Do you remember the insane project about Charlotte Brontë and problem kids? It was truly insane – and you’d think I should have known to run like the wind…

I should have, indeed, and very much wish I had. Instead, like a gudgeon, I took the bait, and let myself be dragged into one of my worst work experiences so far. Truly,  truly, this is a nightmare. It was april when I accepted, and ever since I’ve been asking questions – and nobody ever bothered to answer. I’m not talking about quantum physics here. Just plain, easy, reasonable questions, like How did you do these past three years? Just how many performances must we juggle? Can I have the titles? Who are the authors coming to talk to the children? How relevant do you want the Brontë angle to be?

You see? Nothing too taxing, I’d say. And yet, this afternoon we have the first event, and some answers are still in the air.

Yes – the first event, because there are two, and they told me well after I’d stated my fee… It should have been a reason to walk away – and why I didn’t I don’t know. And I can’t seem to make these people see that a certain spontaneous goofiness is cute in a teenager – but not, not, not in an adult who makes part of her living speaking in public, and I must have at least an idea of what is going to happen. Another not exactly sidereal notion – but no. No matter how much I ask, nobody ever bothers to answer usefully. It’s as though I kept asking the time, and had to call myself lucky when anyone bothers to answer it’s Thursday…

I’m a tad homicidal. The other day I unleashed my inner T-rex on one of the coordinators. Luckily we were on the phone, twenty kilometers away from each other – or I’d be writing this in jail. This afternoon I’ll meet her, and I can’t answer for myself. I told her, in no uncertain terms that, if she tells me even once more that she doesn’t see what I’m fretting about, there will be consequences – but she doesn’t exactly strike me as one who can take a hint… Oh, why, why, why did I return home at all? Why didn’t I abscond in Oxford?

Ah well. What’s the worst that can happen? At worst, I’ll make a cake of myself and wreck my reputation, right? And/or I’ll commit that homicide. I’ll let you know – but if Scribblings goes silent, you’ll know why.

Salva