[Image description: flier for Jane Eyre]

Jane Eyre at Northern Stage

Last night I was at the press night for this much-anticipated show, an adaptation of the Charlotte Brontë masterpiece Jane Eyre that arrives already lauded with acclaim. A co-production between The Mercury, Rose Theatre and Northern Stage, this production is exactly the kind of bold storytelling I love – taking a well-known story and shaking it up so it feels new.

The production, directed by Lily Dyble and adapted by Sally Cookson, Mike Akers and the Original Company, does this less by messing with the core story than by presenting it very differently. Elements are of course streamlined, as are inevitable in any novel adaptation or we’d all be there all day, but it keeps in all the crucial beats.

The production leans heavily on music and movement, with moments almost looking like a ballet. Movement coordinator Natasha Harrison, lighting designer Lucía Sánchez Roldán and composer / sound designer Joseff Harris all deserve props for capturing the mood of the piece, though the sound mix could have been better – some of the actors were better at projection than others, and some speech felt muffled by the soundscape.

Anna Yates’ clever set is a highlight – a deceptively simple staircase at first glance, it easily morphs from school to home to moor, and the actors having to physically move it around to create some scenes adds a kineticism that really works. Khadija Raza’s costume design is also effective, especially when it comes to the bridal parallels of Jane and the first Mrs Rochester. There are some amazing visual moments – the use of real fire is always a thrill in theatre – and all of the design elements have been crafted with imagination and care.

The play is a little overlong. With the caveat that I think almost everything is overlong, there was definitely some audience fidgeting as the first half drew to a close and lopping ten minutes off the first half would really tighten it up. But overall, it’s well-paced and manages to cram an impressive amount into its 2 hr 30 runtime (there’s an interval, don’t worry!) (To be fair, while I didn’t see and don’t really remember the 2014/15 Bristol Old Vic / National Theatre productions I think they were even longer - it started out as a two-part show, I believe - so they’ve done well to condense it into this!)

Of course, Jane Eyre stands or falls on its central casting – do we root for Jane? Can the actor playing Rochester convince us he’s a deserving love interest, not just a manipulative dick? Luckily, this more than delivers. The cast overall are strong – minor projection issues aside – all multi-roleing except for Rochester and Jane. But the leads are a genuine standout.

Olivia Marcus manages to make even Jane’s more histrionic moments believable. Her Jane is blunt and awkward (those laughs there are in the play tend to come from these traits), but defiant and fierce – about her right to love, to be free, to be valued for who she is. Gabriel Akuwudike as Rochester is just the right mix of swagger and vulnerability to counter this. Crucially, the pair have a crackling, sparky chemistry, whether it’s in the early, bantering days of their first encounters as master and employee, or the passion of their romance.

It’s so easy to do a classic adaptation that feels like ‘TV lite’, faithful to the source material and relying on name recognition to bring in the audiences, especially for a touring show. How exciting to see a production that doesn’t do that – that presents a much-loved story in a way that feels both familiar and exhilaratingly fresh.

Jane Eyre is on at Northern Stage until Nov 7. Buy tickets here.

[Image description: flier for It Walks Around the House at Night, balanced on legs that are wearing Snag Skeleton tights]

My theatre diary

As I mentioned last week, my Halloween show was It Walks Around the House at Night, which I saw at Northern Stage and really enjoyed. A twisty ghost story with some clever jumpscares, this confirms my belief that all good British horror stories boil down to class. It’s touring, so I recommend catching it if you can.

I just confirmed two very different shows I am excited to see. I missed No Apologies, Emma Frankland’s Kurt Cobain-themed meditation on gender and sexuality when it was at Live, so I’m seeing that on tour – it hits the Traverse next week. I admit the Traverse isn’t one of my favourite venues anymore: I hate that it’s unreserved seating, so you seem to spend all the what should be pre-show drinking / chatting time in a queue to get a decent seat. (I also have reservations about the accessibility of non-reserved seating venues: as an inveterate aisle-seat booker, lately for medical reasons, I’ve been glared at for grabbing an aisle seat early and having everyone have to traipse past me, like it’s my fault they don’t reserve seats. You’d glare at me more if I had to leave from the middle of an aisle mid-show because I couldn’t manage to stay seated, folks! My #Letpeoplebookaisleseats campaign starts here.)

(I should add, for the sake of fairness, I have no insight into how they handle bookings from people with actual disabilities or access needs rather than just preferences. I’m sure they would be helpful - you should always check with individual venues if you have needs that require accommodation.)

The last few things I’ve seen at the Traverse haven’t been great, either, many of them feeling like they could do with another round of development before they hit the stage - though, alas, that’s not a problem unique to them in today’s financially straitened funding climate. I rarely walk out of things these days, since I’m either reviewing or know people in the audience / show and don’t want to be spotted bailing, but I made an exception for the bloated Maggie & Me, which I had been really looking forward to but which, despite some clever moments, failed to engage. Though my main reason if I’m honest was it was over three hours long and the opening night of the World Cup* so I would have been getting a train back with thousands of inebriated Scotland fans mourning a defeat had I stayed to the end! Still, they do seem to have some exciting things programmed - currently they have the coup of Tilda Swinton in Man to Man - so I’m happy to be won over by this next visit. Plus, I’m always grateful to any venue that is generous enough to provide press tickets - I’ll never take that for granted!

I also just booked tickets for The Lion in Winter at the People’s Theatre later this month, which seems perfect for a history nerd like me, and a couple of shows at the Dickens Festival North at the Assembly Rooms. I’ll report back on all of them afterwards!

*Or something. Some football thing where Scotland did badly, I can’t remember the details, just that all my Scottish friends were sad and that the streets of Edinburgh were eerily deserted when we walked to the train station - it looked like a set from 28 Days Later, with only the occasional groans and cheers from pubs which were showing the match reminding me that people were actually around.

Books from Below

Since I haven’t been on holiday this year, I’ve allowed myself to indulge a bit more in some more stay-at-home pleasures, including putting my book-buying ban on hiatus till next year. So I have been keen to check out all the new bookshops in the region and spend my dosh in indie shops rather than propping up billionaires or hedge funds.

This week it was the turn of Books From Below, Newcastle’s new radical bookshop. Selling a mix of new and second-hand titles, plus some merch and zines, this is a lovely space. There’s a vegan café with limited offerings (filter coffee only, vegan milk – from what I could tell the snacks were mostly cakes and possibly scones) which is a great place to chill. Plus it’s always handy to know about less busy coffee spots in town!

The stock was well-chosen but not extensive, so I do wonder if the brief is maybe too limiting, but it’ll be interesting to see how it evolves. It’s just up the road from Alphabetti, and definitely worth checking out.

[Image description: green painted exterior of Books From Below bookshop]

Other shows to book

Touring on the 10^th anniversary of his hit show, James Rowland brings Team Viking to ARC Stockton later this month. This is a lovely wee show, tackling grief and friendship with humour and humanity – I saw it first time round in Brighton. Even better if you’re skint in the run up to Christmas – when did that loom so large? – it’s pay what you decide.

With Ensemble ’84 delivering banger after banger from its Horden base, exciting things seem to be happening in Durham, so I was interested to learn about new-to-me company, Theatre of Cowards. This Durham-based company of young artists, co-founded by Sylivia Gardner and Mika Trench, has laudable (if unusual!) aims, stating on its website: “We are a theatre designed to fail. It is our desire that this company becomes defunct in the next five years due to the talents of our members being deservedly headhunted for bigger and brighter things”.

