat at the Theatre Royal, not least because I have heard such mixed things about it. I know more than one person who is obsessed with the show, and who have seen it multiple times in London (and even New York), but equally everyone I know who has seen the touring version has been a bit less enthusiastic. Obviously, having not seen the London version or the original cast, I can’t compare the two, but I’m keen to see what all the fuss is about. It’s at the Theatre Royal next week.

Speaking of popular, Live has added extra performances for the Christopher Ecclestone solo show The Name of That Song this weekend. Directed by Live AD Jack McNamara, this Peter ‘Our Friends in the North’ Flannery monologue is sure to be compelling.

June / July highlights

There are some great things to check out in late June / July. Tim Benzie brings his fantastic, feelgood show Solve-Along-A-Murder She Wrote to the Tyne Theatre at the start of the month. This has become an annual outing for me and my friends, and I’ve honestly recommended it to a zillion people, all of whom have found it to be a delight. If you can’t catch it in Newcastle, it’s almost constantly on tour, including Ed Fringe – you won’t regret it. Benzie changes up the episodes regularly – you can check the website for tour dates and which episode is being shown at each venue.

Pro-tip: after the show, Benzie can usually be found next door in Tilley’s bar chatting to fans, and he’s lovely.

There’s some really good stuff coming up at Northern Stage this year – unfortunately the Daniel Kitson show is already returns only, and I would get booking fast if you fancy An Evening Without Kate Bush, as that has sold out every previous time.

July highlights include An Evening with Nikesh Shukla, celebrating 10 years of The Good Immigrant. A mix of reading and conversation, this sounds like a great event.

Over at Live, The Unearthed Festival takes place over the first two weekends in July. A mix of performances, talks and masterclasses, according to the website this offers “a showcase of new talent with a feminist slant, celebrating female, non-binary and trans performances”.

One thing I am very excited about – which I actually can’t tell from the website is part of the festival, but am assuming so, is Reverb. A rehearsed reading of a new musical by the multi-talented Rosie Bowden and Maya Torres, this is a piece I got a glimpse of at an early WIP performance at Alphabetti a while back. I enjoyed it a lot, although it felt very much like a young person’s take on queerness, for good or ill, disconnected from any wider sense of even recent social history (and the fact that many choirs actually skew older). I’ll be keen to see if it addresses that omission or consciously leans into the youth aspect in a more finished version, as I think either approach has the potential to be interesting if done with thought.

The cast for this story of community and a queer choir facing challenges includes not only the honey-voiced Torres but one of my perennial faves, the always watchable Becky Clayburn, fresh off a triumphant farewell run of Gerry & Sewell at the Theatre Royal.

Tickets are pretty cheap – a tenner for a standard ticket, with concessions available – so it’s definitely worth checking out.

Speaking both of Live and artists I like, Rachel Stockdale brings her show Mother? to Live this month. Featuring stories from North East mams and primary caregivers, this was developed in association with ARC Stockton, where it has already played to good feedback. I enjoyed Stockdale’s Fat Chance – which I saw both an early version of at Live and a post-Fringe version of at Northern Stage – so am keen to see her latest work.

Over at ARC Stockton, as part of Refugee Week, they are staging Aisha Zia’s The Table, in a version directed by Alex Ferris. Each production of this piece is different, put together by the performance company, and based on years of research with refugee, asylum seeker and migrant communities.

ARC Stockton New Season

Speaking of ARC, it just announced its autumn / winter season and it’s packed with goodies, including some of my favourites.

I’ve seen a couple of pieces by ARC associate artist Umar Butt and enjoyed both of them, so am hoping to catch Jolt!, billed as ‘a powerful semi-autobiographical exploration of systemic unrest, boarders and the enduring strength of the human spirit spanning nearly 80 years.’

Another highlight is Little Cog’s World on Fire, which has been co-created and performed by Stockton residents. The website says “this ambitious new production will demonstrate what happens when a town comes together to face global challenges through local strength.”

If you missed James Rowland’s lovely piece Team Viking at Live (on tonight, I think!), it’s coming to ARC later this year.

One show that sounds very much up my street is How Soon is Now?, an indie musical set in Manchester the late nineties as three girls face up to their future.

ARC shows are generally pay what you feel, too, so offer a bargain.

Also the one thing that stops me going to ARC as much as I’d like is it’s a nightmare to get back from if you don’t drive, so if anyone has any tips on nice-but-cheap hotels where I can do an overnight, let me know. I wanna see more shows there!

[Image description: interior of Lui’s restaurant, with purple lighting and a neon sign that says Get Loose at Lui’s]

Eating and drinking

On Saturday I was honoured to be asked to do a mini-class with a cohort of New Writing North students in Durham, chatting about reviewing. It was a delight to engage with a bunch of interesting, engaged young people and made me think I’d actually like to do this more!

This also gave me a great chance to have a wander around the city, which I don’t spend enough time in considering it’s 15 minutes away on the train. (Though again this is in part due to how ridiculous our public transport network is: try to buy a ticket from a machine and you are faced with an almost baffling array of choices at wildly varying prices, so unless I book a specific train in advance I spend the entire journey panicking I’m gonna be fined for having the wrong ticket!)

I checked out the newly opened Mother Mercy, as the chain continues to expand. I suspect its opening popularity took the venue slightly by surprise: I went mid-afternoon and it was rammed. While it offers table service, I was sat there unserved for way longer than you would hope, although the nice-but-harried waitress apologised for the delay. I generally like all of the Mercy chain (my friends and I had a lovely time at the Newcastle Mother Mercy last week, where the service was delightful, and while Café Mercy can also get rammed, they usually handle it well.) So, I’m sure this was just teething problems, and look forward to a return visit.

I had another friend in town this week, and we went for dinner at Lui’s on the Quayside, which I haven’t been to since it changed from its previous incarnation (the name of which I forget, sorry). It offers a good range of Italian dishes, including loads of gluten-free options, although the vegetarian offerings could be better (that said, I very much enjoyed the beetroot carpaccio to start). The service was friendly and it’s a nice, spacious venue, with a great location, so worth checking out.

[Image description: Emily Wilson’s book Crossing the Wine Dark Sea]

What I have been reading

Having just finished Pat Barker’s excellent Troy-themed Silence of the Girls, I was happy to spend my Waterstones points on Emily Wilson’s Crossing the Wine Dark Sea: Journeys Through Ancient Literature. Wilson is most famous for her translations of The Odyssey and the Iliad, which are probably worth reading if for no other reason than so many men got annoyed about them.

Translation is a topic that always interests me, since I used to work at a company that specialised in subtitling foreign films in translation, so I spent a lot of time working with translators and considering the best approach to take to the material. So this book, which discusses the challenges of translating classical texts, is a nerdy joy for me.

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

Remember: everything included is my personal preference / opinion, and while I strive to be accurate, I always advising checking with the relevant venue.

Hello, and welcome to my Substack. Remember if you want to support my writing, you can do so by becoming a paid subscriber, buying me a one-off Ko-fi or buying one of my books. Or all of my books. Even the smallest amount helps, especially as I have been off work for some time now… (Plus, y’know, I love the ego boost…)

My theatre week - revisiting an old fave

Last night I was at the gala performance of Gerry & Sewell, which returns to the Theatre Royal this week for one last outing. It’s a different iteration again from the version last at the theatre, though alas I wasn’t able to get to London to see it in the West End earlier this year (those tricky health issues!) so I can’t comment on how it compares to that.

