Was, very kindly, invited to the opening night of Homeland by Paul Mercier at the Abbey Theatre. I enjoyed the energy of the play and the subject matter, the performances were great, and I hope the loyal Passion Machine audience throngs the National. I found some scenes very inventive and funny, but I wasn’t moved as I would have liked. I think there’s always a danger when a writer directs his own play, a necessary dialogue doesn’t happen.

What was surreal for me was that people from my former life as an actor were everywhere in the audience, and if I name them here it would make this blog into a different sort of online diary, more gossippy and name-dropping than seems right. Some lovely people, most of whom I had not seen in fifteen years at least. A few people commented on my lack of hair – I had long curly brown locks back then. A couple of people said they’d read my book, which threw me, I wasn’t expecting that.

I remember the carefully disguised hysteria of opening nights, the furiously casual but serious networking, the simmering collective anxiety about whether the evening was a success or not. I stood there, in the bar afterwards, just watching for a while, as everyone was doing the cross-pollination dance, like bees to flowers. I was aware of a strong nostalgia for the excitement of it all, remembering shows I used to be in, being part of that wonderful collaborative effort that is theatre. But I’m glad my career/income/life doesn’t depend anymore on making the right connections at opening nights, such as last night.