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Last night I went to see 'A Dream Play' by Strindberg at the National. It was really very good. I say Strindberg, it was actually an adaptation by Caryl Churchill. Afterwards I met up with my brilliant Strindberg expert friend who spouted forth righteous indignation at her shoddy treatment of his hero. I felt like I ought to be taking notes. We somehow managed to drown our sorrows later at The Ivy and then on through a stroll/stagger round Soho. Finally collapsed home in bed at 3.

Cybarites are us.