It was a fun, raucous night out, with the guests and press enjoying an interval / post-show spread of Greggs’ pasties and doughnuts, with the afterparty taking place in the Theatre Royal’s gorgeous new restaurant / bar space, The Green Room. I took a friend who hadn’t seen the show before, so was relieved she enjoyed it (even more so that her sister and nieces and nephews, who’d bought tickets on her recommendation - based on my recommendation - had loved it when they saw it earlier in the week. My reputation as an arbiter of taste remains intact!).

But honestly, even if you don’t love it - and I do know people who preferred the small-scale fringe show - it’s always a good thing to see working class voices in a fancy theatre, and be reminded that they belong there as much as anyone else.

So, in honour of that, I’m resharing a piece I wrote on my blog last time it was at the Theatre Royal…

[Image description: The Theatre Royal facade adorned with Gerry & Sewell / NUFC flags]

[Fun random interaction: when we were in the bar, seated by the window, a man wandered up to us, looked wistfully at these banners and said, I wonder if when they are done, they’d let me have one if I asked. Then shook his head sadly and went, nah, the wife would go mad, and wandered off before we could respond…]

[Note also: the essay below was obviously written before Laurels shuttered - temporarily? - so is dated in places. While the core cast remain the same, the new production has some changes, including the addition of another of my faves, David Nellist, who was so good recently in I, Daniel Blake].

Gerry & Sewell - a journey

It’s April 2022 and I’m on a Metro to Whitley Bay see a play at a little theatre I know nothing about, more excited if I am honest about the excuse to see the coast than I am to sit through a show about football.

Having lived on the seafront at Brighton for five years, I miss the sea like you wouldn’t believe, so am grateful for any chance to be by the water – but while I was interested to check out a new venue, I can’t say the idea of the play Gerry & Sewell itself particularly enticed me. I liked the film Purely Belter fine (based on the same source material, Jonathan Tulloch’s novel The Season Ticket), but my interest in football stories is limited and my love of Newcastle United was soured in the Joey Barton era and never really recovered.

Still, it’s always a thrill and a privilege to review local stuff for The Stage, since I believe it’s important to spotlight theatre outside of London, and to draw attention to the wealth of talent and new writing my region has to offer. Worst case scenario, I sit through a boring show. Well, had I known then what I know now, at least that wouldn’t be one of my fears. Because I’ve since learned that the one thing Laurels doesn’t do is ‘boring’.

In the end, this first iteration of Gerry & Sewell pretty much blew me away. I expected it to be a laddish story of football stuffed with crude jokes – and, don’t get me wrong, on some level it is a laddish story about football stuffed with crude jokes. But it was also a lot more than that. The design, for a start, was more ambitious than I recall seeing in a fringe theatre, the set so complex and layered it almost rendered the production immersive. Writer and director (and Laurels AD) Jamie Eastlake’s storytelling was funny and humane, and not as macho as I had feared – the female characters felt real and rounded, fleshed out to an extraordinary degree by a sinuous and protean Becky Clayburn, who was unknown to me at the time but has since become one of my favourite performers.

In my 4-star review for The Stage I called it a bold statement of intent for a new theatre, and I was right. Laurels has since proven itself since to be an ambitious venue, willing to stage offbeat and difficult stories. Not perfect, by any means, but a valuable addition to the region’s new writing scene. Where else are we going to get a story about right-wing radicalisation featuring an insane monkey puppet or domestic violence against men based on the human characters in Chicken Run?

When I heard the show was transferring to Live Theatre around a year later – part of Live’s admirable commitment to supporting the North East theatre eco-system with a steady stream of cross-pollination from theatres like Laurels and Alphabetti – I was interested to see how it would work on a bigger stage.

I didn’t expect the material to change much, especially since two of the original trio were reprising their roles – Clayburn and Dean Logan (Gerry), joined by Jack Robertson, who would take over the role of Sewell, with Eastlake still directing. Live is a much bigger space than Laurels – and under AD Jack McNamara it’s made some impressively bold staging choices that use the space with real imagination – but it’s not a big big stage, as such. I’ve seen plenty of small-scale solo shows there that don’t feel swamped, so I thought that Gerry & Sewell would slot right in without much of an adjustment.

Oh, well, just shows what I know. I honestly can’t recall the last time I saw a show so impressively scaled up. All the bits I loved remained, but ramped up to 11 (Clayburn, in particular, was given a chance to let loose and seized it with both hands). Spectacularly designed by The Set Guise (with a full-sized replica of a Metro on stage) the piece was injected with a ferocious, strutting energy and swagger that combined to make it one of the year’s best nights out. So, the question I had last night, when I was headed to see the show again on an even bigger stage at Newcastle’s Theatre Royal, was – could they pull off the same trick again?

The Theatre Royal doesn’t, on the surface, seem the best fit for such a defiantly working-class play. A receiving theatre that plays host to opera and ballet, to the ‘big’ touring musicals and Shakespeares when they are in town, with its fancy décor, higher prices and on-the-door bag searches, it can be pretty intimidating if you are more used to the less formal setting of the city’s other theatres.

To the theatre’s credit, though, they recognise this, and seem intent on tackling it as best they can within their own remit. The recent opening of the Studio Space, which can host smaller plays by local companies, and the theatre’s move back into co-producing – first with Pride & Prejudice (Sort of) and now this – all speak to a determination to become more than just a fancy venue for big shows to visit, but instead to become a cultural hub that supports the region’s talent and welcomes the region’s audiences, in all their variety.

Certainly, this felt on display last night. While obviously, I was lucky because I got to go to the press night party – catered to my plus one’s delight with Gregg’s pasties, doughnuts and glasses of Newcastle Brown Ale – the theatre was adorned with black and white football strips and flags, no hint of stuffiness in sight. It felt lively and welcoming. It felt fun.

The play itself has scaled up again. The central trio remain, but the parts that were previously multi-roled by Clayburn have been expanded into a bigger cast: former Liberty X star Michelle Heaton as Gerry’s mother (yes, there’s a joke in there about that), soap star Bill Ward as his feckless father, and Erin Mullen as his tragic sister, Bridget. (Fear not, Clayburn fans – she still gets plenty to do).

In truth, my favourite version remains the Live production – it perfectly hit my personal sweet spot of ambition and intimacy in a way that simply can’t be replicated in a larger venue. But I can see why it was necessary to change it for a much bigger audience, and I can’t fault the way it was done.

All of the cast excel in this new production. Mullen and Heaton are sympathetic as the doomed women who provide the only softness in Gerry’s life, while Ward perfectly captures the mawkish sentimentality of a man who sees himself as a tragic figure, without having the self-awareness to realise in reality he inflicts tragedy on everyone else (the scene where he insists on singing a mournful Jimmy Nail song encapsulates this so perfectly I actually winced).

The ensemble is fleshed out and given a raucous energy by a huge community ensemble – a Romeo and Juliet dance-off between a Sunderland and an NUFC fan was a particularly sweet moment. (Props are due to the multi-talented movement director Lucy Curry (who, as half of theatre company Peachplant, is just off a successful run at Laurels for the company’s play Subterranea: does the woman ever sleep?)). The Set Guise make a triumphant return, as does the life-sized Metro. There’s even a very cute dog puppet (designed and made by Georgia Hill). The result is a production that pretty much blows the doors off.