So catch ‘em while you can, I guess: their production of Ibsen’s Rosmersholm comes to Durham City Theatre in December.

What I have been reading

I honestly have an insane current reads pile at the minute – I keep starting new things I’ve bought without finishing what I am reading. It’s my typical mix of novels, history, essays, biography and pop culture, so I find myself dipping in and out of a lot of things.

Having very much enjoyed A Place Both Wonderful and Strange, the book about Twin Peaks, I am also liking Kyle Maclachlan’s bio, Fictional Selves. I have only just started it – though it throws you right in, with his casting in Dune – but so far he is proving a highly engaging narrator.

I also read Jon Ronson’s The Castle: Adventures in a World of Unravelling Men, which was equal parts disturbing and fascinating – the Graham Lin*han chapter about one of media’s most famously public unravellings is particularly unsettling.

[Image description: Kyle Maclachlan’s Fictional Selves]

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.

None of this newsletter is ever written by AI. Any mistakes are mine alone and I apologise for any typos or errors, but hey, at least a human made them.

Happy Halloween, folks! I hope you are having lots of spooky fun. I decided to celebrate the season by not only buying tickets to the fun-sounding horror show It Walks Around the House at Night (this week at Northern Stage) but treating myself to a cross-stitch kit from Newcastle-based crafter Innocent Bones. I worked my way through her entire tarot collection a while back, and some of her Zodiac pieces, so I was excited to see that she’s extended into horror characters: this vampire tarot card hits two of my interests at once so that’ll keep me busy…

And speaking of vampires, which I almost always am, if you fancy a spooky read remember your local theatre writer also writes a fun, sexy series of vampire books and is always grateful for the royalties…

[Image description: cross-stitch kit, The Vampire]

New season at Northern Stage

I mentioned last week that the new season at Northern Stage had gone on sale for members (and that membership is actually pretty great value!).

The new year kicks off with Alistair Whatley in The Importance of Being Oscar, which looks at the life of Oscar Wilde as told from the shadows of Reading Gaol. It’s only on a couple of nights, so keep an eye out.

I love a bit of Ibsen, so I’m definitely going to try and catch local company Elysium’s Ghosts, which is one-night only in Feb, though I expect this will be touring locally.

There’s some great poetry / spoken word stuff coming up, including one-night appearances by Luke Wright and Lemn Sissay. Both are likely to sell out, so get booking.

I’m delighted that the wonderful Richard Marsh is making a reappearance. The creator behind the two-time winner of Great Night Out Award at the acclaimed Tracey’s (yes, er, that’s just me), Die Hard parody Yippee-Ki-Yay turns his attention to another beloved classic, Top Gun in Top Gunchained. A friend of mine has already seen this and recommended, and she has great taste…

(Also, fun fact: I don’t know Marsh at all, but there’s some friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend connection somewhere, because apparently he has one of my Die Hard stitches…) (Sidebar: I LOVE when theatre folk have my stitches, so do always feel free to share pics of them in situ - I know a lot of people have them, especially from my pandemic stitching / giveaway glut!)

There’s actually a few pop culture themed shows coming up, including Pride and Prejudice… But Funny, Tim Foley’s Jurassic, and Brendan Murphy’s Buffy Revamped, which I saw last time it was in town and is a riot, if for no other reason than you get to see a bunch of Gen X women seething about the uselessness that is Riley all over again… Pro-tip: if he is selling merch, buy it before the show if you can. I blithely assumed I could buy some in the bar after but it sold out! I totally had my eye on that Buffy tea towel! And you know I LOVE my merch…

(Also, if you are the friend who said they wanted to see that, please speak up as I remember the conversation but not who I had it with…I would happily sit through it again.)

If physical theatre is your thing, the acclaimed Gary Clarke Company returns with Coal. RPM – which involves circus, dance and roller skating – also sounds fascinating.

There’s also a lot of comedians, and some good stuff for kids (including Horrible Histories) so it’s definitely worth checking out the website, as most of the shows currently listed are on for one night or a few days at most.

At the minute the website doesn’t seem to have any ‘big’ long-run shows, but I’m sure they will be coming and I’ll keep you posted.

Theatre Royal Newcastle new season

The opposite applies to the Theatre Royal, where most of their announced shows are big touring productions. I already have tickets for – and am excited about – Hadestown, but there are some big musical revivals heading back also (Chicago, Jesus Christ Superstar, Grease, Cats, Dirty Dancing, Everybody’s Talking About Jamie). I can take or leave most of those, if I’m honest - Chicago aside, which I’ve now seen a few times, I’m not a massive ‘big musicals’ fan - but I do quite fancy the National Theatre production, The Rise and Fall of Little Voice.

There’s some solid drama lined up, with a Midsomer Murders show, and a theatrical adaptation of SJ Watson’s bestseller Before I Go to Sleep (alas, I could get away with neither the book or the film for that one, so I’ll be skipping that one).

If you want something spooky, you could try Paranormal Activity, or if Hadestown has got you in the mythology mood, you could try comedy Oh Zeus!

There’s some interesting dance and opera stuff, including Matthew Bourne’s Cinderella and Opera North’s Don Giovanni. I’m not always the biggest fan of Russell T Davies, but I am intrigued by the idea of It’s a Sin, Rambert’s new dance offering based on Davies’ TV show. There’s also the opera Dead Man Walking, which is best known as the Susan Sarandon / Sean Penn film.

[Image description: cross-stitch on blood spatter fabric: be afraid, be very afraid]

My theatre diary

Other than It Walks Around the House.., my diary is less packed than usual – though next up is Jane Eyre at Northern Stage, which arrives on the back of a raft of good reviews, so I’m excited to see it. (I should be reviewing this in next week’s Substack.)

What I have been watching

The Diplomat has returned to Netflix, and is providing its usual soapy drama pleasures – Keri Russell is fantastic as the titular diplomat, but I can’t resist the joy of seeing The West Wing’s Alison Janney and Bradley Whitford reunited. I’ve also started watching Murder in a Small Town (also Netflix), which stars the lesser-known Sutherland son, Rossif, as well as Smallville’s Kristin Kreuk and is undemanding entertainment.

Funnily enough - speaking of Buffy Revamped earlier - I have been rewatching some of the TV series and it stands up remarkably well, mostly, though you’re more finely tuned to the subtle (and not-so subtle) misogyny layered throughout watching it this time around (does Anya have to wear a skimpy bra and French knickers to do a musical number when Xander is in full PJs? I don’t think she does...) Superlative musical episode Once More With Feeling actually made my cry, especially now 3 of the cast are no longer with us…

Notebook of the week

I’m a little obsessed by these Designworks Ink notebooks, which you can get from Waterstones and come in a range of spooky / mystic themes, including tarot cards and zodiac signs. (They have apparently released an Odyssey themed one but I have so far been unable to track it down in the UK and googling it just brings up the book or the film, so, y’know, if you find one let me know where…)

[Image description: blue notebook covered in mystic symbols]

What I have been reading

I just started Grady Hendrix’ Witchcraft for Wayward Girls, which is set in a home for unwed mothers in 1970 and I bought on special offer on Kindle. Hendrix specialises in the intersection of horror and systemic misogyny and if I’m not always 100% convinced of the end results, this is the third of his books I’ve read so he must be doing something right…

Also, if you have been following the election news from Brazil and Serbia and are desperately clutching at the hope that brings, I suggest following Natasha Tripney’s Substack, which is of course mostly about theatre (no one does international theatre coverage like Tasha does) but has covered some interesting things about the intersection of protest and theatre / the arts, often written from on the ground in Belgrade.

