Then it was off to see Wuthering Heights: The Ballet at the Royal Opera House. This was actually a great show, all 70 minutes of it, doing a nice job of telling a story without being too literal and with lots of good movement. And beforehand, I ran into Clement Crisp, the ballet reviewer for the Financial Times, and I pretty well fangrrled myself into oblivion. Meeting Neil Gaiman? No biggie. Meeting Clement Crisp? I spent the entire ballet going over what I'd said to him, even though I worked hard to avoid any sort of eye contact or anything else afterwards (don't want to make a fool of myself). I think he's the best dance writer out there, and I actually managed to ask him the key question: what books would you recommend I read to improve my writing? I've got three books to look at now (well, to buy first), and high hopes. I'll send him a thank you note later; he says he doesn't get that internet thing.
While we got back not too late, the damned brownies had failed to magically clean my house, so it was dishes time last night, which meant a lovely experience scraping congealed bacon fat off of the bottom of the sink (I'm not sure who put the grease filled pan into hot water, but we need to have words about this). Still, I was in bed by 11:15 (thanks to the computer taking so long to fire up I got frustrated and gave up). Tonight: play at Southwark then packing. Hopefully I'll get the ballet review done in my down time today.