From the anarchic chaos of the flag-waving opener – complete with an exhortation that it’s not just OK but encouraged to film that bit on your phones – this doesn’t feel like a play you would normally expect to be staged at a theatre like this. But in all its defiant swagger and unapologetically working-class tones, it’s also asking: why shouldn’t this story belong here? Why shouldn’t we hear Newcastle voices on the city’s biggest stage? To its credit, the Theatre Royal is listening. I can’t wait to see what it does next.

[Image description: a spread of Gregg’s pasties and sausage rolls (some obviously vegan), and doughnuts, in front of a poster for Gerry & Sewell’s 2026 run]

Back to the present:

There are only limited tickets left for the rest of the run, so if you fancy it, get booking!

And if you want to read my interview with the core cast and creatives, you can do so below. Meanwhile please enjoy these photos of me cheesing near a Shearer shirt, because apparently some things never change…

[Image description: A smiling Tracey leaning into a black and white NUFC Shearer strip, sitting on a bench with an NUFC logo - in the dressing room at St James’]

[Image description: Tracey, smiling, in a purple sequin dress, standing in front of two hanging NUFC strips, one of which bears Shearer’s name]

Exeunt

'Seeing the North East in the West End can only be a good thing – even if we lose stacks of money’

Welcome back – we hope you all had a good Christmas and new year. Today, we have our North East expert Tracey Sinclair charting the cheering good news story that is Gerry & Sewell: a show that’s steadily grown in scale as it’s transferred from a fringe…

Read more

8 months ago · 6 likes · Exeunt

What I have been watching

Having spent so much time stuck in the house / not working during my recovery, I treated myself to an HBO subscription so I could watch The Pitt. It is as good as everyone says, but one show doesn’t make for a good value subscription, so I have been scrabbling to find other things to watch that make me feel like I’m not wasting my money.

Initially, I ignored the fact that Aaron Sorkin’s show The Newsroom was available, despite the fact that The West Wing is one of my favourite ever shows. I have vague memories of watching episode 1 when it came out and finding it smug and self-satisfied, so I never bothered watching more.

In truth, I think that both this show and his one-season Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip suffered from the same issue, applying the same gravitas and sense of import to TV shows as it did to the life and death decisions of government, which at the time I found a little bit self-indulgent. Nobody dies cos your celebrity guest can’t make the show or you have to shave a minute off a news report.

Having revisited both shows with some distance, I have now been won over by both. The Newsroom, in particular, makes a solid argument that TV should be treated with the same seriousness as government, because how we consume our news affects how we see the world.

Both shows are very Sorkin, with all the good and bad that implies. The female characters are all that particular brand of Sorkin Women: brilliant, beautiful but quirkily flawed and operating in a world that is overwhelmingly masculine. The male characters are messed up romantics with deeply moral cores. Everyone is painfully articulate but emotionally repressed. And, like The West Wing, both critique America, but even with the explicit ‘we aren’t the greatest country in the world’ speech in episode one, both shows don’t actually challenge the belief that America is exceptional with anything like the depth they pretend to.

But if you can accept that as the price of entry, both are worth your time. Studio 60 offers us the Matthew Perry / Bradley Whitford team up you didn’t know you needed (and is a little heartbreaking in retrospect, because you see a glimpse of the actor Perry could have been if he hadn’t been steamrollered by the Friends juggernaut and the demons that came with that level of fame). There are some fun guests and nods to The West Wing, and if you are worried that a show that got cancelled after one season will leave you hanging, don’t be, the season has a satisfying conclusion.

The Newsroom had three seasons (though, actually, pretty much the same number of episodes) and a similarly satisfying send off. Headed by Jeff Daniels, Emily Mortimer and Sam Waterston, it features a host of great actors (including Jane Fonda, Alison Pill and a young Dev Patel).

It also offers a fascinating snapshot of a world on the brink of change, when billionaires were just starting to buy up news organisations and social media was changing how things were reported and what was seen as news. For that reason, it’s a little depressing - you can’t watch it without feeling acutely that we’ve lost something valuable - but it’s compelling. I’d heartily recommend checking out both shows.

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

Remember: everything included is my personal preference / opinion, and while I strive to be accurate, I always advising checking with the relevant venue.

My theatre diary

Ensemble ‘84

Ensemble ’84 is one of the most exciting new theatre companies around, and I was lucky enough to score press night tickets to their latest show, The Tragicall Historie of Hamlet - Shakespeare’s First Quarto, last week. It was one of the best productions of Hamlet I’ve seen in a while. Based on a shorter, earlier version, it was different enough to shake you out of familiarity with the text, and was a fast-paced, muscular take on the classic.

It was also perfect for the company’s new venue, which puts the audience right in the thick of the action. Opened recently by Ian McKellen, it’s a gorgeous space – with the caveat that there are limited toilets (as far as I could tell the set up was one ladies’ indoors, the men’s are portaloos outside, though I admit I didn’t double check the outside situation. I also didn’t check accessibility, so advise checking that before booking anything if you have access needs).

I also like the commitment to making things affordable – drinks and programmes are pay what you feel, or certainly were on press night. (If I had one comment on that, it would be maybe add a suggested amount, as I found myself stressing over what was an acceptable amount to pay for wine. Also, it would be great to add bottled water to the selection for those non-drinkers who don’t want fizzy pop, or make tap water more obviously available).

But if I have a criticism, it’s that my friend and I (and some others I spoke to on the way out) found the seats impossibly, cripplingly uncomfortable. Hard wooden benches might look shiny and nice, but if you are expecting people to sit through 90 minutes, no-interval – and catering for a mostly older audience – that’s a set up with the potential to be positively punishing. (I get that I am probably oversensitive to comfort at the moment, of course…).

I did discuss this with someone from the theatre and they said they would feed it back. It’s hardly unreasonable for a new venue to have teething troubles, and I admire the fact that they were so open to feedback. But in the meantime, unless you have core strength to die for, you might want to take a cushion…

Unfortunately, Hamlet finishes this weekend, so if you aren’t booked already, you might miss out. For what I assume are financial reasons, the shows tend to be quite short runs, so if you fancy anything that is coming up, I suggest booking in advance.

The next production, returning for a very short run after its successful debut last year, is Pits, People and Players. While it lacks the expansive ambition of the company’s other shows, which integrate international influences, this history of Horden is necessarily rooted strongly in the locality. It’s a fascinating insight into the place and people, and definitely worth catching. (If you want to really understand the full emotional impact of the finale, I suggest you read up a little on the ‘Marra’ statue in Horden, Ray Lonsdale’s statue of a miner with his heart ripped out.)

[Image description: flier for A Sudden, Disturbing to do list]

A Sudden, Disturbing To Do List

It was bittersweet to be at Alphabetti this week, since it’s about to (mostly) go dark as it prepares for its rebrand. Its closure, even temporary, will leave a big hole in the Newcastle scene, although I am excited to see what emerges on the other side.

So it was nice to be offered tickets to Eleanor May Blackburn’s A Sudden, Disturbing to do List, a solo show about mental health, especially OCD. Blackburn is a disabled, neurodivergent, queer, working-class creative from Sheffield, and it’s always welcome to see such voices on stage, even if the show itself didn’t entirely work for me. I think in part this wasn’t its fault – seeing it so soon after the similarly themed but much slicker Split Ends meant it suffered in comparison. But it also felt a little repetitive and unfocused, overstretched at even an hour run time.

