The next day we went to Wargrave, Berkshire. Bit of a heave but worth every inch of the way. Ruth Rich was among friends of similar ilk ... mothers just like her who stand outside the circle and wonder where they fit in, then realise that they are standing in a circle of their own and all they can do in those situations is laugh. Wargrave was a good night.
Preston on Stour was different. You can tell when the audience isn't going to like it just by listening to them as they settle in their seats. Those poor, county men in their jackets and ties. Ruth just wasn't their glass of Merlot.
Never mind, no time to dwell on it. The date is March 3rd and it is the world premiere of Something Fishy. The title lends itself to a fish and chip supper beforehand. The smell of salt and vinegar nearly blew my adenoids away. May I take a moment to comment on the dressing room? Yes, it was a cupboard, but I have had to change in more than my fair share of cupboards and this one was different. White jeans and cupboard floors don't go well but John Schumann of Wellesbourne knows how to clean a floor and I could have eaten my fish and chips off this one. But I wasn't in the mood for fish and chips as this was a World Premiere so I held back and let the vinegar clear from the air. Cue lights and sound and I stepped onto the stage. Bit of a big step up but WPs are like that and I did my best to look nimble. Audience came with me all the way. That's the thing about neighbours, you never know when you're going to wish you'd been nice to them.
Following week up to Endon, Staffs, where I met some wonderful, kind people who host the children from Chernobyl who come over for holidays away from toxic air and food. Ethan Baker aged 9 showed us all how to operate the lights in the village hall. I asked him if there was a hoover. Ethan is a Cub Scout. I know that because he was in uniform. Ethan Baker knows the hall inside out. He looked thoughtful and went away. Five minutes later he returned with a broom. "We have made prorgress." He announced in broad Stoke on Trent and was allowed to stay to see the show (Ten Days ..) He said he enjoyed it.
Then it was back to Abberley, Worcs where the lights are operated by Marcus, who had built his own control desk. This is how it goes: John has the script. When he sees a lighting cue coming up he nudges Marcus. Marcus then does what John has told him to do beforehand. Works a treat. Not all the drama was onstage though. A member of the audience had to be taken away in an ambulance having collapsed during the interval. I've since heard that she is OK and on the mend. Poor her, poor audience, poor organisers. Not poor me. I was fine backstage with a Pepsi Max and regular updates. With the reassurance that the casualty was well and on her way to hospital the second half continued.
Then a marathon three consecutive nights of "Ten Days ..." in Warwickshire, Staffs and Derbyshire. Not a good time for the lights to play up, but they did. Just not going to talk about it.
Drayton Bassett WI Hall is a teeny, pretty little place, admittedly a bit thin on dressing rooms (the kitchen) but I found a condemned lean-to which served the purpose. Great atmosphere. Man came up to me afterwards and told me how much he'd enjoyed .... (the show?) No, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.
Next day, Maevsyn Ridware VH. What hospitality we received there! Nothing was too much trouble for Alan and Allen, the organisers. Everyone was happy and this was a good night.
I had reckoned I could cope easily with a three night tour and a few hundred miles driving. The following morning I went with the family to a children's farm where I was pointed out as my great nephew's granny. Yes, OK, in theory, I could easily be his granny but the fact is that I am not, and my own children are still teenagers so I do not like to be referred to as a granny. The following morning, after an eventful and happy night in Muggington, despite harrowing preparations on account of a rogue fuse in a light plug, I was asked if I was in my retirement. Enough! Plainly a three night tour had taken its toll.
It wasn't the performing that had worn me out though, nor entirely the lights, though they were partly to blame. But also partly the travelling. I prefer to drive because I am a control freak and find it stressful to be a passenger, but I really must listen to my Sat Nav dood. The trouble is that I have gone off him and prefer to listen to John's exciting tales of encounters with bears in the Rockies. I would also like a bit more gossip. Sat Nav dood has what used to be an attractive but is now an annoying Australian accent and he can't say "road". His pronunciation rhymes with "bawd". And he leaves things too late. At Junction 9 of the M42 he is all over the place. Sorry dood, but you're history. I'm going to search online for a voice I like. Right now.