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

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. Or just come say hi anyway, I love to connect…

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

None of this newsletter is ever written by AI. Any mistakes are mine alone and I apologise for any typos or errors, but hey, at least a human made them.

[Image description: slightly crumpled programme for Our Friends in the North]

Also, an important point. Sometimes people (very kindly) buy me a Ko-fi and go, ‘sorry it’s not much’, or ‘sorry it’s just a Ko-fi’. Or they think leaving a comment or giving a share doesn’t matter. These people are clearly not familiar with writers. We are needy, needy, needy people – and every Ko-fi or nice comment is a shot of validation that hits like a drug. Every single one! So I’m honestly incredibly grateful every single time. Thank you!

As you’ll know if you follow this Substack regularly, this year has been dominated by health issues and stays in hospital, so I was very excited to finally go somewhere for non-medical reasons. (Unfortunately, this was also followed by more bloody hospital appointments - deep sigh. It’s probably a bit depressing that my friends and I are at an age when our big group night out ended with us all toasting the NHS…)

First up, though, a day trip to York to see The Penelopiad at York Theatre Royal. I always enjoy these trips – York is only an hour or so on the train from Newcastle, making a day trip easily do-able, and the Theatre Royal is a lovely venue: comfy seats and plenty of toilets and an interesting programme, often also getting touring shows that never make it to Newcastle (Emma Rice’s Wise Children company is a regular visitor).

The Penelopiad was fantastic. I’m a fan of the Margaret Atwood book it’s based on, and this adaptation fed right into my current interest in all things Homer (except, ironically enough, the film - I’m not a massive Nolan fan). Amelia Bullmore was a wry, witty Penelope, supported by a great (and, I believe, all-female) ensemble. It was a dynamically staged production, leaning heavily on circus arts and rope work that foreshadow the maids’ hanging, and the relationship between Penelope and Odysseus had a compelling, almost casual physicality which I really liked.

(Funnily enough, it also showed that The Stage / Guardian disconnect remains even when it’s not me reviewing, as I was there on my own dime – The Stage gave this four stars, which I would have had I been reviewing it (the friend who was with me rated it 4 or even 5) and The Guardian three-starred it, thereby once again proving that inviting both publications gives you a decent chance of one of us really liking it!)

[Image description: the side of The Citizens Theatre, seen from the street]

Next day I was off to Glasgow for a long weekend – my first overnight trip this year that wasn’t to a hospital! This was also theatre based, as ages ago I booked tickets for These Are Our Neighbours at the Citizens.

Back in the day (waaaaaay back in the day) I was a regular at the Citz, but I haven’t been since it reopened after a long-gestated renovation. I was interested both to see the venue and to see how they managed to transform a film about a mass protest (the wonderful Everybody to Kenmure Street - go watch it now!) into a studio play with a cast of three. (If you are interested in that process, you can read the Exeunt feature here)

Exeunt

Staging a protest

By Maddy Costa…

Read more

2 months ago · 6 likes · Exeunt

I was hugely impressed with the venue – it looks amazing and is much more spacious than it used to be (the studio itself was a decent size, while in the past it was tiny). There’s a nice café area, and plenty of toilets. I do think the studio needs to be more careful when it comes to access: there were three wheelchairs in my matinee performance, and the usher didn’t quite seem to know what to do about that (to be fair to them, a manager came and sorted it quickly, but maybe a bit more training for the junior staff is needed). Plus, once in place the wheelchairs left such a teeny gap between them and the floor lights that people were tripping over the lights and kicking them as they went to their seats, which felt a bit like a health and safety hazard. Designing shows to accommodate the fact that the front row facilitates wheelchairs should surely be more of a consideration?

The actual show itself was great, though. I was surprised and delighted to see a familiar face in the cast – the Tees-based Glaswegian playwright Umar Butt, who I hadn’t realised was also a performer – and I thought the show captured the energy of the film well - plus, of course, the subject couldn’t feel more timely. (Thankfully, as I was sitting in the front row, I managed to keep my ‘wait, I know that guy!’ exclamation as an inside thought.)

Then it was back on the train to be in time for a press night for what might be the most-anticipated show of the year in Newcastle: Our Friends in The North.

A glossy co-production between Live (AD Jack McNamara directed it), the Theatre Royal and Jamie ‘Gerry & Sewell’ Eastlake’s company Eastlake Productions, this new version of the classic TV show wisely cut down the action to one decade – the Thatcher Years. I rewatched the show recently and a lot of it hasn’t aged well, though the epic sprawl remains impressive, and of course the cast are phenomenal. But it a frustratingly male story, and cutting the timeline down really emphasised this, with much of Mary’s plotline condensed or jettisoned (though to be fair, Geordie suffered even more from this: keeping most of the action in the North East was a deliberate - and correct - call but gave him very little of substance to do).

Again, I liked this more than The Guardian – my four stars to their three – but most of the people I spoke to afterwards really enjoyed it, even while acknowledging its flaws, so I stand by my rating!

Out and about in Glasgow and York

I usually stay in my old stomping ground the West End when I am in Glasgow, and this time was no different. I revisited several of my usual haunts – including The Left Bank, which is a lunchtime favourite and does really good food. It was nice to try somewhere new, though: Saffron on Great Western Road does delicious Persian food (a friend insisted I tried the aubergine, which I am not usually a fan of, and my god they were delicious, as was everything I tried – plenty of veggie options). Service was good, too.

More central was Stereo, which also has a ton of veggie options and a funky, friendly vibe.

In York, we went to Avocado Envy for a pre-theatre early lunch. The service was friendly if a bit chaotic – I got the sense that a couple of our servers were new – but the food was great, even if the things my friend and I wanted were off the menu when we asked. Still, a nice place to have lunch, providing you aren’t on a tight schedule; plenty of veggie options and a nice vibe.

What I have been watching

My hosts have Apple TV, so I used that as an excuse to catch up with Slow Horses, which continues to be one of the best things on TV. Of course, I am also excited that both 9-1-1 and its campier, not quite as good spinoff 9-1-1: Nashville have returned for the new season, so that’s my weekend sorted.

What I have been reading

I’ve been massively into pop culture history and analysis this year, so I was intrigued by the premise of Scream With Me, Eleanor Johnson’s book about horror and feminism. Subtitled Horror Films and the Rise of American Feminism (1968-1980), this looks at 6 films of the period – including The Omen, Rosemary’s Baby, Alien and The Shining – and how they reflected and changed the times. I’m only about halfway through, but I am finding it fascinating so far. Also I hate to plug Amazon (except for my books, obvs), but I forgot to pack the copy my friend was going to lend me, and found it on sale for 99p for Kindle, so if you want to bag a bargain…

I also started the second book in Pat Barker’s Women of Troy series, which I took to Scotland as my train read, and it is very good so far.

[Image description: Women of Troy by Pat Barker, on a table next to a croissant]

New seasons announced

I’ll dig more deeply into these next week, but both the Theatre Royal and Northern Stage new seasons have been announced, and supporter tickets are on sale. Northern Stage offers its usual mix of bigger, long-run productions and shorter, often touring shows, with the latter often selling quickly (especially from popular performers such as Luke Wright, who is making a return visit): I went online fairly quickly after I got the email, and some things were already selling fast. So get on it if there’s something you fancy!