Still, it’s a brave performance and tackles an important and oft-misunderstood subject with humour and boldness, wrangling with mental health in all its incovenient messiness, with no easy resolution offered. For that, I applaud it.

The show is on tour throughout June - see above flier for details.

What to book now

If you’re fast, you can get tickets to the new People’s Theatre production, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, the Simon Stephens adaptation of the Mark Haddon best-seller.

I’ve talked a ton about Gerry & Sewell in previous newsletters, so of course I’m going to mention its final outing, which comes to the Theatre Royal this month. I’ve seen the progress of this show from tiny upstairs room to Laurels all the way to the West End and back, so feel a sort of vicarious pride in its progress (even though I am gutted to have missed the London show). While my favourite iteration remains the Live Theatre version – that’s my sweet spot of intimacy and boldness – this version is well worth checking out.

There are a host of great shows coming up at the Theatre Royal, and it is one of those venues where booking ahead for the big stuff is advised (source: me, being annoyed that time Six had sold out before I even thought about buying tickets). My friend and I booked Operation Mincemeat as soon as the tickets were announced, so I’m looking forward to that finally coming around this month. Next year’s ‘must book now’ show is probably the touring production of Hadestown, which goes on sale soon and I imagine will be a sell out. I’d also suggest booking for Our Friends in The North, the Live co-production, as I’ve heard that is already selling fast.

Speaking of Live and Our Friends in the North, I was very excited to score tickets to see Christopher Eccleston perform the Peter Flannery monologue The Name of That Song later this month. I’ve seen Eccleston on stage before, and he’s a compelling presence.

While Live’s next big show doesn’t kick off till autumn, they have a packed programme of short-run shows and readings over the summer, so it’s definitely worth checking out their website.

Crossing the Tees book festival

Also happening in June, this festival offers a packed schedule of events around Stockton, Darlington and Hartlepool and more. This includes workshops, performances, readings and talks, many of which are free.

There are some well-known names in there – including Brian Groom and Horrible Histories’ Terry Deary, as well as local author showcases, so do check out the programme here.

[Image description: Last One Out by Jane Harper]

What I have been reading

Few authors can capture a sense of place like Jane Harper, whose novels (mostly) focus on the pressures and pleasures of small Australian communities, most famously in The Dry, which was made into an Eric Bana film. Her latest, Last One Out, is a murder mystery set against the backdrop of a town in decline, gradually being subsumed by the giant mine on its outskirts.

In some ways, it feels like a companion to the book I read last month, Tana French’s The Keeper. French’s book is set in an Irish town that has – so far successfully – seen off such encroachment, Harper’s is a community that has already lost the fight, and it makes for fascinating mirror perspectives.

This wasn’t my favourite of Harper’s novels – the plot felt stretched a little too thin for the length of the book – but her prose and ability to write people and places makes even her weaker offerings worth reading. (I also found the ending genuinely moving.)

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

Remember: everything included is my personal preference / opinion, and while I strive to be accurate, I always advising checking with the relevant venue.

My theatre diary

While I am still very much in recovery mode, I have managed to start getting out and about a bit, which is definitely making me feel more human. (Huge thank you to all the theatre PRs who have been very accommodating of my requests for aisle seats in case I need to leave / stretch out a bit during a show without disrupting people…)

This week I have Durham company Ensemble ’84, The Tragicall Historie of Hamlet - Shakespeare’s First Quarto, the first production at their new base. Offering a fresh version of this Shakespeare classic, this is another compelling choice for a company that is doing really interesting things and generally seems to be punching above its weight (the new venue was opened by none other than Ian McKellen!)

Next week sees me at A Sudden, Disturbing Thing to do at Alphabetti, Eleanor May Blackburn’s dark comedy about OCD, metal health and toxic workplaces.

Book now!

I think I already mentioned this, but James Rowland is bringing his show Team Viking to Live in June and it’s definitely worth seeing. I saw this in Brighton years ago and it stuck with me, and made Rowland a favourite of mine. A heartwarming and (perhaps surprisingly) funny tale of friendship and loss, it’s likely to sell out so get booking!

[Image description: pink flier for the Goat or who is Sylvia, against pink leopard print background]

The Goat or, Who is Sylvia?

(Warning: this review spoils major plot points)

Last night I was at The People’s Theatre for another studio show, Edward Albee’s The Goat or, Who is Sylvia?

Although it can’t compare to the main stage, I do like the studio at The People’s – it’s way less pokey than that title usually suggests (or maybe I spend a lot of my time in tiny rooms), and the plays staged there offer the same high production value levels that characterise the main stage shows. Case in point: Tim Swinton’s elegant design easily conjures the upper-class New York apartment where the action of Sylvia takes place.

Another thing I love about The People’s is it makes some really bold choices. I always imagined (perhaps incorrectly) that amateur theatre shows were generally safe revivals of large-cast shows so that everyone gets a turn. Over the last few years, The People’s has roundly disabused me of that notion, and nothing illustrates that boldness more than choosing this controversial play.

Because – and there’s no way around this fact – this play is about a man shagging a goat. More than that, a man in love with the goat he is shagging. And really not seeing what the problem is with this. So, it’s obviously not a play for everyone.

I first saw this two decades ago: I saw it at the Almeida, which did an acclaimed production in 2004 that transferred to the West End. Embarrassingly, I remember nothing about it except the central premise and Jonathan Pryce being unsurprisingly excellent. So, it turns out I’ve seen Eddie Redmayne (he played the son) on stage – who knew? Though I suppose that means I could sit back and enjoy this production unfettered by comparisons.

Enjoy, perhaps, is not the right word for a play that skewers social taboos and the limits of ‘liberal’ tolerance, and doesn’t always do so in a straightforward or unproblematic way. (There’s definitely some uncomfortable moments where either Martin – or the play, it’s hard to tell – seems to equate his son’s gayness with his own bestiality, and their relationship tips precariously towards an incestuous act).

So: not an easy sell. But I was impressed how the theatre handled such complex and difficult material, and allowed the dark humour of the piece to shine through. The cast were generally excellent in roles that aren’t always sympathetic.

Mark Burden as Martin captures the complexity of a man felled by something he can’t find himself to see as wrong, while Anna Dobson brings the emotional devastation of a woman whose comfortable life unravels in moments. Bill Harrington is the old friend who sets the tragedy in motion with his own horror, while Gavinder Srai is the son caught in the middle of it, and does well in the role that of the four is the most under written.

Director Hugh Keegan keeps the tension high, though there’s an argument that the interval after an extremely short first half is unbalancing and the play would be better for being run straight through (but I get it: bar economics are a necessity for most venues).

Overall, this definitely isn’t a play for the easily outraged, but I’d recommend it if you’re bored of safe choices, and I applaud The People’s for choosing to stage it.

The play runs till May 30 so if you want to see it, act fast!

What I have been reading

I’ve long been a fan of Tana French, whose Dublin murder series is one of my favourites. Her Cal Hooper series – about a Chicago detective who relocates to a small Irish town and gets caught up in all its secrets – appeals to me a little less, but her prose and plotting makes anything she writes worth reading, so I picked up the latest, The Keeper, when I had some vouchers to use.

So far, I’m really enjoying it: I think it may even turn out to be the strongest in the series. More than just a murder mystery, it examines small town dynamics and the looming threat of development that threatens to change a long-established way of life, for better or worse, and does a good job of making you invested in even the side characters.

