Week commencing 31st October 2011. Noone ever books a show during this week. Ruth Rich can't compete with Hallowe'en and Bonfire Night. Time to relax........... no such luck. One day into my week off I was rushed to hospital with anaphylactic shock: nose and eyes streaming, itching, funny feeling in the throat followed by funny feeling all over as blood level plummeted and body went into meltdown. Had to stay in overnight while medics got blood pressure back to normal. Thought they were overdoing things a bit when they gave me an ECG. Discharged self from hospital feeling far worse than when went in on account of lack of sleep, but blood pressure was normal by now. Returned to GP and got a gratifyingly sharp intake of breath when she glanced at notes and saw how low blood pressure had dropped. The cure: adrenaline. Two days into a week off and my body was craving its regular rush of excitement. Honestly, talk about a drama queen!
Following week, adrenaline level hit the roof as prepared to perform at Inner Temple Grand Day with The Princess Royal, the Attorney General, the Home Secretary, the Master of the Rolls, the Lord Chief Justice and goodness knows who else besides in the audience. Felt more nervous than ever could remember. Had new material to deliver and knew would be filled with self-loathing if I messed up. Didn't mess up. Husband Bill did a turn too. He didn't mess up either. Whole occasion SO exciting. Sniffer dogs cased the joint in advance. My room for pacing around in nervously before the show was filled with bodyguards drinking coffee who seemed to be an awful lot less nervous than me. I've seen The Bodyguard. These chaps are supposed stand a centimetre away in dark glasses, packed with weapons and ready to kill or die for their protege. "You all seem very relaxed." I remarked. Turned out they were the back-up party. The main dining room where the royal party was seated was stiff with invisible others.
Then two days later up to Waingroves Community Centre near Ripley to perform Double Booked. I love Waingroves! An evening of entertainment is not an evening of entertainment in Waingroves without a game of irish bingo at the end. It is thrilling and funny and then it's down to the local pub asap to get in lots of beer. Before that there was my show to watch and I was introduced and thanked like royalty (I should know.) But during the interval I committed a major blunder: forgot to turn off microphone before commenting to techie about how things were going so far. Show organiser came running in to tell me that everyone was falling about laughing in the audience. Mind travelled back in a rush to try to remember what I'd just said. (Last time I did this I had commented rather impolitely about the group of drunk women out on a Friday night in Claverdon who'd chatted and giggled throughout my performance). No, it was OK. I'd been congratulating myself on a bit of hasty, back of the foot type re-arranging of the script when things got out of order. Figured the audience wouldn't have minded being let in on the secret. At the end of the evening the organiser said I'd got a good memory. People do mention this occasionally. It isn't true though. Yes, I can learn a lengthy script ..but can I remember where I've left my glasses or car keys? Not a hope. Can I remember to turn my microphone off? Only sometimes.
Sunday 13 November 2011
Sunday 30 October 2011
Middleton Cheney and Broughton
Oopsy - getting behind again... and how could I not mention Middleton Cheney. OMG Middleton Cheney audience I am so totally, yeah, in love with you. You even laughed at things that weren't funny. And it was a Thursday night just before half term. Weren't you tired at all? Not looking forward to a break? Bit kind of fed up about having to go out to a school do? I mean, Educating Essex was on the telly and it's a programme too good to miss, isn't it? Not a bit of it. MC were up for it. I thank you.
Had a bit of a double take when I was shown my dressing room: the nurse's room. There was a screen, a bed with a propped up head, syringes, wadding, lots of antiseptic bits and bobs. The entire area was sanitised and disinfected and I worried quite a lot about contaminating things. This is not something I usually have to concern myself with. In fact usually it is the other way round. Not many village halls are blessed with Artists' Dressing Rooms and I am only too accustomed to changing in cupboards, disabled toilets, lobbies and corridors. One day it will all change and I'll see my name on a dressing room door. It's only a matter of time, I feel sure.
Talking of disabled loos, that's where I changed in Broughton. You know what, Broughton? I reckon I did one of the best performances I've ever done that night. It just all seemed to work, and your happy smiling faces were a joy to perform to. Nightmare on lighting street but it'll be sorted. I wonder if I was so relaxed because I'd taken a short holiday earlier in the week? Three days in Paris with son and girlfriend. Son is 16. I reckon it takes some character to go to Paris with your mum and your girl, and son rose to the occasion. On the whole we agreed about most things: The Mona Lisa is overrated, the Moulin Rouge is worth every penny, the metro is hard work, there is absolutely no fathomable reason for a gothic scene of flowers and overpainted lady to be represented in the players' dressing room of the Stade de France, and the walk beside the Seine was great despite the fact that the Musee D'Orsay was shut when we got there. Funniest moment: son and girlfriend trying to remember their actual birthdays and say them in French in order to prove that they were under, rather than over, 18 for a change in order to get in free.
Um - if you are reading this (like, who?) may I just mention that the next performance I will report will take place before the Princess Royal. Aaaaarrrrrgh.
Had a bit of a double take when I was shown my dressing room: the nurse's room. There was a screen, a bed with a propped up head, syringes, wadding, lots of antiseptic bits and bobs. The entire area was sanitised and disinfected and I worried quite a lot about contaminating things. This is not something I usually have to concern myself with. In fact usually it is the other way round. Not many village halls are blessed with Artists' Dressing Rooms and I am only too accustomed to changing in cupboards, disabled toilets, lobbies and corridors. One day it will all change and I'll see my name on a dressing room door. It's only a matter of time, I feel sure.
Talking of disabled loos, that's where I changed in Broughton. You know what, Broughton? I reckon I did one of the best performances I've ever done that night. It just all seemed to work, and your happy smiling faces were a joy to perform to. Nightmare on lighting street but it'll be sorted. I wonder if I was so relaxed because I'd taken a short holiday earlier in the week? Three days in Paris with son and girlfriend. Son is 16. I reckon it takes some character to go to Paris with your mum and your girl, and son rose to the occasion. On the whole we agreed about most things: The Mona Lisa is overrated, the Moulin Rouge is worth every penny, the metro is hard work, there is absolutely no fathomable reason for a gothic scene of flowers and overpainted lady to be represented in the players' dressing room of the Stade de France, and the walk beside the Seine was great despite the fact that the Musee D'Orsay was shut when we got there. Funniest moment: son and girlfriend trying to remember their actual birthdays and say them in French in order to prove that they were under, rather than over, 18 for a change in order to get in free.
