Despite my best intentions - which lead, so the proverbs tell us, straight to hell - I am yet to tackle Brecht at the Malthouse. I will, gentle readers, I will, just as soon as I am able to stop my hair looking like Ludwig van Beethoven's (yes, there he is, and you can tell he's a genius, if only because he was ahead of his time in his choice of hairdresser). I found out last night, to my embarrassment, that my agent has been checking my state of health by reading TN, which tells me that I've backslid on my resolutions and have been complaining again. This is me not complaining. Instead, for those who have missed it, I'll point you to last week's Australian review of The Threepenny Opera, which gives you the rough outline of my responses. More to come, once I discover where I put my hair product.