Having observed last week that Disabled Gents and Ladies always have to share public toilets with each other, unlike their able counterparts (someone should protest), and visited a school where they shared with able Ladies too, I arrived at West Haddon in a state of anticipation, eager to see the set up there. Normally my first concern on arrival at a venue is where to place the techie, lights and speakers but I've been to West Haddon before, and this time I couldn't wait to get to the loos. I wasn't disappointed. Disabled men and women share facilities in WH, this time with able Gents (fair enough) but also, yes AND with the Baby Changing Unit! Oh, the joy of laughter! Those poor West Haddon mums, never allowed to go into the baby changing room because it is in the Gents. No wonder they all looked so happy! But what about the dad in a wheelchair? Enough on his plate, I'd have thought.
Family Matters is my most complex play. 18 speaking parts, 33 characters, tricky props (don't mention the fairy lights or condom), sound and lighting cues and, now an onstage costume change. It has always bothered me that my character, Ruth, wears the same clothes to go shopping as she does for a party so I put in a costume change and spent a happy hour explaining to a shop assistant that I needed a long sleeved top. The colour didn't matter that much but it mustn't clash tonally with my Ikea tablecloth and apron. I would be wearing it to go to a barbecue and it had to be made of fabric that was warmer than what I would be wearing during that day because the weather was going to get cold and it would be illogical to change into something flimsy for eating outdoors (this is January). Oh, and it also had to be something with a wide neck so that I would be able to take it off really quickly. "When's this for, madam?" "Next Friday." If the shop assistant threw rolled eyes and finger-twirling-round-the-ear bonkers signals to her colleagues (like, how did this woman, who is clearly a slut, know what she'd be wearing during the day next Friday or that the weather would suddenly change?), I didn't notice. It hadn't occurred to me to mention that this whole scenario was going to take place in a play. When I finally mentioned the fact, quite incidentally, a tangible flood of relief that she wasn't dealing with quite such a loony after all overwhelmed her. She set to, producing multitudes of tops of differing weight and design from every shelf and store room. She totally cottoned on to the style of the play and I finally left the shop swinging a bag containing a snazzy, warm, red top in my hand. Worked a treat, I thought.
Tuesday 31 January 2012
Monday 23 January 2012
Dolphin School
I am also a snob. It's hereditary. I come from a family who can't help but be impressed by largesse - whether it be in terms of title, estate or education. Accordingly, a frisson of anticipation accompanied me to Dolphin School near Reading, a frisson which grew fizzier as I passed the road sign to the school, nowhere else, just the school. This school has its own road sign! Now there's posh.
All the hallmarks of exclusivity and fee-paying were visible on our arrival. Neatly games kitted little girls were playing netball on a pitch surrounded by 4 x 4s, mothers in plaid game fair style jackets and hats, and Dubarrys, wildly expensive leather boots which double as wellies when necessary. I know that because I have a pair myself.
John and I were shown into Reception where we signed ourselves in as guests and read the plethora of plaudits about the school "which had been left out on a little table for us to read." (That is a quote from the show, incidentally, not just an arbitrary use of inverted commas for the hell of it.) "Then I realised I hadn't been to the loo since lunchtime." (Another quote from the show.) I asked the very nice receptionist where the Ladies was and was directed to a door bearing "a picture of a girl in a silver sticky out skirt" (yes, another quote), a picture of a man in silver jeans, and a picture of a male or female in a silver wheelchair on it. Funny that. I've never thought of it before. There's never a special sign or even room for disabled women as opposed to men. All disabled people have to share the same loo. Someone should complain. What's good enough for the Disabled at the Dolphin School is good enough for the rest of us too and it turned out that that was the only loo in Reception, hence all three signs on one door. This discovery came as a kind of surprise, because I was kind of half expecting there to be lots of different loos, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. I was far more engaged by my habitual worry that I might pull the emergency cord instead of the light switch, a worry which almost, but not quite, puts me off using Disabled loos entirely when there is a choice.
The performance space was cavernous - a massive area which housed exhibitions of work and foreign trips, musical instruments and stands, comfy chairs, dining tables and gymnastic equipment. Practice rooms behind were stacked with pianos and percussion instruments. This was one nice School.