Um - if you are reading this (like, who?) may I just mention that the next performance I will report will take place before the Princess Royal. Aaaaarrrrrgh.
Monday 17 October 2011
Family Matters in Sandiacre, Abberley and Dunchurch
Three performances of "Family Matters" this weekend, starting in a school. I remember visiting adults trying to make us laugh at my school. It was hard for them. Even if we thought they were funny we only laughed if everyone else did for fear of being picked on afterwards for finding something funny that wasn't. And if it was rude we didn't dare laugh in case the rudeness was accidental and we got told off later. "Family Matters" is the most risqué of all my plays and it features a super sized papier mached sperm cell as one of its punchlines. I liked the Friesland School audience. I particularly like the whoop at the end and the girl near the back who clearly didn't care if she got picked on or told off. The school is quite a little drive from home so, after the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo fiasco of the previous week, I looked round carefully for any forgotten props before leaving. I always enjoy the drive home with the John, the techie. The show is done and we talk comfortably in the dark. I have an understanding husband who is perfectly happy for me to drive around the countryside late on weekend nights with men other than him.
In the morning I received a text from John:
"Hi Ginny, just for peace of mind did we bring the sperm cell back? I woke up in the middle of the night and nowhere did I see it. Then I realised I never looked behind the curtains at the back."
Realising that this was open to misinterpretation I read it aloud to the next two audiences and on both occasions it got one of the best laughs of the night.
The next performance was deep in Worcestershire. At this venue I am also blessed with the help of an old (he wouldn't mind me saying) chap called Marc whose lights, according to him, are older than he is. Marc is a tiny bit deaf. He has built his own lighting desk and he operates it himself. He has to because it takes both hands. Whenever there was a lighting cue John had to signal it to Marc. John himself isn't in the first flush of youth (retired after 30 + years of teaching). There was something very touching about seeing the two men seated at the control desk, John's hand gripping Marc's wrist to prevent him anticipating his cue too early and whispering "Dim the lights now!" from time to time. They both smiled throughout the show and added to my enjoyment of it.
Performance no. 3 was in Dunchurch: close to home and the venue for an earlier performance of Ten Days ...that shook the Kitchen!" with one of the most appreciative audiences I have had. John and I set off happily in the knowledge that it would be a good night. Then John received a phone call which changed everything. Worrying news of close family illness meant that he really needed to be elsewhere - though he vowed to stay if he couldn't be replaced. I rang James, my 19 year old other techie. Chances of him being free on a Saturday night were slim but miraculously he was and he got straight in his car, without pausing for food. This was a shame because he's a meat person and the hummus and lettuce wraps which were all that was there to offer him on his arrival nearly made him turn round and go straight home again. John gave a perfectly cogent handover and James said it would be fine. I tell all this as if we were all calm. Well, maybe they were. Personally I was more than mildly panicky. But a calm and unflappable temperament is an essential quality of a techie and I delight in the services of John and James whose sangs are about as froid as is possible. Every five minutes I asked James if he was sure he knew what he needed to do. Every five minutes he gave a sweet smile and assured me that he did. He was right. He did. The show went as smoothly as it could. I told the text message story and got a huge laugh .. sad that John wasn't there to hear it.
In the morning I received a text from John:
"Hi Ginny, just for peace of mind did we bring the sperm cell back? I woke up in the middle of the night and nowhere did I see it. Then I realised I never looked behind the curtains at the back."
Realising that this was open to misinterpretation I read it aloud to the next two audiences and on both occasions it got one of the best laughs of the night.
The next performance was deep in Worcestershire. At this venue I am also blessed with the help of an old (he wouldn't mind me saying) chap called Marc whose lights, according to him, are older than he is. Marc is a tiny bit deaf. He has built his own lighting desk and he operates it himself. He has to because it takes both hands. Whenever there was a lighting cue John had to signal it to Marc. John himself isn't in the first flush of youth (retired after 30 + years of teaching). There was something very touching about seeing the two men seated at the control desk, John's hand gripping Marc's wrist to prevent him anticipating his cue too early and whispering "Dim the lights now!" from time to time. They both smiled throughout the show and added to my enjoyment of it.
Performance no. 3 was in Dunchurch: close to home and the venue for an earlier performance of Ten Days ...that shook the Kitchen!" with one of the most appreciative audiences I have had. John and I set off happily in the knowledge that it would be a good night. Then John received a phone call which changed everything. Worrying news of close family illness meant that he really needed to be elsewhere - though he vowed to stay if he couldn't be replaced. I rang James, my 19 year old other techie. Chances of him being free on a Saturday night were slim but miraculously he was and he got straight in his car, without pausing for food. This was a shame because he's a meat person and the hummus and lettuce wraps which were all that was there to offer him on his arrival nearly made him turn round and go straight home again. John gave a perfectly cogent handover and James said it would be fine. I tell all this as if we were all calm. Well, maybe they were. Personally I was more than mildly panicky. But a calm and unflappable temperament is an essential quality of a techie and I delight in the services of John and James whose sangs are about as froid as is possible. Every five minutes I asked James if he was sure he knew what he needed to do. Every five minutes he gave a sweet smile and assured me that he did. He was right. He did. The show went as smoothly as it could. I told the text message story and got a huge laugh .. sad that John wasn't there to hear it.
