Aberdeen

We're in Aberdeen this week: for me, over 500 miles from home and the furthest north I have ever been in the world. Autumn has arrived very suddenly. I'm wearing a jumper, wishing I'd packed my hat and not profusely sweating in a theatre for the first time in months.

The show's in its autumn years, too: we're now into the last quarter of the tour. I've only done one year-long tour before; and I distinctly remember that, after about 250 shows, things can get a little weird.

When you say and do the same things 8 times a week for a year, after a while you start to hear yourself, which is sort of terrifying. You'll hear a line - one of your own, or someone else's - and think to yourself "Is that what normally happens? I'm sure I haven't heard that before". Then you're immediately in trouble. If you're thinking that, you're not doing what you're meant to be doing: focusing on the next line; acting. Suddenly things can fall apart. The most familiar experience in the world suddenly becomes brand new: daunting, overwhelming, out of your control.

These are little moments, but they do come. Thankfully, they can leave as soon as they arrive. Tonight, watching some of the other actors do their stuff, I remembered the joy and the love I have for this play. It came after a rare matinee-less Wednesday: a rejuvenating day in the Caingorms; driving through the towns and villages on the River Dee, an hour or so west of Aberdeen; the purple hills of the eastern Highlands. In the words of George Harrison, daylight is good at arriving at the right time.