[Image description: The Keeper by Tana French, on leopard print background]

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

Remember: everything included is my personal preference / opinion, and while I strive to be accurate, I always advising checking with the relevant venue.

(Also: please excuse any typos /errors, I am recovering from being out last night which took a bigger toll than I anticipated).

[Image description: flier for Great Granda Apicius]

My theatre diary

It’s been a busy couple of weeks for theatre – too busy, probably, since I fast realised I was overcommitted for this point in my recovery and not even taking a trusty cushion (or dosing up on the good painkillers) would help. Alas, no sick pay for freelancers so a girl’s gotta do etc, and at least I enjoyed the shows! You can read my 4-star reviews of Astell & Woolf at Live and Little Shop of Horrors at Northern Stage (before heading to Derby) at The Stage, as well as my 3 stars for Elysium’s Long Day’s Journey into Night, which is touring.

You can also read my recs for upcoming / current shows here:

Exeunt

Exeunt recommends... the best summer theatre

Astell & Woolf – Live Theatre, Newcastle…

Read more

3 months ago · 5 likes · Exeunt

Classics Fest

Unfortunately, I didn’t manage to catch much of Classics Fest due to above-mentioned over-commitment / need to recover by lying in bed for hours. But I did manage to catch one of the closing shows, Great Grandpa Apicius, at Alphabetti.

In keeping with this year’s topic of food and drink, this short play by Abby Walker was selected from entrants to a call out for pieces earlier this year, with the theme ‘inspired by the ancient cookbook Cooking with Apicius, by Marcus Gavius Apicius (AD 14-37).’

The event included an entertaining talk on Apicius by historian Dr Christopher Grocock, who gave us some insight into Apicius and his times. This was followed by the play, then, after the interval, a Q&A (though unfortunately I wasn’t feeling well enough to stay for that.)

Directed by Alphabetti AD Ed Cole, this was a two-hander featuring Elijah Young (himself a talented playwright, and also a star of BBC comedy Smoggie Queens) and stage stalwart Judi Earle, both of whom I’ve seen in many things and been impressed with.

It was a cute idea. Young is Josh, a wannabe influencer who wants to use his grandma Elsie (Earle) for content, only for her to fool him into thinking classic author Apicius is actually part of the family. It pokes a lot of fun at the shallow nature of influencers and the solipsism of youth, with a lack of interest in (or knowledge of) anything that predates their own existence.

But Walker – who is herself young (she was recently one of the two winners in the under-26 category at Live’s North East Playwriting Awards) – tackles the subject with fondness. There’s nothing mean in her portrayal of either Josh or Elise, and the result is charming, funny and warm-hearted, enlivened by some sharp dialogue and nice observation. Both actors were still on book, but the informal nature of Alphabetti and the evening made that not really matter, and they made for an engaging pair.

Walker is clearly a star on the rise. As well as winning a host of other awards alongside the Live one, she also has a piece in Hooley Theatre touring show, Haddaway & Write, which showcases local talent. Featuring work by Walker, Lewis Cuthbert, Mel Hunter, Tom Smith, Lizzie Lovejoy and John Dawson, with directors Sarah Bond (also a talented playwright, who won Laurels’ Richard Jenkinson Commission and was nominated in the prestigious The Stage debut awards for her excellent play Seagulls and Sad, Sad Stories) and Jessica Robson. I saw this at Northern Stage, but it is touring local venues throughout May.

Showcases can be a bit hit and miss, but I enjoyed all six pieces in this, and the acting was solid throughout. There was enough variety to avoid it feeling samey, and they were nicely ordered (too often, I find showcases are too focused on individual pieces and don’t think about pacing or flow when they put them together). Walker’s piece Rita in 3C - about a curmudgeonly care home resident - was one of the strongest, so this definitely marks her as one to watch.

[Image description: poster for Astell & Woolf]

What I have been reading

I was a huge fan of Hallie Rubenhold’s The Five, which was a retelling of the Jack the Ripper story solidly focused on the lives of his victims and the society that shaped them. Her latest, Story of a Murder, is an examination of the Crippen murder case and the press furore that surrounded it. Again this centres the women at the heart of the story – not just the victim herself, Belle Elmore, but her friends, Crippen’s first wife (and possibly his first victim), and his mistress. As gripping as a novel, this is a fascinating insight into what was called the crime of the century, and how history has distorted the figures at its core.

Where I have been eating

The Kiln in Ouseburn has long been a favourite of mine. A spacious, nicely laid out interior, with an outdoor space that gives the place a cool Brooklyn vibe, this is a great place to eat or have coffee and cake or even a cocktail, especially when the weather turns nice. (Props for super friendly staff, also). It’s also a short walk from some cool shops (I was particularly taken with The Find, which is just across the way from Seven Stories, but there are a host of great wee shops in the vicinity selling vintage clothes, trinkets, jewellery, gifts and stationery). Also worth a wander to Northern Rye, which sells delicious bread, cakes and a select range of deli goodies (though be warned, the bread often sells out early).

The upside of getting to go out again is I am raiding my wardrobe for all my sparkly frocks so please enjoy this old fave. Cushion and painkillers not pictured.

[Image description: Tracey mirror selfie in silver sparkly dress and silver zebra print black tights].

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

Remember: everything included is my personal preference / opinion, and while I strive to be accurate, I always advising checking with the relevant venue.

This has been a week of dipping myself back into theatre, post-surgery. It’s been slightly more challenging than I hoped – Wednesday saw me begging painkillers off a friend so I could manage to sit in a theatre seat for two hours – but being able to dress up and go out among people, to see and think and write about theatre, has felt like another step to getting back to myself after what has been a harrowing few months. (Or far longer, if I’m honest about how long I ignored that something was wrong in my body and the impact that had on my state of mind).

Wednesday kicked off with the press night for Little Shop of Horrors, the beautifully designed revival which is a co-production of Northern Stage and Derby Theatre. I thought bits of the material were dated and occasionally problematic, but the songs are still strong and the performances excellent: you can read my 4-star review here.

Look, Ma, I left the house!

[Image description: a mirror selfie of Tracey, in a red sequin dress and gold boots).

Split Ends

Last night, I was at Alphabetti for Split Ends, Claudia Shnier’s solo show about an abusive relationship and her own OCD. I admit I’m always interested in theatrical portrayals of the much-misunderstood condition of OCD – one of my closest friends has it, and I lived for a while with a flatmate who had it, and who, similar to Shnier, saw her condition worsen due to the stress of a relationship (and in my flatmate’s case, a pregnancy). So I already know that it’s far more than the common misconception of just wanting your pens lined up on your desk or checking the oven is switched off ten times (hell, I do that).

Shnier has spoken eloquently about how creating the show has helped her process both the reality of her relationship, allowing her to recognise its abusive nature, and how that impacted and exacerbated her OCD. (You can read her excellent piece on Exeunt below).

Certainly, the show feels raw and personal: barefoot, clad only in workout shorts and a sports bra, with both her strength and vulnerability on full display – she talks about building her physical strength to hide what she felt was internal weakness – Shnier is a compelling presence, and it’s impossible to look away no matter how uncomfortable the moment gets.