Sunday 9 October 2011
St Michael and All Angels Church, Church Broughton, Staffs
I have never before performed in a Church. To be honest, I've never wanted to. My shows about the challenges of modern family life aren't all tea and toast and I've worried that occasional blasphemies or references to bodily functions might be inappropriate in places of worship. However, last night I had no choice as the booking was made on my behalf. In rehearsal I discovered that during the show I took the Lord's name in vain on three separate occasions and used other impolite expletives on three others. Indeed, there is a whole scene dedicated to the use of a family swearbox. This worried me, and over the course of the week I have experimented with the substitution of other words. I'll have to give an example, if you'll mind my language. At one point I say as if to a 5 year old "For Christ's sake, Freddie, get that bloody thing off me." referring to a snail which has got stuck to my face. I considered substitutions for Christ and bloody. They needed to be rude words at least because that line is immediately followed by the imposition of a fine for swearing. Running through my mental dictionary of swearwords I realised that every alternative would actually be worse. You have to try it. Substitute Christ and bloody in the sentence for bodily functions/sexual acts and the sentence becomes far more offensive, viz. "FFS Freddie, get that sh***y/p***ing thing off me." So I stuck with Christ and bloody and braced myself for an enraged gasp from the audience. Luckily it didn't come.
I always think it's a good idea to appear relaxed before a show when talking to the promoter. It's a trick I learned as a barrister: Never good to show the client that you are nervous. So before the audience gathered I chatted to the Church Warden and he told me a story about the bats in the belfry which come out when the heating is on at night. Bats!?! I have inherited an irrational fear of bats from my father who claimed to have got one caught in his hair as a young man. I really didn't fancy the idea of bats swooping and diving at me during my show (though one consolation would have been that any involuntary expletives would have been in character, I suppose). Luck was with me once more, however, and the bats remained in the belfry throughout the performance.
The Church had been equipped with a makeshift stage. It was rather small, so I improvised and incorporated the pulpit into the performance, making it double as a bedroom. (I know!) I walked up and down the steps a couple of times and felt that this new layout worked really well. The organisers had been very concerned that I should not trip or graze my shins on the edges of the Church structure and furniture and reminded me more than once to be careful. "Oh I'll be fine." I said airily, pumped full of adrenalin just before the show went up. After the Church Warden's introduction the houselights went down, the stage lights went up, my cue to enter was played over the sound system and I descended from my pulpit boudoir, caught my foot on the edge of the staging and stumbled into the limelight, narrowly avoiding a fall flat on my face. Third time lucky? No chance. I was in a Church, after all, wherein superstition has no place.
I always think it's a good idea to appear relaxed before a show when talking to the promoter. It's a trick I learned as a barrister: Never good to show the client that you are nervous. So before the audience gathered I chatted to the Church Warden and he told me a story about the bats in the belfry which come out when the heating is on at night. Bats!?! I have inherited an irrational fear of bats from my father who claimed to have got one caught in his hair as a young man. I really didn't fancy the idea of bats swooping and diving at me during my show (though one consolation would have been that any involuntary expletives would have been in character, I suppose). Luck was with me once more, however, and the bats remained in the belfry throughout the performance.
The Church had been equipped with a makeshift stage. It was rather small, so I improvised and incorporated the pulpit into the performance, making it double as a bedroom. (I know!) I walked up and down the steps a couple of times and felt that this new layout worked really well. The organisers had been very concerned that I should not trip or graze my shins on the edges of the Church structure and furniture and reminded me more than once to be careful. "Oh I'll be fine." I said airily, pumped full of adrenalin just before the show went up. After the Church Warden's introduction the houselights went down, the stage lights went up, my cue to enter was played over the sound system and I descended from my pulpit boudoir, caught my foot on the edge of the staging and stumbled into the limelight, narrowly avoiding a fall flat on my face. Third time lucky? No chance. I was in a Church, after all, wherein superstition has no place.
Sunday 2 October 2011
Tutbury - lost prop
So there I am in Tutbury, Staffs setting up the props for a performance of Double Booked. Feel quite relaxed and looking forward to the show. Suddenly realise a prop is missing. I obviously left it behind at a venue in Sussex last week. A copy of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larrsen. It's an important prop. The fact that it is written by a Scandinavian author whose gender and sexual orientation are hard to determine from his name, if you don't already know them, is a joke in the show. Probably one of those "you need to be there" moments. Panic! All the shops will be shut. Nevertheless I set off to the high street , confident that I'll find one that is open and selling the book. Turns out that Tutbury doesn't have many shops, certainly none that are open at that time. I stride into the likeliest option.
"Do you sell books?"
"Magazines?"
"No, not magazines, real books." (I'm getting a bit terse.)
"Sorry, no, just magazines."
I go into the second most likely.
"Do you have any books?"
"No, just fish and chips here, love."
I race back to the venue. It is in a road with houses. Time is running short. A girl is outside one of the houses. I run round.
"Hello, do you live here?"
"Well, sort of. It's not my house but ..."
I interrupt. "Sorry, I'm in a bit of a rush. Don't explain. But you live here, right? So do you have any books."
"Er, yiss?" (At this point I detect a foreign accent.)
"Well, look, I'm just wondering if you happen to have any books by Stieg Larrsen. You, know, the Millennium Trilogy?"
"Yiss, I do actually, I'm in the middle of reading the third one. I've got the second one upstairs."
"Oh, thank god! Can I borrow it?"
"Yiss? Mind if I ask why?"
It's a reasonable question in the circumstances. I look at my watch. Curtain up in 45 mins and we haven't done the sound check yet. I gabble an explanation.
"Oh, that's great." says my foreign new best friend.
"It's not great." I explain. "It's an emergency. Can you possibly lend it to me? Where are you from by the way?"
"New Zealand. Yiss sure, I'll go and git it."
She skips upstairs and returns with the book which I fall on avidly, kiss and hug her and dash back to the show. It's not the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, but its by the same author, and that'll do.
During the interval I explore my dressing room which doubles as a store room. I open a cupboard. Books ... hundreds of them, are in boxes are piled high. There's Dan Brown, Maeve Binchy, Joanna Trollope. Somewhere, I know, there's a Girl with a Dragon Tattoo - I don't have time to look for it now, but I know its there. How weird is that? The very thing I needed was almost certainly in the same building all the time.
