I wrote a whole chunk earlier on this afternoon and then my computer blanked out with no warning whatsoever. And now it’s 23h. And I still haven’t explained why I’m writing this blog. Tales from a village in the Ardèche. Thirteen month old baby. Mamamama. This time last year I was getting ready to perform a trilogy of Molière plays at the Odéon in Paris, which is like playing at the Globe or the Barbican in London – as well as breastfeeding and learning how to change nappies successfully. This summer I am a dab hand at nappy changing but have no work whatsoever. Not even the sort that sits on the horizon. So I no longer say I’m an actress when people ask what I do. I say I’m a Mamamama. Friends warned me this would happen when I had a baby, but I didn’t believe them and secretly believed I’d always get those magic phone calls with offers of fantastic projects touring across the country and beyond. Helas, not this time. And so Gareth suggested I get writing.


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