The hospitality matched the surroundings and John and I were plied with cups of tea as we set up for the show. Inevitably, therefore, it wasn't long before I needed the loo again. We were a good long walk from Reception so I asked where was the nearest. Here there were two loos: Disabled men and women had to share with able bodied women, but able bodied men were provided with facilities of their own. What an interesting distinction to draw. What quality do able bodied women possess that their male counterparts lack which renders them more suitable to share toilet facilities with the Disabled? Actually I can think of quite a few. I don't mean to be sexist, but men's toilet habits being what they are, it was probably deemed kinder not to inflict them on the Disabled. The architect must have been a woman. But then again, maybe not ... there was no mirror. No woman would decide that a mirror is unnecessary in the loo. It certainly is necessary if you're about to go on stage in front an audience of 70 or so people. I looked around for something with the power to reflect. There was only one thing so it would have to do. I bent over the loo handle and put on my make up. It wasn't easy. Would have been a hell of a lot more difficult if I'd been in a wheelchair.
But this isn't criticism. Children at the Dolphin School clearly have a wonderful education with all that music, travel and space in which to learn. If they grow up not needing to look in a mirror every time they go to the loo, that wouldn't be such a bad thing, would it?
All the hallmarks of exclusivity and fee-paying were visible on our arrival. Neatly games kitted little girls were playing netball on a pitch surrounded by 4 x 4s, mothers in plaid game fair style jackets and hats, and Dubarrys, wildly expensive leather boots which double as wellies when necessary. I know that because I have a pair myself.
John and I were shown into Reception where we signed ourselves in as guests and read the plethora of plaudits about the school "which had been left out on a little table for us to read." (That is a quote from the show, incidentally, not just an arbitrary use of inverted commas for the hell of it.) "Then I realised I hadn't been to the loo since lunchtime." (Another quote from the show.) I asked the very nice receptionist where the Ladies was and was directed to a door bearing "a picture of a girl in a silver sticky out skirt" (yes, another quote), a picture of a man in silver jeans, and a picture of a male or female in a silver wheelchair on it. Funny that. I've never thought of it before. There's never a special sign or even room for disabled women as opposed to men. All disabled people have to share the same loo. Someone should complain. What's good enough for the Disabled at the Dolphin School is good enough for the rest of us too and it turned out that that was the only loo in Reception, hence all three signs on one door. This discovery came as a kind of surprise, because I was kind of half expecting there to be lots of different loos, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. I was far more engaged by my habitual worry that I might pull the emergency cord instead of the light switch, a worry which almost, but not quite, puts me off using Disabled loos entirely when there is a choice.
The performance space was cavernous - a massive area which housed exhibitions of work and foreign trips, musical instruments and stands, comfy chairs, dining tables and gymnastic equipment. Practice rooms behind were stacked with pianos and percussion instruments. This was one nice School.
The hospitality matched the surroundings and John and I were plied with cups of tea as we set up for the show. Inevitably, therefore, it wasn't long before I needed the loo again. We were a good long walk from Reception so I asked where was the nearest. Here there were two loos: Disabled men and women had to share with able bodied women, but able bodied men were provided with facilities of their own. What an interesting distinction to draw. What quality do able bodied women possess that their male counterparts lack which renders them more suitable to share toilet facilities with the Disabled? Actually I can think of quite a few. I don't mean to be sexist, but men's toilet habits being what they are, it was probably deemed kinder not to inflict them on the Disabled. The architect must have been a woman. But then again, maybe not ... there was no mirror. No woman would decide that a mirror is unnecessary in the loo. It certainly is necessary if you're about to go on stage in front an audience of 70 or so people. I looked around for something with the power to reflect. There was only one thing so it would have to do. I bent over the loo handle and put on my make up. It wasn't easy. Would have been a hell of a lot more difficult if I'd been in a wheelchair.
But this isn't criticism. Children at the Dolphin School clearly have a wonderful education with all that music, travel and space in which to learn. If they grow up not needing to look in a mirror every time they go to the loo, that wouldn't be such a bad thing, would it?