It’s a boldly physical piece, particularly effective in the intimate space at Alphabetti. A hoover and a pair of scissors stand in for the ex (with tweezers a stand in for a concerned friend / relative), giving her the chance to have an ongoing dialogue with those around her. At various stages, we see Shnier kiss and even fellate the scissors, and have sex with the vacuum cleaner, but it never feels like she is being outrageous for the sake of it. The danger inherent in putting a blade in your mouth is allowing a man to control your emotions; a vacuum sucks up everything, including her life and sense of self.

There’s a multimedia element to the piece: various iterations of ‘Claudia’ interact with the one on stage, offering scolds or encouragement (with audio produced by Oscar Gross). Again, she manages to make this add layers rather than seem gimmicky. There’s a recognition not just of how deeply she was affected by events, but how inexplicable her acquiescence to them can seem from an external perspective: surely all you need to stop cutting and plucking your hair is a little self-control? If a man hurts you, why do you keep letting him back in your life? She recognises the questions, even as she offers no easy answers.

For a piece with such bleak undercurrents, it is often very funny, but while an enormously engaging and likeable performer, mining her self-deprecation for laughs, she is also adept at holding the audience’s attention through the quiet, darker moments.

Having already won acclaim at Brighton Fringe (where it was nominated for Best New Show) and been performed at Edinburgh and Camden Fringes, as well as in her native Australia, this is the show’s first regional UK tour. It will also be performed to NHS staff in hospitals, to offer insight into coercive control and its effect on mental and physical health. Alas, it was only on at Alphabetti a couple of nights, but if you are near any of the other venues it is visiting (I think only Falmouth and Manchester are left on this tour, but I imagine it’ll be back to others at some stage), it’s definitely worth your time.

Credits:

Written, directed and performed by Claudia Shnier

Sound design, composition, video design and editing by Claudia Shnier

Audio produced by Oscar Gross

Exeunt

'It was only after my first performance that I recognised our relationship for what it was'

Read more

5 months ago · 5 likes · Exeunt

Edit: An earlier version incorrectly credited video production to Oscar Gross. The video was produced by Shnier, the audio by Gross.

Bookshop cafes

For obvious reasons, I haven’t been out much lately, and until this week any outings other than hospital appointments were limited to where friends were willing to drive me. But I did manage to get to a couple of cute indie bookshops, one of which I have been following on Instagram for a while, the other that was an unknown to me.

Books and Bakes is a relatively new addition to the scene. A compact shop sitting right next to Asda in Washington Galleries, this offers an Instagrammable interior and a well-curated selection of books (with a strong romance / romantasy slant, but also local authors and mainstream fiction and non-fiction), with a handful of tables where you can drink coffee and indulge in a slice of cake. They also host events (I tried to go again on Sunday, but it was closed for a private event – so do check their Instagram for details!)

[Image description: exterior and interior of Books & Bakes]

However, not being able to go to Books and Bakes turned out to be a good thing, as it led me to Paper and Park, in Chester-le-Street. A larger space, with more tables, this is also (I believe) a fairly new offering, and one that equally deserves your support. Again, it feels like the stock leans towards romantasy, Greek myth / historical reimaginings and fantasy, but it’s not short on mainstream fiction or quirky choices, and it’s a great place to grab a coffee. (Pro-tip: Willow’s Bakehouse just across the street does fantastic cheese scones – try the cheese and jalapeno - and a delicious custard tart the size of your head, should you want to stock up on takeaway snacks).

What I have been reading

I suspended my book buying ban in order to support indie bookshops, and received some book gifts this week, so I have a fantastic pile of new reads. The latest John Connolly Charlie Parker book, A River Red with Blood, was a satisfying addition to one of my favourite series. A less-known quantity to me was The Brides, Charlotte Cross’ prequel to Dracula, which focuses on his brides and how they ended up in his thrall. A gripping historical novel with a queer love story at its heart, this is a fresh, compelling take on a very well-trodden story.

Far more niche was Andrea Wulf’s Magnificent Rebels, a non-fiction look at the ‘Jena set’, a group of writers and philosophers who kick-started the Romanticism movement, and who, while (mostly) little remembered – with the exception of Goethe and Hegel – were hugely influential in their own time and beyond.

I was also gifted Story of a Murder, Hallie Rubenhold’s investigation of the Crippen murders. I am a huge fan of The Five, Rubenhold’s biography of the women killed by Jack the Ripper, so when a friend recommended this to me - and then kindly sent me a copy - I was keen to read it. As with all of Ruenhold’s work, this centres the women and victims rather than the perpetrator, and it offers a fascinating insight not only into the key figures of the crime, but also the environment they existed in, including London’s theatre scene.

What I have been watching

I’ve been in the house so much that I justified subscribing – at least temporarily – to HBO so I could finally watch The Pitt. As gripping and well-acted as everyone says it is, this is a worthy successor to ER, though its premise is part 24 (the action takes place over a single shift, each episode covering one hour) and its aesthetic reminded me a lot of The Bear. As someone who just spent an awful lot of time under the care of the NHS, it also made me grateful for that institution – no matter how flawed – and despairing of those who seem happy to vote against their own interests for those who would dismantle it.

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

Remember: everything included is my personal preference / opinion, and while I strive to be accurate, I always advising checking with the relevant venue.

Also, this is the first time I’ve sat properly at a desk in weeks so excuse any typos or errors.

[Image description: hospital table with toast and a mug of coffee on it]

My theatre diary

It’s been an odd few weeks, to be sure, but (touch wood) my recovery is going well enough that I am resuming my theatre schedule – just in time to see some great shows, starting next week. If you see me hobbling like an old lady, no you didn’t.

The big show of the week is of course Little Shop of Horrors, which opens at Northern Stage before touring. This season marks a return to form for Northern Stage after a couple of less exciting years, so I’m keen to see both this and the rest of the season.

Also at Northern Stage is the touring production of Long Day’s Journey into Night. I’m slightly scared of how my poor injured body will cope with the three-hour run time – I might have to bring a cushion for my back! – but I’ve long been keen to see work by local company Elysium, so I’m pleased the timings finally work out.

I have two shows lined up at Alphabetti: I mentioned Split Ends in a previous newsletter, but I am keen to see this show about the reality of OCD and coercive relationship and their impact. If you want to read more about it, the always interesting Exeunt did a piece:

Exeunt

'It was only after my first performance that I recognised our relationship for what it was'

Read more

5 months ago · 5 likes · Exeunt

Also at Alphabetti is Abby Walker’s Great Granda Apicius, which is part of this year’s Classics Fest and is inspired by a 2,000-year-old cookbook. The play is directed by Ed Cole, Betti’s Artistic Director, and was the winning submission in a competition.

Another exciting ‘big’ show is the opening of Astell and Woolf, Shelagh Stephenson’s new play, at Live Theatre, with the press night the following week.

I’m also hoping to catch the showcase by Blowin’ a Hooley, Haddaway & Write, six short plays by local talent, including another one by Abby Walker, and one by John Dawson, whose work I have seen before and found interesting. It’s touring, so you can check out details of this and the company’s other work on their website.

Classics Fest

Running from 14-16 May, this year’s Classics Fest has the theme Food & Feasting in Antiquity. A collaboration between the Lit & Phil and the School of History, Classics & Archaeology at Newcastle University, it offers a packed programme that includes everything from talks to performances to wine and food tastings, spanning venues that include the University, the Lit & Phil, the Hancock Museum, the Tyneside Cinema and Alphabetti.

