Murder. Just murder.

Five minutes ago you would have found me wearing a long, black, curly wig and pouting at the mirror. It wasn’t my intention to look like a total twat, it never is, but it’s a sacrifice I will have to make for the gods of murder mystery. That’s where we’re heading tonight. To Romford. For a murder mystery. As if Romford doesn’t get enough of those already. If I’m honest I could quite happily punch the sod who invented the murder mystery. They seem to bring more hassle than they’re ever worth and, like the box opening at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, can often leave me with a yawning jaw and a melting face.

Of course I don’t like them. I wouldn’t be me if I did. ‘The wife’ on the other hand loves them. Of course she does, because she’s normal and likes doing things that are fun and sociable. Earlier today she spent four hours (four hours!!!) grappling with a ludicrous trifle recipe, courtesy of Tamasin Day-Lewis. The actual talent clearly stopped at Daniel because the recipe is so laughably pretentious and long-winded that at one point I thought it was Sunday. At a push I reckon most trifles should take 30 minutes, though to be fair I usually only eat the custard and cream, so what does my opinion matter.

Anyway I’m set to play some long haired pirate/privateer/Jamaican governor type and to do so have hired some manky, never been washed, theatre clothes which may bring an extra whiff of authenticity by lending me crabs and a salty rash for the next week. I’ll have to do an accent and remember a few things about my character and listen to a preposterous CD trying to explain an inexplicable plot and everyone else will be dressed up too and if I don’t enjoy it then oh boy will I be in trouble!

We’re due to leave at six (it’s just gone six) which means we’ll leave at half past so I’m keeping out of the way until the magnificent ‘the wife’ has finished her intricate preparations. I should have finished this ages ago but my computer decided to shut down and ‘install’ stuff as well as ‘reconfigure’ some other stuff which took about as long as it would take me to build a working computer from scratch. Using only pork scratchings. Mind you I don’t want to get caught out so I’m going to finish up and get ready whilst simultaneously not hassling the delectable Mrs H. I’m playing a privateer/Jamaican governor type not ‘man with no remaining trace of testicles’. Aaaarrggghh.

G B Hewitt 14.5.2016

If you’re good I might tell you all about it tomorrow.

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