Sunday 15 January 2012
Friday 13th in Ashton
Yes, I'll admit I am a little superstitious. I'm not OCD about it, but I adhere to a few random routines before shows: eating the same food, drinking the same drink, laying my clothes out in the same way before I go onstage, doing warm up exercise in a particular order, nothing out of the ordinary, I wouldn't say. However I did notice that my first show of 2012 was to take place on Friday 13th, and then tried not to think about it and treat the day like any other. In the morning I made some bread. I have forgiven our bread maker for some catastrophes last year and have made some pretty darn delicious chocolate croissants recently, so I thought I'd have another go at plain bread and set the machine off on its three hour marathon while I went through my show day rituals: running over lines, packing the car and ironing my costume. At lunchtime I removed a wadge of spongey goo from the bread maker and tried to convince myself that this disaster was not a portent of worse to come and that it counted as my dose of Friday 13th bad luck.
I should have concentrated more carefully while I was loading the car. When I unpacked it at the venue I realised that I'd left my microphone at home. I only use a mic in venues where I feel I need it and prefer not to use it at all. If I'd had the choice the hall in Ashton would have been a close call. It wasn't particularly big but the acoustic was dull, plus the large audience expected would add to sound absorption. But I didn't have the mic so I'd have to manage without - even for the finale song, when I really do prefer to use it. Time for the routine sip of diet coke - brilliant for zipping up the energy level and putting me in performance mode. Aaargh! I'd left that behind too. Then a horrible noise started to come through the speakers. I recalled the date and began to feel nervous about the show.
At this point David, John and John came riding in on white chargers. John produced a cordless radio mic for me to use during the song and assured me that he could hear everything else I said crystal clear from the rear of the hall. John II (St John actually, since he has recently agreed to tech for all future shows) obliterated the noise and David drove off to get me some diet coke.
From that moment on it was a dream night. The audience was perfect: a mix of lively young mums who were hell bent on having a good time and happy to laugh at themselves and me, and sprightly and attentive villagers - nearly a hundred of them, which is a fine number for a village audience on a cold January night. Ruth Rich was very happy to be back on the boards. There was only one disappointment. During the play Ruth "writes" in her diary. What actually happens is that I write my own remarks about how well the show is going down. There are some entertaining entries: "Could the person with a cough please shut up!" "Nose running - will they notice if I sniff?" "Love you, audience" "HELLO is there anyone out there?" But the pen had run out, so my effusive words came out as nothing but a few scratchy marks. Never mind, for lashings of bad luck this Friday 13th was a flop. But that's not to say I'm giving up my pre-show routines. Quite the opposite actually. Just imagine how the evening might have gone if I hadn't stuck to them.
Thursday 5 January 2012
Rounding up 2011
It only went and happened again, didn't it? No, not the microphone thing, nor having royalty in the audience. The allergic reaction. I've narrowed the offending substance down to paracetamol or ibuprofen. Sometime later this year I've got to go in to hospital for a controlled experiment to discover which of those two provokes the reaction. Or I could just take one of them now ... no, maybe not.
I've got all behind with my performance by performance blog though. After Waingroves there was Heage in Derbyshire. The last time I went there someone put their raffle prize on my set. This time, I couldn't work out why people were setting off fireworks outside on November 18th. Turned out it was the tea urn making all the noise. Heage is a bit like that, but for its eccentricity, remoteness and the fact that people are prepared to go out in the pitch dark in the dead of winter to see a performer from warm and cosy Warwickshire, I love it.
Then Alrewas, where I must confess I had a sense of humour failure when the lights played up again as we were setting up. It was the wrong place to get stroppy because the Alrewas welcome is very special: the food is amazing, the backstage help second to none and the audience are wonderful. Why the lights keep playing up is anyone's guess and I'm just not a good enough actor to pretend that everything is hunky dory before a show when I'm faced with the prospect of performing with one light, or no lights, as the mood takes them. They have now been fixed. Did you hear that lights? You have been fixed. No more allergic reactions from you, if you wouldn't mind.
So .... it was a huge relief and big, big treat to go to perform at the Bridge House Theatre in Warwick. Oh, what a night! One of the best. But before the show my son was terrified. This was a fundraiser for his forthcoming school rugby tour and lots of his friends were going to be in the audience. He couldn't bear to be present and waited at home whilst his mother cavorted around on his school stage before his teachers and classmates. I'd hardly entered the house when I arrived home before he asked how it went. "Terrible." I replied. "They just didn't laugh at all. In fact I think I'm going to give up doing this. It just isn't worth it."
