I like cake. No that's not strictly true. I love cake. I love cake more than anything that isn't animate. It would be invidious to compare cake with one's loved ones, pets or self, but I can categorically say, and without fear of contradiction, that cake is, definitively, the best thing ever.

I use cake in many different ways. Yes I admit to being a user rather than an eater of cake. I could almost be said to be an addict. Which now I mention it is slightly odd. Because lately there seems to be a direct correlation between the number of codeine-based pills I consume in a day and the level of my cake craving. The more pills, the more profound the craving. My children appear worried about the level of my consumption of codeine. Did they but know that my cake intake far outstrips my dependency on codeine I believe their concern would be justifiable. 

Perversely, this makes me feel a little bit better about the amount of cake that I scoff. It is not greed, self-indulgence or lack of self-discipline that forces me to ram handfuls of Battenburg or great slices of coffee and walnut sponge down my gullet. No indeed. It's a medical dependency about which I can do nothing. I should explain.

I get headaches. Bad ones. Often. Sometimes daily. In the good old days of not so long ago, one used to be able to buy pills over the counter which a] ameliorated the pain b] didn't send me scurrying for the cake tin. These pills have now been withdrawn because people like me tend to get addicted to them. Before they withdrew them they started writing things like NOT TO BE USED FOR MORE THAN THREE CONSECUTIVE DAYS on the packets. I had been using them for 40 years with no obvious side effects except for my foul moods, inability to hear, lack of general focus, lazy left eye and a memory with holes in it bigger than a colander. No other pills have ever worked because they don't have enough codeine in them. 

So I went to the doctor who prescribed me pills with double the amount of codeine in them. Apparently these are not addictive - at least it doesn't say so on any label and the doctor didn't tell me so. So I presume they're not. And they stop the headaches - although I can't do anything else much as I lose control of nearly every muscle in my body. My tongue develops a life and, more worryingly, a thickness all of its own. 

They do have a side effect however. I crave cake all the time. Which wouldn't be so bad if the consumption of the cake didn't precipitate the headaches themselves ....

It's a familiar feeling. Unwelcome but very familiar. I get it when I have to attend weddings, first night parties, press launches, networking events and, generally, everywhere I go when I am supposed to be outgoing and gregarious. The trepidation I experience in advance of these shindigs borders on the feeling of dread I used to feel when I was an actor about to go on stage. Curiously, I don't get it at funerals - perhaps I'm not expected to be jolly at these events. Sometimes I try and get told in no uncertain terms that my behaviour is inappropriate - which it is.

It is, of course, completely illogical. I have spent 54 years on this earth and should have learned by now that this is nothing unusual. Most people, I'm told, have to screw their courage to the sticking place before launching themselves into the social maelstrom that is celebration. But most people seem to enjoy them notwithstanding. I tend to stand tongue-tied, cross-legged, wishing I was almost anywhere but where I am. 

I have tried to work out why I feel this way. I have variously blamed my parents, my schooling, my formative experiences, my worsening hearing and my natural humility. None of these excuses really wash. The problem as I see it now, is my utter feebleness and fear of making as ass of myself. It's the same reason that I don't dance in public [or in private for that matter]. 

I tell myself, virtually daily, to pull myself together and construct a strategy for dealing with these type of things. But I don't, or can't, listen to my own advice. I am not dealing with them. In fact I'm getting worse. I have noticed too that at less formal events I lapse into silence, preferring to let the world, or at least the conversation, go around about me.

Tomorrow is the Theatrical Managers' Association Annual lunch. A shindig which sees the cream of Britain's theatre management get together and network. I am being brave and going to it. 

Suggestions for a coping strategy would be more than welcome or I shall end up becoming a hermit.

 

Today our village is 'at home'. The pubs [three of them still exist], the shops [butcher, baker, local produce emporium, convenience store, estate agent, etc], the two churches [Anglican and URC] the dairy [whose milk is no longer available to local people], the stables, village museum [oh yes we do have one - its prize exhibit is a mummified rat] and the school [primary only] have been buffed up and there is lots of frantic activity before 2pm when it all kicks off. Only the chemist and the Zoar Baptist chapel remain resolutely shut.

I've just heard the local Morrismen [yes there is a village troupe] preparing for the onslaught. The accordianista is practicing endlessly. There is the claquing of sticks and the jingling of bells. The whole is disturbing the peace and irritating all of us who are trying to work.

The police have already been around putting up no parking cones everywhere making it impossible for residents to park in their usual spots. The field behind the doctors' surgery is the car park. Luckily the recent deluge has abated, the ground is not too muddy and no tractors will be needed to extricate marooned vehicles. 

Oh and there is a little funfair on the village recreation ground where the exercising of horses and dogs is absolutely 'verboten'. There is a nostalgia for we established villagers about the fair. It used to be the favourite annual village event for ... well let's call him Arthur, though that wasn't his actual name. He was the village's simple soul. Arthur died recently having sent a lifetime rearranging dustbins, closing gates and wandering around the village bouncing a rubber ball. He was easily scared and desperate to please. Children were scared of his volatility and strangeness. The fair proprietors knew him well and, to their eternal credit, allowed him free access to all the stalls and rides. The village is poorer without him.

This afternoon will be spent by around 2,000 people wandering around remarking on the quaintness of this place and sticking their inquisitive noses into every nook and cranny which the purchase of the 'At Home' programme entitles them to.

There are two types of folk who live the village who react to 'At Home' in two very distinct ways. Those incomers who are proud of their efforts to improve the village [like stopping the church clock from chiming during the night] will open their gardens and walk around this afternoon as if they own the place speaking of 'our village' in loud proprietorial voices. Their children [all called Barnaby and Alice with a third called Torin if they've allowed themselves that degree of irresponsibility] will dutifully trail after them in the sunshine, cowed into compliance by bribes of 'ice creams if you're good'.

Then there are the rest who will sit inside watching Manchester City beating Queens Park Rangers on their wide screen, high definition TVs, or sit outdoors on their patios or terraces waiting for six o'clock and normality to return. Most of them have lived here all their lives and have seen the 'At Home' develop from a little local event into one which now pulls attendances from as far afield as London and Birmingham.

Tomorrow the village good causes will learn how much they are to benefit from the afternoon's takings.

Only in England.

My horse, Mercury, is out on loan to a very nice lady. He is in the middle of the Fens and you can see for miles around. The trouble with Merc is that if he can see for miles he thinks you can go for miles and miles. I went to see and ride him today. A beautiful day, white clouds, breezy and warm. Merc decided it was the sort of day to get 'on his toes'. Nothing dangerous or frightening, but he did insist in jog-trotting for about an hour or so. I haven't ridden for a week or so and it is amazing how quickly the body loses fitness. By the time we had finished my legs ached, my back ached and my head, of course, ached too. When  I got off him he looked at me in that slightly condescending way that horse do look at humans when they know they haven't behaved exactly in the way that was required. It was as if he was saying 'Well you decided to come and ride! I was quite happy in the field but you did insist on cavorting across the countryside. So I cavorted'.

Last night I went to the press night of PANDORA'S BOX at the Arcola's tent. I've been much more comfortable watching theatre and I've seen better plays though there was something about the cast's enthusiasm which was transmitted to the audience and made the whole evening absolutely captivating. Some really vibrant performances too. Great to see