Highlights include Trimalchio’s Dinner Party, which includes afternoon tea and a screening of Fellini’s Satyricon at the Tyneside, Laura Coffey’s A Gourmet Journey through the Odyssey and a wine tasting Wine from Antiquity to Now. A lot of the events are free (the charged for ones tend to be the ones that include food or drink) but booking is essential.

The Late Shows

If you are looking for something to do this weekend, why not check out The Late Shows? A cultural crawl that includes everything from candle making workshops to musical performances to, um, a collective scream event, this takes place in and around Ouseburn, and there’s something for every taste.

Creative opportunities at Live

Live Theatre is currently offering a raft of creative opportunities for writers, directors and performers. The biggest of these is the chance to become Writer in Residence, which offers a £4,000 bursary and six-month residency. There’s also a free playwriting course, and the chance to take part in Live Writes and the Unearthed Scratch Night or a chance to preview Fringe shows. Some of these deadlines are very soon, so be sure to check out the talent page.

Play-reading group at Alphabetti

A new offering from the theatre is this free play-reading group, which gives aspiring / current playwrights (or just those interested in the form) the chance to read and analyse plays, kicking off with The Inheritance. Unfortunately, the limits of the building mean this isn’t fully accessible – it takes place upstairs and there’s no lift – so do check with the venue if you have access concerns.

What I have been reading

I love the idea behind The Beheading Game by Rebecca Lehmann. Anne Boleyn wakes up after her execution, miraculously alive and bent on avenging her death and securing the future of her child, Elizabeth. I found the novel a little meandering at times, but I liked its presentation of Anne as a flawed, complex woman realising a little too late what a monster she married. There’s also a sweet, tentative queer love story in there.

[Image description: The Beheading Game]

I also was excited to contribute to this piece by Natasha Tripney, looking at boredom in theatre:

Café Europa

Being boring: On the experience of being bored in the theatre

In a change of pace this week I wanted to reflect on the experience of being bored in the theatre, so I spoke to a group of UK and European critics about the occasions when this is happened to them. Is there a distinction between work that is boring and work that is tedious? Can a boring show reward the audience in other ways? Are there worse things tha…

Read more

5 months ago · 20 likes · 2 comments · Natasha Tripney

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

Remember: everything included is my personal preference / opinion, and while I strive to be accurate, I always advising checking with the relevant venue.

Hello, and welcome to my Substack. Remember if you want to support my writing, you can do so by becoming a paid subscriber, buying me a one-off Ko-fi or buying one of my books. Or all of my books.

[Image description: promo image for The Bridesmaid Blues]

Apologies for the radio silence - unfortunately my short stay in hospital morphed into a week in the critical care High Dependency Unit followed by a few days on a surgery ward, so all my plans got slightly trashed. Therefore I’m heading into the bank holiday weekend with what I hope is a fun read - I shared this story a couple of years ago and the reaction was actually pretty mind-blowing (apparently LOTS of you relate), so I hope recent joiners enjoy reading anew and old readers maybe revisit.

Hopefully normal service will resume next week, depending on my ability to sit at a laptop for any length of time…

If, unlike me, you are not stuck in the house recovering from major surgery on this lovely weekend, you might want to check out Gateshead International Festival of Theatre, which has a packed schedule of goodies starting today.

The Daily Edit

She’s smiling, doesn’t want to be. Still, it’s easier than arguing, so Wendy swallows a bunch of words she has trained herself not to say and forces a grin, head ducked as she passes the catcaller, thinking what do you mean, it might never happen? You’re yelling at me. It just did.

Wendy’s late. Can’t walk fast in these shoes, office-appropriate though heels are. Her fingers burn against her black coffee from Pret, always too hot; she keeps meaning to ask for a splash of cold water but there’s always a queue, so she doesn’t like to impose. Hustling to the meeting, she follows her team – six junior women, two senior men – into the conference room.

Croissants on the table and Damien and Jonathan tuck right in, already talking through crumbs. The usual anxious glances as the women wait to see if anyone else will crack. Finally, Pippa, whose youth-fuelled metabolism has yet to desert her, reaches for one, so Lacey follows suit, tearing the pastry into small pieces, careful not to drop flakes on the dry-clean-only silk of her blouse. Talia pours coffee, joking ‘I’ll be mother!’, like one of the juniors always does, pretending that seniority not sex is the reason. But when she turns away from the guys there’s a set to her face that makes Wendy think when she’s boss, those boys will be pouring their own.

Taking notes without being asked to, Wendy tries not to show how these voices grate, with their polish and their poshness and their privilege and poise. Hard to believe publishing was her fantasy job, back in the bedroom of the Sunderland council house where she dreamed of cocktail parties with famous authors, of feeling at home in places she’d only ever seen on TV. This job was a lucky fluke, maternity cover for someone who had, she was sniffily informed at the interview, ‘gotten herself pregnant’. (Outspoken as she naturally was, even Wendy knew not to point out that someone else had likely also been involved in the pregnancy). Once in the door – learning to soften the Northern vowels that people mocked or couldn’t understand – it seemed too much effort for them to replace her, but by then the dream had soured.

Wendy had imagined bringing brave new voices into the world, but mainly she works with spreadsheets. She discovered not a landscape rich with creativity, but one where connections mattered more than talent and the same old people published the same old stories aimed at the same old audience. Her enthusiasm had been eroded as thoroughly as her accent, both resurfacing only rarely, fuelled by anger or cheap wine.

The usual lunch-time debate on where to eat, because someone’s always on some diet. Wendy brings in sandwiches, can’t understand how all these women on entry-level publishing salaries can eat out every day, though of course she can understand it really, it’s the same way they can all live in West London and go skiing every winter. She offers the convenient lie of work – London’s always-acceptable excuse – and stays at her desk with her Tupperware. She’s glad of the new girl Neela, who’s been lunching on 30-calorie cup-a-soups since she joined, gritting her teeth through the ‘Why diet? I’d love a booty like yours!’ comments from the Knightsbridge blondes, ignoring the touch of Croydon they put in their voices when they say it and pretending she hasn’t heard the ‘diversity hire’ whispers. Wendy wants to think they are natural allies, she and this other outsider, but isn’t sure Neela would agree, so mutual suspicion keeps their relationship cordial but cool. Still, she’s happy for even this camaraderie, and wonders if she should comment on the fact that Neela has started straightening her hair.

An afternoon of Saskia making personal calls that she somehow – Wendy knows how – gets away with, being the daughter of some friend of the boss with no fear of being disciplined, because how can you threaten to sack someone who doesn’t need a job? First to fiancé Nathaniel, a lengthy one-sided conversation when she does little but murmur agreement, then a follow up to a friend, where she loudly dissects all the ways that his call annoyed her. Nathaniel is something in finance; he buys Saskia lots of presents but never makes her laugh. The girls in the office coo over each gift and ignore that he’s about as much of a catch as a cold sore.

“Oops, coming through!” says the man who walks into her with a plate of canapes, expecting her to move out of his way. Wendy forces a smile because he’s some money guy who knows one of the editors and managed to swing an invite to this launch. Wondering again why it’s always rich people who get free things, she tries to make conversation with a suit who can’t decide whether he should be looking down her top or over her shoulder, sizing up the room for better options. She swallows cheap fizz and thinks about how her feet hurt and she hates this dress, bought in the sale for work events and usually worn twice before cleaning. It’s just out of the dry cleaner’s plastic and some bloke has already spilled salsa on it. She pretended not to mind.