Why did I say that? I don't know. I'd wanted to pick the audience up and take them home with me, they'd been so great. Just seemed like a bit of fun to tease my son.
I waited for an outburst of recrimination: Why did I have to do the show there in the first place? How could I let him down in front of everyone? That kind of thing. But I'd forgotten. Son is a nice chap. "I'm really sorry." I said, attempting in a fake way to cover my own fake disappointment at my fake flop, ready to disabuse him of the disaster as soon as he reacted. Son looked at me kindly, covering the humiliation he must have felt. "It's all right, mum. Don't worry." Five minutes later he dump tackled me onto the sofa and got his own back.
After that it was one more visit to Bulkington and I was home and dry for 2011 - well nearly. Bulkington holds the record for seeing all three of my shows in the space of ten months. Most venues take three years. I was therefore pleased to be able to tell them that I was still one step ahead and that a new play "Something Fishy" would be ready in March.
As a finale for 2011 I did a preview of "Something Fishy" before a selected audience of friends in our garage. The performance wasn't flawless but I was pleased with the reaction and can't wait, really can't wait to doing some more in 2012. Brighton here I come! Maybe Buxton too ..... Edinburgh, not sure.
See you soon.
I've got all behind with my performance by performance blog though. After Waingroves there was Heage in Derbyshire. The last time I went there someone put their raffle prize on my set. This time, I couldn't work out why people were setting off fireworks outside on November 18th. Turned out it was the tea urn making all the noise. Heage is a bit like that, but for its eccentricity, remoteness and the fact that people are prepared to go out in the pitch dark in the dead of winter to see a performer from warm and cosy Warwickshire, I love it.
Then Alrewas, where I must confess I had a sense of humour failure when the lights played up again as we were setting up. It was the wrong place to get stroppy because the Alrewas welcome is very special: the food is amazing, the backstage help second to none and the audience are wonderful. Why the lights keep playing up is anyone's guess and I'm just not a good enough actor to pretend that everything is hunky dory before a show when I'm faced with the prospect of performing with one light, or no lights, as the mood takes them. They have now been fixed. Did you hear that lights? You have been fixed. No more allergic reactions from you, if you wouldn't mind.
So .... it was a huge relief and big, big treat to go to perform at the Bridge House Theatre in Warwick. Oh, what a night! One of the best. But before the show my son was terrified. This was a fundraiser for his forthcoming school rugby tour and lots of his friends were going to be in the audience. He couldn't bear to be present and waited at home whilst his mother cavorted around on his school stage before his teachers and classmates. I'd hardly entered the house when I arrived home before he asked how it went. "Terrible." I replied. "They just didn't laugh at all. In fact I think I'm going to give up doing this. It just isn't worth it."
Why did I say that? I don't know. I'd wanted to pick the audience up and take them home with me, they'd been so great. Just seemed like a bit of fun to tease my son.
I waited for an outburst of recrimination: Why did I have to do the show there in the first place? How could I let him down in front of everyone? That kind of thing. But I'd forgotten. Son is a nice chap. "I'm really sorry." I said, attempting in a fake way to cover my own fake disappointment at my fake flop, ready to disabuse him of the disaster as soon as he reacted. Son looked at me kindly, covering the humiliation he must have felt. "It's all right, mum. Don't worry." Five minutes later he dump tackled me onto the sofa and got his own back.
After that it was one more visit to Bulkington and I was home and dry for 2011 - well nearly. Bulkington holds the record for seeing all three of my shows in the space of ten months. Most venues take three years. I was therefore pleased to be able to tell them that I was still one step ahead and that a new play "Something Fishy" would be ready in March.
As a finale for 2011 I did a preview of "Something Fishy" before a selected audience of friends in our garage. The performance wasn't flawless but I was pleased with the reaction and can't wait, really can't wait to doing some more in 2012. Brighton here I come! Maybe Buxton too ..... Edinburgh, not sure.
See you soon.
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