Tutbury Castle is haunted, you know ... I wonder if the poltergeist had wandered into the village for the night? I wonder if he'd nipped down to Sussex en route. They can't find my book at the previous week's venue in Sussex. If anyone in Tutbury is reading this ... go through those books in the cupboard, I bet The Girl with a Dragon Tattoo is there.
"Do you sell books?"
"Magazines?"
"No, not magazines, real books." (I'm getting a bit terse.)
"Sorry, no, just magazines."
I go into the second most likely.
"Do you have any books?"
"No, just fish and chips here, love."
I race back to the venue. It is in a road with houses. Time is running short. A girl is outside one of the houses. I run round.
"Hello, do you live here?"
"Well, sort of. It's not my house but ..."
I interrupt. "Sorry, I'm in a bit of a rush. Don't explain. But you live here, right? So do you have any books."
"Er, yiss?" (At this point I detect a foreign accent.)
"Well, look, I'm just wondering if you happen to have any books by Stieg Larrsen. You, know, the Millennium Trilogy?"
"Yiss, I do actually, I'm in the middle of reading the third one. I've got the second one upstairs."
"Oh, thank god! Can I borrow it?"
"Yiss? Mind if I ask why?"
It's a reasonable question in the circumstances. I look at my watch. Curtain up in 45 mins and we haven't done the sound check yet. I gabble an explanation.
"Oh, that's great." says my foreign new best friend.
"It's not great." I explain. "It's an emergency. Can you possibly lend it to me? Where are you from by the way?"
"New Zealand. Yiss sure, I'll go and git it."
She skips upstairs and returns with the book which I fall on avidly, kiss and hug her and dash back to the show. It's not the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, but its by the same author, and that'll do.
During the interval I explore my dressing room which doubles as a store room. I open a cupboard. Books ... hundreds of them, are in boxes are piled high. There's Dan Brown, Maeve Binchy, Joanna Trollope. Somewhere, I know, there's a Girl with a Dragon Tattoo - I don't have time to look for it now, but I know its there. How weird is that? The very thing I needed was almost certainly in the same building all the time.
Tutbury Castle is haunted, you know ... I wonder if the poltergeist had wandered into the village for the night? I wonder if he'd nipped down to Sussex en route. They can't find my book at the previous week's venue in Sussex. If anyone in Tutbury is reading this ... go through those books in the cupboard, I bet The Girl with a Dragon Tattoo is there.
Tuesday 20 September 2011
New season - line virus
It's September 2011. I've had a break and am now looking into the future and wondering if it is possible to perform three different plays on separate nights within a week. Actually, I am already learning that caution is required.
The first performance of the season was last Saturday. "Family Matters" in Bulkington. Last time I went there all my sound and lighting equipment was nicked from the back of the car during the show. I'm convinced it wasn't Bulkington's fault. Just a toerag passing through I'm sure. That's all water under the bridge now. Bulkington conjures other thoughts in my mind now... egg sandwiches. The organiser, Fiona and her mum score very highly indeed on the refreshments front and I stepped on stage feeling very well fed and content. The audience was a little small. I was competing with a Beer Festival and it seems that Bulkington prefers beer of a Saturday night. Nevertheless it was a nice night. I would just ask one small thing of the lady who beat me to the punch line a few times, though. Would you mind awfully waiting till I've said it too before you say it out loud?
Later in the week I reviewed a play at The Belgrade Theatre in Coventry. It was the first time I'd been to a play there, and my first review. The play looked interesting and I settled down to a thoroughly enjoyable evening. Then something extraordinary happened. One of the actors messed up a scene and then completely forgot his lines. I mean, completely. He didn't just wander around the stage waffling a bit until they came back to him in the magical way that lines sometimes do. He told us what had happened, left the stage and didn't return for about 20 minutes. Mystifying. This was an actor with a pedigree. He'd performed the same part for a whole run in 2010. What on earth had happened? I couldn't understand it.
I'm nowhere near in that actor's league but I'm usually pretty good on lines. Or, I thought I was ... until Dorridge the following week, last night in fact, when I performed "Ten Days ..." for the umpteenth time. I must have done sixty odd performances of this show over the years but suddenly, inexplicably, my brain was a gaping void. It was the same feeling as you get when you go upstairs and can't remember what you went for. Only this time there were 108 people in the audience. Luckily for me, my words came magically back as I wandered around the stage waffling. But now I know it. Noone's safe. Maybe this is a virus that I caught at The Belgrade. Whatever it is, I hope that one bout of it guarantees lifelong immunity. This weekend I'm performing "Double Booked" and I'll do without the gaping void, if that's OK.
The first performance of the season was last Saturday. "Family Matters" in Bulkington. Last time I went there all my sound and lighting equipment was nicked from the back of the car during the show. I'm convinced it wasn't Bulkington's fault. Just a toerag passing through I'm sure. That's all water under the bridge now. Bulkington conjures other thoughts in my mind now... egg sandwiches. The organiser, Fiona and her mum score very highly indeed on the refreshments front and I stepped on stage feeling very well fed and content. The audience was a little small. I was competing with a Beer Festival and it seems that Bulkington prefers beer of a Saturday night. Nevertheless it was a nice night. I would just ask one small thing of the lady who beat me to the punch line a few times, though. Would you mind awfully waiting till I've said it too before you say it out loud?
Later in the week I reviewed a play at The Belgrade Theatre in Coventry. It was the first time I'd been to a play there, and my first review. The play looked interesting and I settled down to a thoroughly enjoyable evening. Then something extraordinary happened. One of the actors messed up a scene and then completely forgot his lines. I mean, completely. He didn't just wander around the stage waffling a bit until they came back to him in the magical way that lines sometimes do. He told us what had happened, left the stage and didn't return for about 20 minutes. Mystifying. This was an actor with a pedigree. He'd performed the same part for a whole run in 2010. What on earth had happened? I couldn't understand it.
