Well, I'm still here, still picture-less despite much fiddling - and heaven knows why I chose tonight for a comeback as, honestly, this weekend has been jinxed. Last night I had tickets for this play at Hampstead - no reviews yet, but it sounded promising - but alas, the performance was cancelled; and today I was planning to visit these wonderful artists' studios, only to find a notice pinned to the door: exhibition cancelled. So what else has been happening? I doubt anyone reading this will be hankering to see Beetlejuice Beetlejuice ... But just in case you're tempted, let me tell you that I crept out bored to tears and thoroughly confused after giving it 40 minutes, which was 40 minutes too long. On the other hand, though I'm probably not the demographic for an Irish-language rap movie, Kneecap was absolutely hilarious - though you need your wits about you to keep up with Irish rappers'sub-titles. I didn't realise it was based on a real-life rap group until the end; but give me a break, I was the oldest person in the cinema by decades. On a more decorous note, this adaptation of Pride and Prejudice by a cast of three was sheer delight and so inventive that I'm sure Jane Austen would have been in ladylike fits of giggles. However, this time I felt like I'd gatecrashed a Saga holiday outing - and I was the youngest person there by, perhaps not decades, but a good few years thank you very much. Well, it makes a change! I also hugely enjoyed this play at the National about a group of gay black American men competing in a hot chicken wing contest. (Oh, the smell of that sizzling chicken! I was rather hoping they'd pass some round the audience.) The Grapes of Wrath was impressive but not as moving as the book. And I caught an amazing performance by the understudy playing Michael in the Death of England trilogy; I'd already seen the third part when it was at the National last year. The evenings do seem to be drawing in so I was thrilled to see the return of Slow Horses, which is quite as good and possibly even better than anything by John le Carré; just be glad that you can't smell flatulent Gary Oldman/Jackson Lamb through the screen. (Which reminds me that I've only read two of the books; must get cracking with the rest.) But to end on that more decorous note, most evenings this week I've been immersed in Mrs Gaskell on BBC Sounds: Sylvia's Lovers, which I'd never read, and an excellent adaptation of North and South - only Cranford seemed a bit stodgy, maybe just impossible to stand up to that wonderful TV series ... can it really be 17 years ago? Feels like yesterday.