I’m not a member of the Theatre Royal – though that’s something I plan to look into next year – but I am of Northern Stage, and will say it’s tremendously good value, offering discounts on shows and in the bar / café (with the caveat that you nearly always have to remind, and double check, that the bar staff have actually applied the discount you are entitled to – it adds up so worth checking before you pay.) But the early booking option can make a big difference, especially if something is popular or in one of the smaller stages, so I would really recommend joining the scheme if you can afford it. Mine easily pays for itself over the course of the year…

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.

None of this newsletter is ever written by AI. Any mistakes are mine alone and I apologise for any typos or errors, but hey, at least a human made them.

Also, an important point. Sometimes people (very kindly) buy me a Ko-fi and go, ‘sorry it’s not much’, or ‘sorry it’s just a Ko-fi’. These people are clearly not familiar with writers. We are needy, needy, needy people – and every Ko-fi or nice comment is a shot of validation that hits like a drug. Every single one! So I’m honestly incredibly grateful every single time. Thank you!

Also, I am still alas v much in the midst of a migraine / insomnia roll, so please excuse any typos.

[Image description: programme for Picnic at Hanging Rock]

Picnic at Hanging Rock at The People’s Theatre

The People’s continues to make interesting programming choices. This week’s offering is Picnic at Hanging Rock, adapted from Joan Lindsay’s 1967 novel by Tom Wright. It tells the story of a group of girls who mysteriously vanish during a daytrip to Hanging Rock (Ngannelong), Australia. It’s probably best known for the acclaimed 1975 film by Peter Weir.

It’s a typically ambitious project for The People’s, which continues its bold programming choices. It’s one of the shows I was most looking forward to so I was excited to be invited to review it. Unfortunately, I wasn’t feeling well for the first half, so this review is only partial. Coming off a week of bad insomnia and migraines (because, yes, as well as all the health stuff I have written about, I am a long-term insomniac and migraine sufferer - betcha wish you were me!) I was feeling a bit spacey and disoriented. It’s hard to be objective about a show when you can’t tell if the lights you are seeing are real or not.

(Pro-tip: do NOT have a glass of wine before you go sit in a dark theatre for an hour if you already feel like crap. You may think a nice glass of red will relax the anxiety of a migraine / insomnia hangover, but it will just leave you woozy and unfocused.)

Anyway, by the time I’d rehydrated with a bottle of water and the Sumatriptan kicked in, I’d lost the thread of some of the plot so was a bit confused – to be fair migraines would make The Gruffalo confusing - so I can’t, in fairness, critique the play, plot or the writing.

So what can I comment on definitively?

I am always a fan of a female-centred story, and the cast – Ashleigh Gloyne, Oryssa Sahota, Ashton Matthews, Abii Smith and Lauren Urmson, all multi-roleing – handled the sometimes-tricky material (and the accents) well. I also felt the writing nicely captured that sense of girls on the brink of womanhood, and the complications that throws up, as well as touching on class, colonialism, gender and the sense of white people as interlopers in a land that predates them.

Director Matthew Hope’s decision to stage in the round gave the piece an undeniable immediacy and intimacy, even if it meant the play lost one of the film’s best supporting characters – the landscape. (The set consisted of little but wooden crates, although these were cleverly utilised.) I’m loving the fact that the theatre is using the studio to stage shows that possibly have less mainstream appeal (such as this, The Wasp and The Goat, or Who is Silvia, though of course both of those have been in the West End / London) but I miss the glorious stage design and production values the main stage usually offers.

All in all, I’d say check it out – and support The People’s so it can keep putting on these interesting choices. And if you miss it, next up is ghost story 2:22, with coming shows including Michael Frayn’s clever farce Noises Off and – the one I am most looking forward to, because I am a history nerd – James Goldman’s Plantagenet play, The Lion in Winter.

Festive shows to book now

The biggest show in town every year is obviously the panto at Newcastle Theatre Royal, which this year is Jack and The Beanstalk. To be honest if you haven’t booked already you might struggle to get a ticket – it’s always a sell-out (though I have it on authority you can sometimes get more availability if you opt for a post-Christmas date). I admit I’ve never seen it – to be honest, I only tend to go to pantos if I am reviewing them – but I know plenty of people for whom this is an annual tradition, so they must be doing something right!

Another annual tradition for a lot of North East families is the panto at the Customs House. This is a smaller, cheaper venue that still feels like a ‘traditional’ theatre so I know that for a lot of people this is often their first panto, a way to try it before shelling out the big bucks at Newcastle. The quality is usually high, and it’s one of my favourite venues, so I would definitely say give it a go. This year’s is Sleeping Beauty.

Northern Stage’s Christmas offering sees Laura Lindow’s take on The Snow Queen returning, in what I am told is a reworked version from the one that has previously been staged. I do love Lindow’s writing, so am keen to see this. The theatre also has a delightful sounding show for the very littlies, The Christmas Sorting Office, which is aimed at the under 5s.

At Live, we also have a returning show, Where do all the Kittiwakes Go? Last year’s run was plagued by illness and a number of performances had to be cancelled – remember how everyone got sick last Christmas?! – so I’m glad to see this getting another go of it, because it sounds really fun. For more grown-up fun, improv group the Suggestibles bring back their popular ‘impro pantso’.

Alphabetti’s festive show continues the drag theme they’ve had for the past few years, with The Delta Quadrant’s Office Christmas Party. I must admit drag isn’t really my thing, so I had no idea the Delta Quadrant was a person, let alone one who’d been on Ru Paul’s Drag Race (OK, even I have heard of that). So this looks like it could definitely be a fun night out.

The Stand’s offering is Snow White vs Cinderella, and with tickets starting at 8 quid it’s definitely one of the most affordable ones out there. To be honest, I thought this was an adults’ show – the website is slightly confusing as each page is headed by an age warning, and I have The Stand in my head as an adults’ only comedy venue – but it actually seems to be a family show with a guidance of ages 5+. There’s also a kids’ menu if you’re eating there. So definitely one to check out.

Over at the Tyne Theatre, Elf the musical is on in November if you want to get in the spirit early. Their panto is Aladdin, and as always they offer a strictly adults-only version, so be careful when you book! There’s also a Step into Christmas concert, and even some festive crafts classes. Check out the website for more.

At the People’s Theatre, the panto is Beauty and The Beast – check out the website for details, including relaxed performances.

Sunderland wins the longest titled show, with its festive offering being another panto, The Further Adventures of Peter Pan: The Return of Captain Hook. This features Boulevard’s Miss Rory, so I have friends who are regulars and say it’s good fun.

The Little Theatre Gateshead is also offering a panto, Robin Hood. I do like this venue, and keep meaning to go see more. (They are staging Arsenic and Old Lace in November, which could be fun.)

Notebook of the week

I’ve decided to start indulging my stationery love by posting pics of some of my favourite notebooks. This is part of a range by Designworks Ink, which is probably my favourite brand at the minute. These are designed to look like the classic editions of vintage novels, including spine lettering, with titles including The Very Tired Woman Journal. You can buy these from retailers including Waterstones.

[Image description: a red notebook adorned with cats and the wording ‘Reasons why I would rather be a cat Volume 1]

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, every single one is a hit of dopamine for me!

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

None of this newsletter is ever written by AI. Any mistakes are mine alone and I apologise for any typos or errors, but hey, at least a human made them.