I'm nowhere near in that actor's league but I'm usually pretty good on lines. Or, I thought I was ... until Dorridge the following week, last night in fact, when I performed "Ten Days ..." for the umpteenth time. I must have done sixty odd performances of this show over the years but suddenly, inexplicably, my brain was a gaping void. It was the same feeling as you get when you go upstairs and can't remember what you went for. Only this time there were 108 people in the audience. Luckily for me, my words came magically back as I wandered around the stage waffling. But now I know it. Noone's safe. Maybe this is a virus that I caught at The Belgrade. Whatever it is, I hope that one bout of it guarantees lifelong immunity. This weekend I'm performing "Double Booked" and I'll do without the gaping void, if that's OK.
Round up of September 2010 - July 2011 season
I am a neglectful parent. I admit it. My baby, my blog wasn't fed between April and September 2011.
If I give an account of every performance I'll be here forever. My baby will burst. So I'm going to limit myself to one sentence or line describing each performance from April to the end of the summer season.
1. May 2011 - Brighton Fringe - New fringe, new play (10 Questions) , new friends, a new life for the future? Maybe one day.
2. May 2011 - Kirtlington - 10 Days - fourth visit to Kirtlington Much fun trying on the lollipop man's uniform backstage.
3. May 2011 -Dunchurch - 10 Days - Biggest, best audience ever. I love you, Dunchurch. Stay with me.
4. May 2011 - Hallaton - 10 Days - Classy Leicestershire audience. Top nibbles.
5. May 2011 and June 2011 - Stratford Fringe - 10 Qs and Double Booked: Most hilarious venue ever. Low point: Man coming to remove sound system 30 mins before show went up. High point: Previous performance including a totally genuine proposal of marriage on stage.
6. June 2011 - Rock - Double Booked - Rock being the apposite word. Backdrop is a climbing wall. Acoustic nightmare but you could all hear, couldn't you. I said "YOU COULD ALL HEAR, COULDN'T YOU?"
7. June 2011 - Tysoe - 10 Days. Tysoe, if I wasn't already promised to Dunchurch you could marry me. Love you.
8. June 2011 - Abberley - 10 Days. Must confess I did arrive feeling a little tired, but the pure air way up high in Abberley lifted my spirits.
9. June 2011 - Clipston - Double Booked. Rather an interesting conversation after the show with a lady who called me Ruth. Somehow I couldn't bring myself to tell her that Ruth's the character I play. I'm Ginny. Flattering, I suppose.
10. June 2011 - Stratford upon Avon - KES - Double Booked. Do not recommend hearing that your daughter has had a car-write-off crash for relaxation therapy just before you leave home to go to a venue. Also, next time (if there is one) please could someone remind me about the 85 chimes at 8 pm on a Friday night from the clock right above the venue.
11. July 2011 -Buxton Fringe - Double Booked. Best review I've ever had. Show nominated for Best Theatre Production. Am now going to take a short holiday.
If I give an account of every performance I'll be here forever. My baby will burst. So I'm going to limit myself to one sentence or line describing each performance from April to the end of the summer season.
1. May 2011 - Brighton Fringe - New fringe, new play (10 Questions) , new friends, a new life for the future? Maybe one day.
2. May 2011 - Kirtlington - 10 Days - fourth visit to Kirtlington Much fun trying on the lollipop man's uniform backstage.
3. May 2011 -Dunchurch - 10 Days - Biggest, best audience ever. I love you, Dunchurch. Stay with me.
4. May 2011 - Hallaton - 10 Days - Classy Leicestershire audience. Top nibbles.
5. May 2011 and June 2011 - Stratford Fringe - 10 Qs and Double Booked: Most hilarious venue ever. Low point: Man coming to remove sound system 30 mins before show went up. High point: Previous performance including a totally genuine proposal of marriage on stage.
6. June 2011 - Rock - Double Booked - Rock being the apposite word. Backdrop is a climbing wall. Acoustic nightmare but you could all hear, couldn't you. I said "YOU COULD ALL HEAR, COULDN'T YOU?"
7. June 2011 - Tysoe - 10 Days. Tysoe, if I wasn't already promised to Dunchurch you could marry me. Love you.
8. June 2011 - Abberley - 10 Days. Must confess I did arrive feeling a little tired, but the pure air way up high in Abberley lifted my spirits.
9. June 2011 - Clipston - Double Booked. Rather an interesting conversation after the show with a lady who called me Ruth. Somehow I couldn't bring myself to tell her that Ruth's the character I play. I'm Ginny. Flattering, I suppose.
10. June 2011 - Stratford upon Avon - KES - Double Booked. Do not recommend hearing that your daughter has had a car-write-off crash for relaxation therapy just before you leave home to go to a venue. Also, next time (if there is one) please could someone remind me about the 85 chimes at 8 pm on a Friday night from the clock right above the venue.
11. July 2011 -Buxton Fringe - Double Booked. Best review I've ever had. Show nominated for Best Theatre Production. Am now going to take a short holiday.
Friday 13 May 2011
Sunday 10 April 2011
Firings
I am intoxicated with power. Over the past few weeks I have made swingeing cuts to the cast list of Family Matters. "Hold on" I hear you say. "I thought it was a one woman show. How does that work, then?" You are right, of course. It is a one-woman show. But I am supported by a cast of a thousand props each of which is under constant scrutiny. Two strikes and you're out is the rule and I regret to report that there have been casualties.
