I received notification this morning that both 'Be Worth It' and 'Internet Cafe' have failed in their attempts to get into this year's International Playwriting Festival at the Warehouse Theatre. Normally I put these things down to clerical errors, but this time the explanation is more obvious. Entries had to be submitted under a pseudonym to ensure impartiality in the judging process (and to stop them chucking it in the bin the moment they saw my name), so I entered 'Be Worth It' in Lisa's name. Which is where I went wrong. Putting aside the possibility that Lisa's reputation stretches as far as London, it seems clear that there's a deep-seated prejudice at work here. Sexism is rife in the playwriting world, and women such as myself face a constant struggle to make it in this male-oriented environment. They were no doubt threatened by the emergence of a strong female voice with something to say, and chose to suppress it with a standard rejection letter. There's no other explanation. If I was a man I'd be on the front page of the Evening Standard by now.
I still haven't had a reply to the e-mail I sent to the SCDA, politely asking why they haven't bothered letting me know about the success (or, let's face it, failure) of 'Ledgers' in their one-act play competition, despite an assurance that I'd be notified one way or the other by August. So much for the nicey-nicey approach. I wish I'd called them Scottish twats now.
I didn't win the lottery last night. Which is Lisa's fault for not being born on the 14th of April. At least that would've given me four numbers.
I've got a cold.
And a headache.
And the fact that the BBC have commissioned a third series of the dire sit-com 'All About Me' is still a source of some grief in the Gardner household. Chloe is particularly annoyed.
I've run out of bagels.
I knew it was a mistake to ignore that chain letter.