Before we begin, a little plea: I want to keep this Substack free because I think that’s the best way to spread the word about all the wonderful things happening in the North East arts scene. But it does take time and effort to research and produce – which obviously takes me away from my main, mortgage-paying work, in a year when that’s already been heavily impacted by ill health. So, if anyone can spare a Ko-fi or fancies becoming a paid subscriber to help support my efforts, that would be fab. If you are skint – and, god, who isn’t at the moment? – you can still help by sharing or recommending this. The more people are subscribed, the more I can get the word out and support local artists and companies… (also, if you’ve ever bought tickets to something, or read or watched something because it was mentioned in here, do let me know. I love hearing about it!)

And if you are already a subscriber, or are one of the lovely people who’ve supported me with Ko-fi, thank you. It honestly is very appreciated.

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As we head into spooky season I’ve been sharing some of my favourite stitches on Instagram, so thought I might as well also do that here. Please enjoy this Taylor Swift / American Horror Story mash up (with a pinch of Charles Rennie Mackinstosh - my Glasgow love shining through…).

I’ve gifted a few stitches to people lately, which I always enjoy doing – there’s just something so lovely about seeing my art in other people’s houses. (So if you have one, always feel free to share a pic!) I’m also swithering about doing another stitch giveaway – I got burned quite badly by people promising to pay for postage or gift Ko-fis and then not doing so even when I did personalised stitches for them (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE) so the expense of doing so has put me off. But I have a massive pile sitting around the house so I might as well share them on here until I can figure out what to do with them all…

[Image description: cross-stitch: You wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised me in a font reminiscent of the opening credits of American Horror Story]

A WIP at Arts Centre Washington

I rarely wish I could drive – mostly because I have such bad spatial awareness I recognise that putting me behind the wheel of a car would be catastrophic not just for me but for anyone else in the vicinity. But some venues I like so much I wish I could drive to them more often – ARC Stockton is one, and Arts Centre Washington is another. It really is a delightful venue: a gallery that usually has an interesting exhibition on, a nice bar, and a genuinely well-appointed theatre space (with comfy seats and plenty of legroom!) All the staff seem friendly, too.

So I was thrilled that a friend of mine who does drive agreed to accompany me to a performance of Julie Carter’s work in progress, The Dreamtime Fellrunner. I’ve been to a lot of WIPs and rehearsed readings and I think it’s such a good use of a space. I also think often you can’t really tell if a piece works until you see it on stage, in front of an audience. But this was the first where the performer and director (Dan Bye, whose work I have seen before), didn’t just invite written feedback but actually sat around afterwards and took feedback from the audience – which is incredibly brave!

It was a really interesting piece dealing with trauma, history and how to embrace the good bits of your past without being drowned by the bad bits. I look forward to seeing how it develops – and will keep you posted if it comes back!

If you want to check out / support Arts Centre Washington, they always have a packed programme of classes, exhibitions, screenings and shows. One thing worth checking out for Halloween is a screening of camp classic The Lair of the White Worm, followed by a performance by folk punk quintet Driven Serious.

Speaking of music, the wonderful Lake Poets is just one of the artists performing at the Quite Quiet special in November, which also features David Brewis, Isabel Maria, This Little Bird and Georgia Ruyi, accompanied by the Crude Tarmac String Quintet.

My theatre diary

Last weekend was busy, theatre wise. Friday was An Evening without Kate Bush at Northern Stage, a show I have tried to see on several occasions, but it was always sold out, or I was out of town. I’m not even sure why I was that fussed, as I’m far more a casual than ardent Kate Bush fan.

Anyway, I’m glad I finally made it. Sarah-Louise Young’s one-woman show was a delight, and of course it turns out I know way more Kate Bush songs than I thought I did. Extra props for selling ‘fan of the bush’ brooches. I am a bit evangelical about theatre merch (let fans support you!) especially if it makes me laugh.

Saturday I was back at The Playhouse, Horden, for Ensemble ‘84’s The Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists. Ensemble ’84 has fast become one of my favourite theatre companies, with its bold, ambitious programming, and staging an adaptation of Tressell’s mammoth text is a good example of that. This wasn’t my favourite show of theirs – it lacked the plot and character of Hamlet or Mother Courage, which were both outstanding – but it was passionate and sincere, and the company is always worth a visit. Just remember to take a cushion, because those seats are BRUTAL. (They are very OK with this, btw, and aware of the uncomfy seating issue, which they tell me they are looking into tackling - but I noticed a lot of my fellow theatre-goers had brought their own cushions).

Ok, full disclosure: I actually saw two and a half shows this weekend. Sunday night was Daniel Kitson: Thrum at Northern Stage. The evening felt a bit doomed from the start for me when I turned up to find the run time was 35 minutes longer than they’d said in the pre-show email, and it was actually 1 hr 45 minutes without an interval (though Kitson did at least acknowledge it was OK to go out if you needed a break).

But I also hadn’t realised it was stand up not theatre (I do have a bit of a habit of booking things without reading what they are about…) and after half an hour or so my energy and my back were both starting to wilt, so I bailed. (In my defence: I’d had a stressful health week and still struggle with the core strength needed to sit through a longer show, so three shows in a row was optimistic. This is also why I book aisle seats, so I can bail discreetly if needed…). Everyone else seemed to have a great time, though, so don’t listen to me.

Theatre to book now

On show that definitely sounds worth your time is World’s on Fire, which comes to ARC Stockton next week. Presented by Little Cog, Our Stomping Grounds and ARC, and written and directed by Vici Wreford-Sinnott, this ambitious show features a mix of professional and community performers, and even has a choir (so I’d definitely cry: I remain convinced that working class Northerners are hard-wired to weep at choirs).

As you’d expect from Wreford-Sinnott and Little Cog, access is a key feature and the website is admirably detailed on access needs. The show is pay what you feel and there’s a matinee if you can’t do evenings.

You can read my interview with Wreford-Sinnott on theatre and disability activism here:

Exeunt

'It's not just about lifts and ramps – it's about attitudes and biases'

By Tracey Sinclair…

Read more

2 years ago · 9 likes · Exeunt and Tracey Sinclair

What I have been reading

I got a ton of book tokens for my birthday, because my friends are generous and know I am a massive nerd. My most recent purchases, both of which I started reading straight away, are both non-fiction.

The House of Cromwell by Miranda Malins is a look at the two Cromwells who helped shape modern Britain, Thomas and Oliver. As someone who adores Wolf Hall, this chunky tome is very much up my street.

Full disclosure (again): I have never read an Agatha Christie book. The closest I have come is reading that collection of Miss Marple stories by different writers that was released a few years ago (called, pithily, Marple). But I have watched probably every adaptation ever (favourite: Joan Hickson, who will always be my Marple). But I do love reading about other people reading - as previously mentioned, I am a massive nerd. After I enjoyed Caroline Bicks’ Monsters in the Archives, a book on Stephen King – whose novels I have also never read – I thought I would try The Agatha Christie Cure, by Cathy Rentzenbrink. In this, the author tries to tackle the simmering unhappiness of middle age, menopause, a struggling marriage and a world on fire by rereading her beloved Christie. I’m enjoying it so far, and learning a lot about one of England’s most prolific writers.

[Image description: The Agatha Christie Cure by Cathy Rentzenbrink]

A new coffee spot in Newcastle

Finally, if you fancy somewhere new to get your coffee, Café Mercy on Grey Street is now hosting Morning Cloud during the day, so you can get coffees, matchas (I remain unsure what these actually are, but everyone seems to like them) and pastries there. They seem to be doing a lot of special offers around it - I just got an email with a 50% off code for today - so worth checking their Instagram or signing up to their mailing list to see if you can get some money off!