First - the condom. The whole point of a condom is that it is supposed to make things safe. It has no other raison d'etre. The condom in Family Matters has behaved with such blatant and irresponsible care for the safety of the show it simply had to go. It had a small role. Maybe that was the problem. Condoms are brought into this world knowing that they are the last frontier. So maybe being given a minor role was demeaning and the condom decided to make more of its onstage presence. (Rather like the Nativity play innkeeper who, to Joseph's plea for a room for his travail and heavy laden wife replied "Yes, plenty of rooms, old chap. Come on in!") All the condom had to do in Family Matters was be produced from my pocket, be dangled in front of the audience until they laughed and then disappear into the side of the cutlery basket until it could be disposed of later on. All of that it did. However, when I came to lay the table I discovered that the condom had stuck itself to a knife. One hand held the basket, the other hand held the knife. Accordingly, vigorous shaking was the only way of detaching the condom. Vigorous shaking is not the normal style of laying a table. The condom did come off the knife e-ventually, but from then on it was on its final warning. The following night the condom fell out of my pocket as I walked onstage. So, for twenty minutes, I performed the show with this "thing" on the floor near to me. I ignored it. But, then I felt something squidgy under my shoe .. and I knew that my next scripted movement was to lift my foot so that the audience could see the sole. What I didn't know was what the squidgy thing was .. and I couldn't look down to verify the whereabouts of the condom because where my eyes go, the audience's tend to follow. I lifted my foot and prayed that the jonny wasn't attached. It wasn't. It was still lying on the floor. But there has to be trust between the performer and her props and the trust had gone. And so has the condom.
...followed by the fairy lights. Stupid of me, I know, to use Christmas fairy lights in a play. I can't actually think of any domestic piece of kit with a reputation for greater unreliability. People make jokes about them over the advent sherry. But the trouble is that the fairy lights usually get a laugh in Family Matters, so they have been worth persevering with, even though every - single - time we have used them, they have let us down. We turn them on and nothing happens. We jiggle the wires. Still nothing. We pull out every bulb. Nothing. Change the plug. Zilch. We ask around. "Has anyone got a set of fairy lights we can borrow?" Someone says she thinks she might have some in the loft. Twenty minutes she returns covered in cobwebs, with her Xmas decoration box. But in the meanwhile my original set has sprung into twinkly life, so we say "Don't worry. We're fine now." Last night, the fairy lights just died. They got all hot, went phut and expired. But I can't really do without them, because the laugh is worth keeping. So tomorrow I'm going into town to buy some more. That'll be easy. It's mid April.
First - the condom. The whole point of a condom is that it is supposed to make things safe. It has no other raison d'etre. The condom in Family Matters has behaved with such blatant and irresponsible care for the safety of the show it simply had to go. It had a small role. Maybe that was the problem. Condoms are brought into this world knowing that they are the last frontier. So maybe being given a minor role was demeaning and the condom decided to make more of its onstage presence. (Rather like the Nativity play innkeeper who, to Joseph's plea for a room for his travail and heavy laden wife replied "Yes, plenty of rooms, old chap. Come on in!") All the condom had to do in Family Matters was be produced from my pocket, be dangled in front of the audience until they laughed and then disappear into the side of the cutlery basket until it could be disposed of later on. All of that it did. However, when I came to lay the table I discovered that the condom had stuck itself to a knife. One hand held the basket, the other hand held the knife. Accordingly, vigorous shaking was the only way of detaching the condom. Vigorous shaking is not the normal style of laying a table. The condom did come off the knife e-ventually, but from then on it was on its final warning. The following night the condom fell out of my pocket as I walked onstage. So, for twenty minutes, I performed the show with this "thing" on the floor near to me. I ignored it. But, then I felt something squidgy under my shoe .. and I knew that my next scripted movement was to lift my foot so that the audience could see the sole. What I didn't know was what the squidgy thing was .. and I couldn't look down to verify the whereabouts of the condom because where my eyes go, the audience's tend to follow. I lifted my foot and prayed that the jonny wasn't attached. It wasn't. It was still lying on the floor. But there has to be trust between the performer and her props and the trust had gone. And so has the condom.
...followed by the fairy lights. Stupid of me, I know, to use Christmas fairy lights in a play. I can't actually think of any domestic piece of kit with a reputation for greater unreliability. People make jokes about them over the advent sherry. But the trouble is that the fairy lights usually get a laugh in Family Matters, so they have been worth persevering with, even though every - single - time we have used them, they have let us down. We turn them on and nothing happens. We jiggle the wires. Still nothing. We pull out every bulb. Nothing. Change the plug. Zilch. We ask around. "Has anyone got a set of fairy lights we can borrow?" Someone says she thinks she might have some in the loft. Twenty minutes she returns covered in cobwebs, with her Xmas decoration box. But in the meanwhile my original set has sprung into twinkly life, so we say "Don't worry. We're fine now." Last night, the fairy lights just died. They got all hot, went phut and expired. But I can't really do without them, because the laugh is worth keeping. So tomorrow I'm going into town to buy some more. That'll be easy. It's mid April.
Thursday 24 March 2011
Priors Marston
You may not know this, but I have a thing about Colin Firth. It started when the television adaptation of Pride and Prejudice was broadcast a few years ago. No, actually, it wasn't the swimming in the lake scene that got me going. It was the look that passed between Mr Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett as she played the piano in the drawing room one evening after dinner. A long, lingering look of tentative love. I paused the programme and took a photograph. It seemed the most natural thing to do, but everyone laughs when I tell them.
Last night I performed to an audience in a Warwickshire drawing room. To my regret Colin Firth was not in the audience, not that I was expecting him to be there. Anyway, he is mentioned in the script which, I reckon, is about as close to my screen idol as I'm ever going to get.
I thoroughly enjoyed my parlour performance and noted the difference between that and the village hall venues I often visit.
First there is the green room. In village halls these vary considerably from kitchen cupboards, hallways, council chambers, toddler group rooms, schoolrooms, staffrooms to ladies loos. I have learned not to be fussy. Or I had until last night, when I was afforded a suite: double bed, magazines, full length mirror, bath, unguents, wet room, the works.
Then there's the theatre space itself. You tend to know what you're going to get in a village hall. Mostly they are the same: empty spaces that work for birthdays, discos, brownies, yoga, slimmers world meetings and my show. Last night I was in a grand and comfortable converted barn with books, soft furnishings and a perfectly sized and fitted stage for a show about family life.
I could get to like this.. and everyone has a stage in their home, don't they?
But you have to be careful when performing in someone's home. Things can happen: the phone or doorbell can ring. The cat can wander in. The dog can bark. Or, as last night, the dog can come in.
