Just spent two hours doing the invitations for the next arthouseparty. The last one got a bit big and the guests a bit disconnected, so we decided this time we’d let people in with a postal invite only. And it takes bloody ages to do. Asking everyone else for that bit of extra effort suddenly multiplies umpteenfold and lands in your lap on a Saturday night when you’d rather be bankrolling plumbers with beer.

Still, it’s mostly done now. It feels good. And I’m MASSIVELY excited about the next ahp. The annoying thing is, I can’t say more than that.¬†I’ve had so many fantastic conversations with amazing people in the last few days that are almost certainly about to turn into further developments, crossbreed with SoE and all kinds of other things, but nothing is set in stone yet. It feels like a gigantic piece of applied chaos theory¬†that might result in something mind-blowing or might just collapse around me. I am confident it’ll be the former. But it’s infuriating to have to sit here with all this glorious maybe and just try not to explode. I suppose it serves me right for so promiscuously celebrating ambiguity on the if:book retreat.

Anyway. I’m knackered. It’s Saturday and I’ve been doing arthouseparty stuff solidly for the last 12 hours now. Can I have a drink and go to bed soon please?