I'm at a quiz in the village of Thaxted. It seems to be going on forever. We've stuffed our faces with table snacks - hundreds of bowls of crisps - and just as we all thought we were about to be sick, we were informed that round three was a crisp-tasting round! Just hideous. One of my team mates then dropped a glass of wine in my lap.
They're currently drawing the raffle, and one of the prizes is actually a sack of potatoes! At the last quiz they gave out a brace of pheasants. Country folk!
We have done incredibly badly in the quiz... We were coming 7th at the half way point. No one cares who's won. We just want to go home and force ourselves to vomit with a toothbrush!
I'm going to post this blog now, because I'm convinced I'm going to win the potatoes! Or vomit.
350 years ago, Pepys went to see The Little Thief by John Fletcher which had been revised by James Shirley. It was, we're told, a pretty play.