We are enjoined never to perform with children or animals, and I wasn't planning to. But during the first scene I heard the padding of paws on the stairs leading to the room and knew that for a moment or two I wasn't the main attraction. I had no idea at all what was going to happen next. I knew I could trust the owners to do all in their power to remove the dog, but I didn't know the dog that well. How obedient was she? How interested in what was happening on stage? Would the cocoa pops (a prop) prove an irresistible lure? Auto-pilot kicked in as all these thoughts flooded my mind. Happily the dog was as well-trained as I could have hoped and I regained my audience's attention as she returned to lie in front of the Aga.
I'll do it again though ... a parlour performance. And I quite like the excitement of the unexpected .. disconcerting though it can be. The last time I did it a hen came in through the window. Not such a well trained hen, either. But that's another story.
Last night I performed to an audience in a Warwickshire drawing room. To my regret Colin Firth was not in the audience, not that I was expecting him to be there. Anyway, he is mentioned in the script which, I reckon, is about as close to my screen idol as I'm ever going to get.
I thoroughly enjoyed my parlour performance and noted the difference between that and the village hall venues I often visit.
First there is the green room. In village halls these vary considerably from kitchen cupboards, hallways, council chambers, toddler group rooms, schoolrooms, staffrooms to ladies loos. I have learned not to be fussy. Or I had until last night, when I was afforded a suite: double bed, magazines, full length mirror, bath, unguents, wet room, the works.
Then there's the theatre space itself. You tend to know what you're going to get in a village hall. Mostly they are the same: empty spaces that work for birthdays, discos, brownies, yoga, slimmers world meetings and my show. Last night I was in a grand and comfortable converted barn with books, soft furnishings and a perfectly sized and fitted stage for a show about family life.
I could get to like this.. and everyone has a stage in their home, don't they?
But you have to be careful when performing in someone's home. Things can happen: the phone or doorbell can ring. The cat can wander in. The dog can bark. Or, as last night, the dog can come in.
We are enjoined never to perform with children or animals, and I wasn't planning to. But during the first scene I heard the padding of paws on the stairs leading to the room and knew that for a moment or two I wasn't the main attraction. I had no idea at all what was going to happen next. I knew I could trust the owners to do all in their power to remove the dog, but I didn't know the dog that well. How obedient was she? How interested in what was happening on stage? Would the cocoa pops (a prop) prove an irresistible lure? Auto-pilot kicked in as all these thoughts flooded my mind. Happily the dog was as well-trained as I could have hoped and I regained my audience's attention as she returned to lie in front of the Aga.
I'll do it again though ... a parlour performance. And I quite like the excitement of the unexpected .. disconcerting though it can be. The last time I did it a hen came in through the window. Not such a well trained hen, either. But that's another story.
Sunday 6 February 2011
Alrewas and Bulkington
I don't think I've mentioned this yet. In January I became a new columnist for Warwickshire Life Magazine. I have just submitted a piece for publication later this year. One paragraph states boldly: "I am not normally superstitious." Well, scrub that because now I am.
My trip to Weston on Trent this time last week was joyous. Ditto my visit to Alrewas on Friday. These two audiences have set the bar so high in terms of appreciation, I feel that I am doomed to disappointment henceforth.
The day after Weston on Trent my car suffered a blow out on the M40. Bit of a pain, but noone got hurt and I considered myself lucky that it hadn't happened en route to Weston. With a carful of sound and lighting equipment, props and costumes, it would have been a pain to unload all of that beside the road and then change a wheel in the dark. Impossible actually. Lucky me that it happened the next day.
Alrewas was a dream night. I love the place and everyone in it. Such was my joy as I left that with a carefree gesture I threw my hatstand into the boot and it snapped in half. Once again I counted myself lucky that this hadn't just before the show. The hatstand is a crucial prop. I'd have been in trouble if it had broken just before a performance.
The following day I set off to Bulkington, rather uneasy in the knowledge that incidences of bad luck often happen in threes. As I left the house my handmirror fell out of my bag and smashed on the floor. This was a nuisance in itself. So, phew, the three things had happened. Bit of a pain to have to go and get another mirror. Bit worrying that a broken mirror often portends seven years' bad luck. But, I reasoned to myself, there's not much else that can go wrong now. Noone can actually sabotage the show itself because that's in my head. As long as I'm not decapitated, it'll be OK.
So Toby (young techie) and I arrived in Bulkington and were delighted to discover that the venue had its own inbuilt sound and lighting system. Things were definitely starting to go my way. This saved us the bother of having to lug our own PA system and lights inside and spend a couple of hours setting them up. We'd be able to leave my equipment in the car and drink tea and eat biscuits instead.
I did the show. It went fine and then I idled a while away in conversation with two lovely members of the audience, knowing that there wasn't a long get-out (a technical term for getting out). Eventually I got out to the car. Odd thing. It was unlocked. I never leave the car unlocked - especially when there's a thousand quid's worth of sound and lighting equipment in there waiting to be taken home. Only that was it - there wasn't - a thousand quid's worth of equipment in the car any more. Some vile and loathsome person had broken into the car and nicked it during the show. Oh hateful, mean and dishonest creature! You have upset me. You won't be reading this, I know, but if you were I would want you to know that I thoroughly dislike you. But, ha ha, I can have a bit of a laugh because you didn't take the actual lights - too heavy for you were they? Quite what you are going to do with everything you need in order to make lights work (cables, dimmers, faders, connectors etc etc) but no lights, I don't know. Not really my problem is it? I'm after you though. I know you're right handed because you took my right glove (little hands a bit cold, were they?) and I know you'd been in the mud (all over the car). It's only a matter of time. Keep looking over your shoulder.
But I do feel a little jinxed now. Within the course of one week the car, a prop, a mirror and now all my technical equipment have been sabotaged by bad luck. The script is the only thing that hasn't yet been targetted because that is in my head. I wish it were somewhere less important. Either a beheading or total memory loss is surely imminent.
