(dream) everybody I knew was coming to a massive party on a Greek island. We were all set up in one of those half-ruined old temple places, miles from anywhere, swigging back wine, eating olives and grapes, wandering round in the warm warm air. A faun with a wheelbarrow was trying to sell us antiquities; I remember seeing him wheeling a head past and thinking, that looks like part of the temple he's got there, and I looked down at the dry ground and there was another head, a fragment of carved stone, a bead, and once you looked the ground was teeming with things. In a half-ruined room open to the sky, the faun yanked an ancient wineskin out from among the rocks and said I should have it. I looked at it; it wasn't ancient, the styling was decidedly deco. My shadow said, Do you really want that? It looks like it's recent and people don't want to remember [the war]. I found a date on the neck of the skin; 1945. I scowled and threw it away. I had thought it was leather, but it shattered on the rocks like porcelain. Well, too late now, said the faun. I left him behind in the ruin to go down to the sea, but there were no beaches on this side of the island, just black volcanic rock. I peered down at a few token waves breaking on rocks and wondered if there was any sand down there at all. We could visit the beach tomorrow, but I wanted to be there now. Some more friends I hadn't seen for a while turned up fashionably late, arriving from a Greek Temple in better condition -- a railway terminus perhaps? They'd all changed since I last saw them. Tom's skin was grey and flaking, like an old statue, but it looked very stylish, more fashion choice than disease. Geneva's (greengolux) eyes had turned glowing yellow and she was wearing a Virgina Woolf nose and a black catsuit. Niall (coalescent) was in a fur-collar coat and a big fur hat (still dressed for the steppes) and had grown considerably taller since I last saw him, nine or ten feet tall at least. I peered up at him. Wow, you just carried on growing, I said, I didn't even know that was possible! which I thought was probably tactless, but I was very, very drunk.

Rather mytheme heavy, I thought -- perhaps because review season started last night, with one of those very experimental performances of folk-tales. Some mad Cornish company had teamed up with the Baghdaddies for a blinding "let's do the show right here in the squat!" multi-whatever show adapting a weird Charles Causley poem about a boy who wanted to be a fish and retelling Red Riding Hood using the same old oral version Neil Gaiman likes so much. Plots aside though, the plays are bloody great myth-mashes of video, puppets, music, comedy, projections, animations, fourth-wall antics and general total weirdness. My reveiw sucks, and has those f***ed-up line breaks again. Still, you get what you pay for ... oh, hey, it's only £7. Anyone want to go again?

There's some rather nice magaziny stuff on do now, commercial illustrations out of context are always kind of fascinating. This site stuffed with beautiful pictures by a Russian illustrator is worth a look; caution, this one is work safe, but many of them are not.