The car is making me sick. I don’t know if it’s the driving or being in the backseat, but I don’t like being in a car anymore. It could be the routine of driving to one place then coming back and knowing there is nothing significant on route. No changes, no spontaneity—we leave, we get there, we come back. Something about it makes me sick.

Those white slabs of wood I saw by at least seventy seats in the audience turned out to be tables. Yes, I’m doing dinner theatre. This is a first for me and that is not a boast.