My trip to Weston on Trent this time last week was joyous. Ditto my visit to Alrewas on Friday. These two audiences have set the bar so high in terms of appreciation, I feel that I am doomed to disappointment henceforth.
The day after Weston on Trent my car suffered a blow out on the M40. Bit of a pain, but noone got hurt and I considered myself lucky that it hadn't happened en route to Weston. With a carful of sound and lighting equipment, props and costumes, it would have been a pain to unload all of that beside the road and then change a wheel in the dark. Impossible actually. Lucky me that it happened the next day.
Alrewas was a dream night. I love the place and everyone in it. Such was my joy as I left that with a carefree gesture I threw my hatstand into the boot and it snapped in half. Once again I counted myself lucky that this hadn't just before the show. The hatstand is a crucial prop. I'd have been in trouble if it had broken just before a performance.
The following day I set off to Bulkington, rather uneasy in the knowledge that incidences of bad luck often happen in threes. As I left the house my handmirror fell out of my bag and smashed on the floor. This was a nuisance in itself. So, phew, the three things had happened. Bit of a pain to have to go and get another mirror. Bit worrying that a broken mirror often portends seven years' bad luck. But, I reasoned to myself, there's not much else that can go wrong now. Noone can actually sabotage the show itself because that's in my head. As long as I'm not decapitated, it'll be OK.
So Toby (young techie) and I arrived in Bulkington and were delighted to discover that the venue had its own inbuilt sound and lighting system. Things were definitely starting to go my way. This saved us the bother of having to lug our own PA system and lights inside and spend a couple of hours setting them up. We'd be able to leave my equipment in the car and drink tea and eat biscuits instead.
I did the show. It went fine and then I idled a while away in conversation with two lovely members of the audience, knowing that there wasn't a long get-out (a technical term for getting out). Eventually I got out to the car. Odd thing. It was unlocked. I never leave the car unlocked - especially when there's a thousand quid's worth of sound and lighting equipment in there waiting to be taken home. Only that was it - there wasn't - a thousand quid's worth of equipment in the car any more. Some vile and loathsome person had broken into the car and nicked it during the show. Oh hateful, mean and dishonest creature! You have upset me. You won't be reading this, I know, but if you were I would want you to know that I thoroughly dislike you. But, ha ha, I can have a bit of a laugh because you didn't take the actual lights - too heavy for you were they? Quite what you are going to do with everything you need in order to make lights work (cables, dimmers, faders, connectors etc etc) but no lights, I don't know. Not really my problem is it? I'm after you though. I know you're right handed because you took my right glove (little hands a bit cold, were they?) and I know you'd been in the mud (all over the car). It's only a matter of time. Keep looking over your shoulder.
But I do feel a little jinxed now. Within the course of one week the car, a prop, a mirror and now all my technical equipment have been sabotaged by bad luck. The script is the only thing that hasn't yet been targetted because that is in my head. I wish it were somewhere less important. Either a beheading or total memory loss is surely imminent.
Monday 31 January 2011
Weston on Trent
Nice to be back on the road after a couple of months off. Nice to catch up with senior techie Dik again… there is nothing more comforting when pervaded by an unmistakeable smell of burning than being supported by a veteran technician with 38 year’s experience behind him who knows, even without looking, that it is nothing to do with us.
Food is an important aspect of touring. My own one concession to superstitious practices is to ensure that I eat and drink exactly the same thing before each performance: two ham and mustard rolls and a pepsi max – leaving room for handfuls of chocolate balls (Mars, Nestles or Cadbury’s it doesn’t matter which) in the dark, so I can’t see how many I’m eating, during the drive home. Sometimes I succumb to a biscuit or cake if offered one at the venue. They vary in levels of interest and appeal. Pink wafers have never been my favourites, and variety packs leave me cold. Home made is unfailingly good. The puddings in Bishops Itchington were to die for, I recall. But last night the bar was set higher than ever before thanks to someone in Weston on Trent. At the kitchen servery was laid out a promising array of tins and foil wrapped home made cakes and biscuits. Any one of them would have done the job but the courgette and lime cake was too intriguing to resist. Dik’s resistence failed him first and he took a tentative nibble “You can taste the courgette.” He announced, and then finished his piece in two mouthfuls. I saved my own till later and then wished that Dik had left his.
I sometimes think that Ruth Rich, the heroine of my one-act plays, lives a more interesting albeit troublesome life than my own. Not today though.
I awoke to discover that I had received 15 emails. That’s more than usual. They revealed that my email account had been hacked into and that, unwittingly I had sent a link to a Canadian Viagra site to all my addressees. These include staff and pupils of both children’s schools, a large number of business contacts, the ladies and gentlemen of the choir I sing with and several eminent members of the judiciary – many of whom had concluded that this was a bona fide new venture of mine and sent witty emails to tell me so. That’s not counting the one from the person who took it personally and seemed pretty pissed off.
It took a bit of time to set this straight and so I left late with my mother to visit my niece. Half way down the M40 a tyre blew. I was all for changing the wheel but mum said I mustn’t because it was dangerous so instead for 45 minutes we stood shivering to death (also dangerous in my view) beside the road singing hymns we both knew until an overly kind breakdown man confirmed that I clearly look older than I feel by wrapping me in a tinfoil blanket while he put everything right, and departed with the news that I’d probably need two new tyres not one because the rear one was bald.
Then the phone rang and it was someone in my village telling me that they had found my filofax lying in the road and I could pick it up whenever I liked. How the hell did it get there?
Got to niece – with just enough time to spare for a quick lunch followed by an hour of new child seat for car assembly. No finger nails left, and precious little temper.
Got home to discover the hoover in pieces all over the sitting room floor and Gina the cleaner looking fraught. Then spent the evening trying to upload a new anti-virus system and deleting copious old and doubtless invaluable files from the computer.
Will shortly go to bed – content in at least one respect: Sometimes, very occasionally, my own true life is even more stressful than that of my alter ego. Eat your heart out, Ruth Rich, and leave the courgette and lime cake for me.
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