She never admits it, but Wendy wanted to be an author, though school said that was an impossible goal for a benefits-family girl like her. Good enough at English to maybe be a teacher, they said, which in itself was a dazzling ambition at her comprehensive. She never writes anything longer than an Instagram caption now, so instead she goes to work-related book parties and spends an hour listening to three different men tell her about their novels. Writers they may be, but none of them know how to use a question mark.

Drunk lads on the tube bookend her day with another invocation to be cheerful, so she offers them a placatory grimace, her fake smile the price of a harassment-free journey home. By the time she opens the door to her flat, the scream is building to a swell in her chest. She drowns it with more wine, not wanting to wake her flatmates, and goes to sleep with it rasping at the back of her throat.

[Image description: copies of Dark Dates, Wolf Night, Angel Falls and Blood Burns]

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

Remember: everything included is my personal preference / opinion, and while I strive to be accurate, I always advising checking with the relevant venue

The Prodigal Geordie sends notes from the North East is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

First: another break. Sorry, folks! But I am hopefully getting my surgery soon so will likely take a couple of weeks off.

[Image description: The illuminated ‘Lovely’ sign from the Northern Stage bar / foyer]

New season at Northern Stage

The new season for Northern Stage has been announced, and it feels like the strongest the theatre has had in a while. There are some returning hits – Laura Lindow’s reimagining of The Snow Queen was first staged at the theatre in 2019, and is being retooled for its return, when it will be directed by Natalie Ibu. But lots of new stuff!

Jane Eyre is a perennial fave of mine, so I’m excited that Sally Cooke’s adaptation is coming to the theatre in November as part of a tour. This is a Mercury Theatre Colchester, Rose Theatre Kingston and Storyhouse Chester co-production, in association with Northern Stage and is directed by Winner of the 2025 RTST Sir Peter Hall Director Award Lily Dyble.

Another classic coming in autumn is a new production of Othello, directed by Anthony Almeida. I admit this isn’t my favourite Shakespeare, but this co-production (led by Northern Stage with HOME Manchester and Citizens Theatre, in association with Royal & Derngate Northampton) sets the action in 1980s Britain, which sounds like an interesting angle.

As a former Glasgow resident, I’m obviously pleased to see the reopened Citizens get back into production (still gutted I haven’t managed to get there yet); I’m also pleased to see that Northern Stage has teamed up with A Play, a Pie and a Pint to bring new writing to Newcastle. This is another source of shame for me: I usually spend a few weeks in Glasgow each year, staying literally around the corner from Òran Mór theatre, which hosts A Play, a Pie and a Pint, and I have yet to manage seeing anything. (OK, full disclosure: I am a bit weird about eating in this context and worry about my ability to manage to pay sufficient attention to a pint, a pie and a play all at the same time – something’s gotta give, and it’ll likely be something that I drop all over my clothing).

I saw Jack Rooke’s acclaimed Good Grief in Brighton back in the day, so it’ll be interesting to see it a decade or so on.

I’m also curious to see Tim Foley’s ghost story, It Walks Around The House at Night, which was recently at ARC Stockton as part of its tour.

I’ve seen work by Dyad Productions before – they did a one-woman Elizabeth 1 show that I saw at Washington Arts Centre – so I’m also keen to see their spooky seasonal offering Christmas Gothic.

I’m less familiar with the work of Apphia Campbell, but I very much like the sound of Black is the Color of My Voice, which is inspired by the life of Nina Simone and comes to Northern Stage as part of a tour.

I’ll be talking more about upcoming shows, of course, but you can check out the new season here.

Split Ends at Alphabetti

I’m hoping to see the new show by Australian performer Claudia Shnier when it lands in Alphabetti in May as part of a wider tour. Split Ends looks at OCD and coercive relationships, and has already been lauded at Edinburgh, Camden and Brighton.

OCD is one of those conditions that people don’t really take seriously – we’ve all heard someone blithely announcing they are ‘a bit OCD’ (or done it ourselves) because of a liking for neatness or a need to check the oven is off five times before they leave the house (that’s not just me, right?). But genuine OCD can be a horribly debilitating condition: I have close friends who have it, and sharing a flat with someone who had OCD gave me a ground-zero experience of how serious its impact can be. So, I’m all for a show that gives insight into how it affects people, and also sheds light on the often-misunderstood nature of coercive control.

What I have been watching

High Potential (on Disney+) is one of my favourite new shows. Based on a French show, this has ‘high potential IQ’ single mother Morgan help the police solve crimes using her offbeat approach and stellar brain. On the one hand, its ‘clever loner helps cops’ premise is hardly original, but it’s made compelling by a great cast (not only lead Caitlin Olson, but character actors such as Judy Reyes) and some sharp writing. Season 2 ended with a corker of a finale, so if you’ve missed this so far you have plenty of fun to catch up on.

Speaking of season 2 of female-led shows, the new season of Deadloch just landed on Prime. It took me a while to get into season 1, because it was very shouty, but it calmed down into a gripping ‘murder in a small town’ mystery with a comedic edge. Season 2 has the same problem – I felt like the first few episodes were just people shouting at each other – but again settles into a gripping story. It’s also nice to see a show that has a lesbian protagonist, which still feels rarer than it should be.

It’s perhaps weird that one of the shows that’s most reflecting the real world right now is a superhero show, but Daredevil: Born Again continues to feel like it was ripped out of the headlines. Vincent D’Onofrio’s Fisk is much smarter than Trump (not hard, I suspect) but channels the same fierce egotism, and it’s tough not to see ICE in the militarised cops that enforce his draconian rule. There’s also plenty of familiar faces – Jessica Jones is set to make an appearance, with hints in the press that Luke Cage might also. I still miss Foggy, mind.

[Image description: Superman by Larry Tye]

What I have been reading

Never let it be said I don’t like variety in my reading material. I finished a couple of novels this week that couldn’t have been more different. Bored Gay Werewolf by Tony Santorella is a fun take on the werewolf myth, while Good Girl by Aria Aber is a beautifully written and intensely felt story of a child of immigrants losing herself in the Berlin club scene. I enjoyed both books – though neither quite hit the spot as much as I hoped, which to be fair might be more on me than them since I just kept feeling way too old for the hedonistic but aimless lives the protagonists had. But I also felt neither quite had the narrative propulsion to keep me as engaged as I want to be in a novel.

On the non-fiction side, I finally got round to reading Larry Tye’s history of Superman. This book has some sentimental value for me – humble brag time – as I was given it by a friend who worked for DC when I got given a tour of their New York offices. (This was total ‘kid in a candy store’ moment for me: I went away with armfuls of comics and books, only limited by the luggage restrictions of trying to get it all home). I’m not actually a big Supes fan – delighted as I was to see their HQ, I was always more of a Marvel girl (though I did mostly enjoy the new James Gunn iteration when I watched it the other week). But this was a fascinating look at the character’s cultural history, and the legal wranglings that have plagued his ownership almost from the start.

This week’s Substack rec:

Another friend - hey, it’s not my fault all my pals are talented - but having written a (giant!) book about Prince, former music journalist John McKie has also started a Substack that is worth your time:

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost. And remember if you want to support my writing but a paid subscription isn’t for you (times are hard, I get it!), you can buy me a one-off Ko-fi or buy one of my books.

Remember: everything included is my personal preference / opinion, and while I strive to be accurate, I always advising checking with the relevant venue.