Capable of being filled with air.

I was going to write about my drive home from a small coastal town - the huddles of dusty ostriches, the solitary blue crane in a field.

How depleted I felt to see a place after so many years and find it beyond recognition. Spoilt, a husk of what it was. The youths in town poaching crayfish to support their methamphetamine addiction. Inequality so vast it made me gasp for air.

But of course there were other things as well.

My friend John writes so succinctly:

Days wandering across tarmac between props trucks and craft tables, the director and crew far at sea in rubber ducks and trawlers, the cast ferried offshore in batches to swim in freezing water. They ride out of the surf as knights on horseback, as queens in sedan chairs, a barmy army on inflatable crocodiles, pizzas, pretzels and luminous whales. They float on pedalos, dinghies and lilos or slump in plastic chairs under huge tents waiting to be called into action. Wardrobe assistants wash and dry and iron hundreds of costumes. The sun, wind, too many dark and misted mornings, too much coffee, too much meat, a lot of waiting - days spent pacing and standing - but there is nothing as exhilarating as being part of a really big job that goes well after weeks of preparation .

And off he rows, our intrepid art director.