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.
Sunday 30 October 2011
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.
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