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.

None of this newsletter is ever written by AI. Any mistakes are mine alone and I apologise for any typos or errors, but hey, at least a human made them.

This week is very literary as it looks at two festivals based on two famous dead writers, and a book festival with some very live guests… (see under ‘what I have been reading’ for details of the book fest.)

[Image description: poster for Catherine Cookson Festival]

Catherine Cookson Festival at the Assembly Rooms

One of the best things about my job is it gives me an excuse to visit some great buildings. Yesterday I was in the Assembly Rooms, a gorgeous building 5 mins away from Central Station that I have walked past about 1,000 times without ever seeing inside. (In fact, I sorta thought it was a Wetherspoons…)

Fortunately, it is NOT a Wetherspoons. It’s actually a gorgeous venue that has an increasingly vibrant arts programme. I was there for a press launch for one of their key events: the inaugural Catherine Cookson Festival, which comes to the venue next spring.

Centred on three major theatrical events – a new one-woman one show based on Tilly Trotter, adapted and directed by Jamie Brown, festival director; a large-scale revival of Rob Bettinson’s adaptation of The Fifteen Streets; and a family show – a new adaptation of Cookson’s children’s story, Nancy Nuttall and the Mongrel.

For anyone under 30, it may be hard to imagine the level of fame Cookson enjoyed at its height. I used to work in a bookshop and you would not believe how many of her books we sold, especially around Christmas and Mother’s Day. The TV adaptations were beloved - not least by one of my friends, who got her living room redecorated for free because they filmed in her house* - and she helped regenerate the local tourist industry with the regional branding of Catherine Cookson Country.

It might seem odd to stage performances of her deeply working class stories in such an opulent setting – The Fifteen Streets is going to be staged in the ballroom, which is fancy. But the team seem committed to not just revitalising Cookson’s work but ensuring a wide range of demographics are welcomed, with family events, screenings of the TV shows, heritage craft classes and writing workshops.

I’ve seen some of Brown’s work in the past and he has a real feel for - and is passionate about - working class voices, so I’m optimistic about this.

The festival runs from 29 April – 14 May next year. Not all details are finalised, but you can sign up to updates here.

*Much like with Vera today, you always knew someone who knew someone involved in the filming of a Catherine Cookson adaptation.

Also at the Assembly Rooms

If you can’t wait till then to check out the chandeliers, the Assembly Rooms has plenty to offer this year.

Later this month, they are staging The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, while in November there is a festival celebrating another writer who was interested in social causes – Charles Dickens.

The Dickens Festival North has a range of events, including – splendidly – the Puppet Folk Experience, which includes a tribute to the Muppets. There’s also an adaptation of ghost story The Signalman. Gerald Dickens (yes, relation) looks at Dickens’ life in Mr Dickens is Coming, and there’s even a ‘dinner and theatrical experience’ available, Dickens Unbound and a city walk, In Dickens’ Footsteps.

Dickens by Candlelight is an event by the same team – not at the Assembly Rooms, but at Alderman Fenwick’s House (located not far from the Tyneside Cinema), giving you an excuse to spy out yet another fancy venue. I went here a couple of years ago – my main memory is the card machine crashed, and I didn’t have enough cash for a drink, so I was mildly annoyed! It’s more festive than theatrically strong, but it makes for a great pre-Christmas night out so understandably tends to sell out – so book now! (And take cash, just in case…)

Out and about in Whitley Bay

I was at the coast at the weekend, which is always a treat, even if I didn’t get to see much of the sea. I had some birthday book tokens (did I tell you it was my birthday? DID I? Feel free to buy me a Ko-fi about it!), so my friend and I decided to head to one of our favourite bookshops, The Bound. A small but well-stocked bookshop in the trendy Park View area, this is part of the indie Forum chain, and is always a delight: friendly, knowledgeable staff, and an eclectic stock. It will surprise no one I overspent well over the amount of book tokens I had!

That still didn’t stop us making a trip to Keel Row Books, which is just down the road. This lovely second hand bookshop sells everything from rare editions to used paperbacks, and has the added bonus of just being a lovely space – all book lovers should check it out.

For coffee, we started off at The Rustic Cup, a very nice coffee shop, then went to Crumb, which has been on my to-do list for a while. Specialising in sweet and savoury crumbles, this is perfect if you like your desserts old school. I had the apple crumble and hot custard (they serve it hot or cold) and was a very satisfied customer.

What I have been reading - plus a book festival

One of the books I bought on Saturday which was so good I finished it already was The Book Was Better, by Louise Willder. A rollicking, gossipy and opinionated look at literary adaptations good and bad, this was a delight.

I’ve also just started Rotten Heart, which I also bought at Forum. Author Kat Dunn - whose novel Hungerstone I loved - is one of the authors appearing at the Haunted Page festival, which is a collab between Forum Books and North Shields Library. (Other authors are Rachel Harrison, Seren Hawley-Plows and CJ Cooke, and there is a Dead Ink Books Panel.) It runs from 9 October (Harrison) to 26 October (the panel) and details are on Forum’s Instagram (confusingly, their handle is ‘forumbookscorbridge’ but that covers all bookshops in the chain.)

Also, do remember: local bookshops contribute to the economy and local ecosystem in a way that Amazon never will, and they do so with none of the tax breaks. While I recognise not everyone is in a position to boycott them - I’d be a hypocrite to say so, since I literally talk about an Amazon Prime show in this newsletter and encourage you to buy my books via Amazon (I think there’s a more nuanced conversation around indie authors than space allows) - I would encourage you to support your local store, even if it’s just buying your birthday cards there.

[Image description: playscript for All At Sea, and a glass of wine]

My theatre diary

I have a ton of shows lined up – more on those next week – but this week was the press night for Alison Carr’s All at Sea, at Live. I didn’t like this quite as much as some people did – it got 4 stars from The Guardian, whereas I thought it a solid 3-star show (to be fair, The Guardian’s North East reviewer and I have very different tastes and it’s rare we have a consensus as to whether something is good or bad. I often say you should definitely invite both of us, on the basis that chances are, one of us will like it!). So why not go along and see which of us you agree with?

Speaking of Live, I have mentioned this before but I have it on good authority that No Apologies, Emma Frankland’s play on gender, sexuality and Kurt Cobain, is a corker: you can see it at Live or try and catch it at the Traverse in Edinburgh in November.

[Image description: The Book Was Better by Louise Willder]

What I have been watching

Reacher has been such a smash hit for Prime that it’s hardly surprising they’ve sought to extend that universe, greenlighting a spin-off featuring one of its strongest recurring characters, Reacher’s friend and former colleague, Neagley (Maria Sten).

For cross-selling purposes, it’s book-ended by guest appearances by Alan Ritchson as Reacher, fresh from the latest series of his own show (which still failed to recapture the magic of the excellent season 1, but was at least better than last year’s disappointing offering). But Neagley is a very different beast. For a start, she’s far more grounded than her nomadic pal, with a job and an ailing father to tether her. When an old friend dies in – surprise – mysterious circumstances, she gets drawn into investigating a religious cult led by a scenery devouring Damon Herriman (Dewey Crowe from Justified, having the time of his life).

Neagley won’t rock your world, but it’s a solid, female-led drama that also avoids some of the clichés I feared it might give into, and I found it very watchable.

