Thursday, June 27 9:36 PM

That's one of the guys who starts BSing as early as possible. Nothing to say and they never stop saying it.

We went to the venue to see how it’s set up. Charming little theater in Southwold.

Since I’m running the show off my iPad, I have to get the video and audio out through HDMI to the projector. Last year I ran the show through a TV, but no such simplicity here. We were assured that all was ready and it was quite easy, and I believe that’s the case.

The problem is the next gig. Upon discussing the setup today, I learned that the projector does not have audio output. This is a very big problem. At first we weren’t sure, since they’d loaned the projector out to someone. Could you perhaps ring them up and take a picture of the back, with the model number? Ever so grateful. Once I got that I looked up the manual - it’s 10 years old - and discovered our problem. It has a speaker but no output. Well, we’ll have to rent one, then.

It took quite a few back-and-forths to figure out what we need and who has what, cord-and-dongle wise, but I think we’re good. If not it’s all for naught.

Fingers crossed on that one. Fingers crossed for tomorrow’s show as well, I suppose, but I don’t really have any fears or worries and I don’t care if the house is full or not. Great thing about the venue: if you die on stage, there’s a graveyard right out the door where they can plug you.

In the evening: worked on the show, tweaking and perfecting, sharing a scotch and an egg custard with Natalie, who is content to come to the Hutt in the evening and read and scroll. It is one of the constants, I am lucky to say: the two of us at this table, just working or reading, once a year. She takes long, long walks every day in the heath and the brambles, leading to the ocean, in which she walks while listening to this or that, snapping pictures of things. This place means as much to her as it does to me, and I love that.

At this point in the trip I am fully delusional in the belief that I have a sense of belonging here. Hah! The actual residents are the people whose great-grandmothers are mouldering in the graveyard down the road, and everyone else is a newcomer, but if I say I belong, then by the ghost of the Black Dog I belong.

One last edit of the show, and then to bed.

FRIDAY, June 28th 11:29 PM

Don't worry, that's before they opened the doors.

Got up, bustled to the kitchen in a fine mood, whistling the Couple Next Door show’s theme, started making eggs and bacon. It takes a day but after that I am at home making my own breakfast, including a piece of toast with a lomtick of preserves. Denis' Telegraph sits on the table, unread, untouchable. I know better.

But this morning while scrambling the eggs, I’m handed the phone. It’s the theater. They’re doubting that my USB/HDMI cord is long enough. Do I have another? An extender? A female / female connector? I do not. They mention some other possibilities and say it’ll be sorted, never worry.

But of course I do. We arrive at 9:15, well in advance of the 11 AM start. Turns out my cord is fine. We do a quick technical run-through with mikes on to get the feel of the hall, after which something is blown and an ungodly quantity of feedback erupts from the sound system. The stage manager and his assistant go to work on it - it’ll be sorted, never worry. 10:50, usual impatience - let’s go! 11, music down, lights down, and here - we - go. The story of Peg Lynch in a new format, with interviews, letters, clips from the show.

Walk out, applause, nice crowd! This all depends on the iPad program working, and I unlock it, hit the keynote address, hit play, tap the screen to start the video, and walk back to the wings. Then one more wipe and tap to start the first audio clip, then I start. Even though we have scripts I’m pretty much off book at this point, so I’m able to address the audience directly without notes. Astrid joins, and we’re off.

An hour later:

The rest of the day was all sugar and cake - lunch at a highly-regarded Southwold cafe that sourced everything from an allotment out back, and had many-adjective dishes and sandwiches that everyone agreed were entirely over-estimated by every credulous reviewer. But it was fun.

In the evening a merry band came over. Paul, former BBC TV presenter who would be sailing off to France in his boat the next day; Libby P., Times columnist and author and raconteur, and Dr. Paul, the local architect who had bought The Hat, and brought some astonishing beets from his garden. Well, not so much the beets, but what he had done with them. Great night. Great conversation. It’s what they do up here - once a week to neighbors’ for drinks, dinner once a week. Daughter came over to the Hutte to read and have a Ghost Ship while I wrote, listening to Gleason at low volume.

Made me sad to know there was but one more day of this. I am at the point where this little hut is my residence, and I see no need of any place else. I cannot imagine not being able to walk down the street, head past the Thatched Shelter, go over the bridge, and find the sea.