Reflecting

Well, that last post was a little bit emotional ... sorry.

Today is Sunday. Two more sleeps (or awakes) until this will be over and I'll know the outcome of the judges' decision.

I hadn't slept for 48 hours and I lay in bed last night not feeling even the tiniest bit tired. I'd had a hot bath, drunk whiskey and then chamomile tea, taken a sleeping pill, and still my eyes were wide open and my heart raced.

It didn't help knowing that the judges were probably deliberating as I lay there. They were meeting after Sven's play to make their choice.

The plays are so different. I don't know how they choose when there's a strawberry, an apple and a banana on the table. It's a matter of taste and hunger. There are too many what ifs for me to handle.

I have one of the judges numbers in my mobile. I could call. I could ask. It's so tempting. But I won't. I hope. I have to wait. Wait and find out at a swanky lunch with no support system around me. We short-listed playwrights aren't allowed to bring a partner. It's the cruelest thing I've ever heard of.

If I lose, I will want Peter with me. I'll want to feel his arm around me, holding me up, keeping me strong, pinning the smile to my face.

If I win, I will want Peter with me. He is the first person I want to look at. His is the first hug I want to feel.

I can't bear it that he has to wait outside in the carpark and that he won't know what's happened until all these other people, these strangers, know.

But I've written and told the organisers this and they're not budging on the 'no partners' rule. So Peter will be in the carpark and I'll be inside, ready to make an ungraceful dash for the car when I hear the news.

It's no wonder sleep is so far away.