The Marble Hall Murders is the latest in The Magpie Murders series. I always find the naming conventions of these a little confusing: it makes sense to name them after the books they are based on, and obviously novels need fresh titles, but renaming every season of this connected series means that they often fly under the radar. My planner doesn’t automatically record them, and ‘murders’ is such a generic identifier that they often slip under my notice. (I almost ignored the second instalment, The Moonflower Murders, because I had no idea they were connected).

Anyway, this smart crime series – in which present day murders are reflected in the historical setting of a crime novel – is highly watchable. The plots are fairly generic, but the mirroring is clever and it’s fun seeing the recognisable faces of British Actors ™ wrestling with both period and contemporary roles in the same show. Plus, as a book nerd, I always enjoy things set in the publishing world.

You can find The Marble Hall Murders on BBC iPlayer.

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.

None of this newsletter is ever written by AI. Any mistakes are mine alone and I apologise for any typos or errors, but hey, at least a human made them.

[Image description: champagne cocktail flecked with gold]

My theatre diary

I saw a couple of shows over the last week or so. The Departure at Alphabetti was billed as a WIP, although I notice it already has some London dates, so I suspect this was more of a regional soft launch. I do think it needs more development: the performances were solid, but at around 80 minutes, it was overlong and under characterised, turning what could have been an interesting study of grief into something too thin to be affecting. Still, I do love that Betti is doing these WIP nights, and hope to get along to more.

Othello at Northern Stage was a much glossier production, and it will be touring after its run, including in Glasgow (it’s a Citz coproduction). Relocating the action to the Falklands War, it was a solid production with some nice touches, though fell short of memorable for me. You can read my review for The Stage here.

Out and about in Heaton and Byker

I previously wrote about my aborted mission to go to The Sinful Spine’s packed out opening weekend, but my friend and I managed to finally get there this weekend. I must admit I wasn’t sure what to expect from a romance only bookshop, as that’s not really a genre I read.

[Image description: lushly decorated interior of The Sinful Spine]

There’s certainly much to like. The décor gives the place a lush and decadent air, and they’ve leaned heavily into the themes – there’s even a ‘pitch black’ room for the dark romance section. I admit I didn’t care for much of the stock – man, there’s a lot of AI-generated covers in this genre, which makes me very suspicious of the content – and I would have liked to see some more mainstream romance / romance-adjacent titles in there. Customer service-wise, also, they still seem to be finding their feet, judging how long it took us to get served for a coffee, though the staff were friendly enough. It’s probably not somewhere I’d go back to, but I’m glad I went, and genre romance fans should definitely check it out.

But all of my quibbles should be taken with the caveat that I am very much not the target audience. We went quite early, and by the time we were leaving the place was starting to get packed, so clearly there is an audience, and they understand and cater to it well.

Plus, an indie, female-led and female-centred shop where women aren’t ridiculed for their reading tastes sounds like nothing but good to me and I hope it will thrive.

(It also sells some merch, so I felt like I was doing my bit to support it by buying a load of bookmarks…)

While in the neighbourhood, we went to a Mexican restaurant my friend recommended. Chucho’s was indeed a delight: friendly service, nice vibes, and delicious food. Plenty of vegetarian options, too, although their desserts are a bit nutty so I didn’t get to try them – though by the time I’d finished with the tasty main course (and a very nice margarita) I was far too stuffed to eat any sweets…

[Image description: two plates of Mexican food on brightly coloured tablecloth]

(Early) birthday cake

Speaking of sweets, I finally got to see what the fuss over Savour Bakery is about this week. While I haven’t managed to go to their queues-down-the-street Gateshead shop yet, they do now have a concession in Fenwick’s food hall. It isn’t cheap – my strawberry and blood orange croissant was about 7 quid – but wow, is it good. The staff were also lovely and friendly. Plus, the portions are very generous: my croissant was huge and stuffed with so much delicious creamy filling I needed a lie down afterwards.

We also had cocktails upstairs in Fenwick’s at Mother Mercy, the first time I’ve been since it moved from its basement spot. It leans more heavily than the standalone bars on the premium pours, so can be more expensive if you’re not careful, though it had my favourite champagne cocktail that the other bars tend not to offer (a gold-flecked sgroppino) and it was my birthday celebration so I allowed myself to indulge…

I also noticed Fenwick’s food hall has a Pink Lane Bakery concession now, so you can stock up on your favourite treats all in one place…

What I have been reading

This week I finished Percival Everett’s The Trees, which a friend sent me and which I have been recommended by many people. Honestly, I’m still not sure what I feel about it, though I’m glad I read it. Focused on racism and the long-term social and historical effects of lynching and racial violence, and reflecting that in its language and action, it’s not an easy book, but it is a thought-provoking and challenging one.

It has an approach to comic horror and characterisation that doesn’t really align with my tastes, which made me struggle with the text at first. But Everett is a master stylist, completely in charge of his craft, and the book progresses from its deliberately strange opening into something tightly compelling and wholly original. Recommended.

Theatre to book next

Next up at The People’s Theatre is the Arthur Miller classic, A View from the Bridge. As ever, this production only runs for a week, so be sure to get booking!

Anyway, thanks again for reading – please do share with your friends! Every new subscriber really does give me a boost - and did I mention, it’s my birthday? 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 Wasp]

The Wasp at the People’s Theatre

Note: this review contains some spoilers, though I have tried to avoid giving away the big twists.

The People’s continues its habit of bold programming with this dark, twisty thriller by Morgan Lloyd Malcolm. Directed by Rhiannon Wilson, this two hander stars Annie Elizabeth Cairns and Hattie Eason as two former childhood friends who reconnect later in life.

The production is admirable in a lot of ways, even if much of it didn’t work for me. Cairns and Eason excel in a couple of very tough roles, neither given much of a breather as the emotional intensity ramps up. The intimate space of the studio is a great setting, because there’s no room to look away, no matter how upsetting things get.

The design (by Annelise Clifton and Stewart Dives) was as clever as you’d expect from The People’s, even if the stage set itself was fairly minimal, most of the work being done by some unsettling art. Karen Dales and Karl Burr’s lighting and Craig Fairbairn’s sound were also utilised well.

The drama was undermined slightly by the unnecessary decision to stage in the round, which meant for a lot of the time parts of the audience are looking at the back of someone’s head. The cast and direction do well within the confines of that choice, but it felt limiting. The People’s studio is a flexible space and I like that they’re experimenting with it, but I think this would have worked much better with traditional staging.

Some of the writing itself jarred, also. I’ve spoken before about how I dislike working class clichés, so it annoyed me that school bully Carla is basically portrayed as a chavvy slapper from an abusive household, while the victim of her bullying Heather is the nice middle class girl from the functional family. I get what this is trying to do when the twists start coming – usurp our ideas of who each woman is and how appearances can be deceptive – but I still felt like this fed into unnecessary, damaging tropes. And though it was satisfyingly twisty, even at 90 minutes straight through I felt the last part dragged, with what amounted to a good ten minutes of supervillain monologuing.

But, as ever, a trip to the People’s is a worthwhile experience – I applaud a bold swing even if it’s a miss for me.

(Also give yourself plenty of time to enjoy the photography exhibition in the bar, which is well worth checking out. And the bar staff are lovely, so support ‘em by buying a drink!)

You can catch The Wasp until 12 September, and the next production is A View From a Bridge.

Content warning (spoilery): The play deals with some very tough subjects, including bullying, physical and sexual assault, and the threat of an unborn child in peril. The intimate nature of the venue and the ‘no interval’ format means it’s quite in your face, so be sure to check out the content warnings the theatre has provided.

Theatre to book now

If you are free this Friday, why not pop along to Live Theatre for their panel discussion, The Radical North East: Is This Our Moment?

Created to accompany the upcoming production of Our Friends in The North, the panel is chaired by New Statesman editor Tom McTague, and includes North East Mayor Kim McGuinness, Labour MP for Newcastle Central & West Constituency Dame Chi Onwurah MP, Middlesborough playwright, Ishy Din and author of The North Will Rise Again – which is currently sitting on my bookshelves so I’m taking this as a prompt to read it – Alex Niven.

The Lawnmowers on tour

Gateshead company The Lawnmowers have produced some great pieces over the last few years, so I am hoping to catch their latest, ‘It’s a Wonderful Us’ when it tours.

Written and directed by Steve Gilroy, it’s a story based on one of the company member’s experiences of growing up in the care system, but it’s also a show all about their love of old school Tommy Cooper / Morecambe and Wise variety-style performances, so promises a lot of laughs.

The company, which is run for and by people with learning difficulties, often tackles the prejudices faced by their community, but does so with sharpness and humour. (I loved Retake, Remake, which deftly and hilariously skewered Hollywood portrayals of individuals with learning disabilities).

The tour includes Northern Stage, Arts Centre Washington and venues in Hexham, Scarborough and York, so do catch it if you can.

[Image description: a table centrepiece, featuring a book, electric candle and flowers]

A cute new café

As you know I spend my life in search of nice places to have coffee and cake, so I was overjoyed to discover The Lunar Café in Gateshead at the weekend. A chill, friendly vibe, good coffee and fantastic cakes as well as a selection of savoury food is accompanied by some fun merch on sale. The café is on Southend Road and you can find them on Instagram (it’s a very Instagrammable venue).

They are leaning heavily into autumn aesthetic, so now is the perfect time to check them out…

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.

Bowes Museum - Vivienne Westwood: Rebel – Storyteller – Visionary

I have a terrible habit of seeing an exhibition I would love to go to announced, then ignoring its existence for months until I finally scrabble to see it just before it closes. This week was no exception, as I finally got around to going to Bowes Museum to see Vivienne Westwood: Rebel – Storyteller – Visionary, which closes this weekend.

[Image description: a leather Vivienne Westwood corset top framed in a gilt frame]

I’ve long been a fan of Westwood. I fell in love with her designs and aesthetic as a teen and never fell out of love. I am actually lucky enough to own / have owned a few pieces – mostly gifts or bought heavily discounted in the sales, because that shit ain’t cheap. So this was a bit of a no brainer which… um, still took me 6 months to get round to.

This was my first time visiting Bowes, a purpose-built museum near Barnard Castle. It’s a gorgeous space, set in lush grounds, with a mix of permanent and temporary exhibitions and a nice gift shop and café (though, alas, the latter was too busy for us to try).

The exhibition wasn’t huge, but did feature a range of key pieces that spanned Westwood’s career, and some footage of old catwalks (which did a good job of reigniting my teenage girlcrush on model Sara Stockbridge, who for years I thought was the hottest / coolest person on the planet).

Bowes also has a well-curated range of historical textiles / fashion and these well were juxtaposed with the Westwood pieces, showing her influence writ large (there were a couple of pieces I had to double check which exhibition they sat in!)

A day ticket to Bowes is £20 – but you can get an annual pass for £28 so if it’s somewhere you think you can revisit, it’s worth shelling out a bit extra. Discounts for locals are available.

As the café was too busy, we went into Barnard Castle for lunch – it’s a very picturesque town centre. In-keeping with my mission to seek out indie bookstores, I also checked out Wilde Books, a cute little second hand bookshop / café where you can check out its decent range of stock or lounge in a comfy armchair eating cake.

[Image description: the exterior of Bowes Museum]

Kurt Cobain comes to Newcastle (sorta)

Every year, there’s one show that comes out of Ed Fringe that friends who know my tastes tell me I MUST see. A couple of years ago it was My Mother’s Funeral, which I felt cursed not to see as every time it was in Newcastle, I wasn’t. Last year, it was Emma Frankland’s No Apologies, which lands in Newcastle in October as part of a tour which also includes Edinburgh (in November) and London.

Reimagining the iconic Nirvana MTV Unplugged concert - I may have listened to this album approximately 5 million times - this posits the question: ‘was / what if Kurt Cobain was trans?’ and uses this as a jumping off point for an exploration of gender and queerness. My sources tell me it’s bold, emotional, visually appealing and thought-provoking, so do check it out when it comes to Live. (It’s only on two nights - so get booking!)

You can also read more about this on Natasha Tripney’s Substack:

Café Europa

Banding together: Emma Frankland's No Apologies goes on tour in the Balkans

Hello, from London, where I recently arrived after a theatre-packed weekend in Vienna (more on this next week). This week’s newsletter is, however, on the work of theatre-maker Emma Frankland and No Apologies, her show about Kurt Cobain - but also about figuring out who you are - which just concluded a micro-tour of the Balkans…

Read more

4 months ago · 4 likes · Natasha Tripney

What I have been watching

I feel like I was ahead of the curve in recognising Adam Scott was a talented dramatic actor long before Severance proved it beyond doubt. So it’s nice to see him get more dramatic roles (though I must admit my recent rewatch of The Good Place reminded me what a sublime comic actor he is, too).

The Whisper Man is a Netflix adaptation of the best-selling Alex North thriller. I read the book years ago and remember being quite gripped by it, so I was excited to see this, even if I couldn’t remember the details of the plot. In the event, this is very much a Netflix film: a lot of money spent on the IP and cast (which alongside Scott includes Robert De Niro, Michael Keaton, Michelle Monaghan and Hamish Linklater) and very little on the writing.

Scott is great as a grieving widower who returns to his hometown only to have his young son kidnapped, and the film is entertaining enough to kill a couple of hours without ever capturing the eerie tension of the novel.

(If you want another Scott project that too many people slept on, check out another Netflix film, Little Evil. This surprisingly smart and sweet comedy horror sees Scott become stepfather to a child that is possibly the Antichrist, possibly just a A Very Naughty Boy, and has an awful lot of fun with horror tropes).

I mentioned HBO’s Lanterns previously. The most recent episode (it drops weekly) got review bombed for daring to centre a Black man and racial politics, but don’t let the racists put you off: it continues to be a smart, contemporary look at superheroes that is big on humanity and small on special effects.

What I have been reading

Speaking of superheroes, I discovered at the weekend the DC Compact Comics series. These are graphic novels / comics released in a paperback-sized (and priced) format that includes some of DC’s most iconic recent titles, including Kingdom Come, Watchmen, Mister Miracle, Hellblazer and Batman: Hush and Court of Owls. The format occasionally makes the artwork harder to follow, since it’s squished to a size it wasn’t designed for, but I think this is a great initiative. Not only does it make them more portable, but it makes them so much more affordable – one of the reasons I hardly read graphic novels or comics anymore is the cost.

The ones I saw were all priced around 8.99, which is a big difference from the price of a graphic novel these days, which can easily tip to over 20 quid. Just don’t do what I do, which was get so confused by the new covers that I bought one I’d already read (and disliked!) first time around…

[Image description: Batwoman: Elegy in compact comics format - this isn’t the one I didn’t like!]

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.

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

3 months 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.