Hi Diddly Dee, an Actor's Life for Me
"Those who agree with us may not be right, but we admire their astuteness."
Cullen Hightower
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Catching up
Let's start at the very beginning; a very good place to start. The weekend before I started rehearsals for Whiff, the show with which I was going to Edinburgh, I went for a few days of drunken debachery in the Suffolk countryside to celebrate my friend Susie's birthday. This involved sleeping in a tent, drinking a lot of alcohol and staying up late. Somewhat unsurprisingly, I started to feel a little - unusual - on the Sunday night. By Monday morning it was abundantly clear that I had tonsillitis, so I phoned the doctor and made an appointment to get drugs, then phoned my director to say that I wouldnt' be going in the car with her to Portsmouth after all, but would catch the train later that day. She asked whether I needed her to find me a replacement. I said no, of course not - I would be right as rain in 48 hours. Looking back on it now, I should have said yes; nothing like a bit of hindsight to make you feel stupid. Anyway, I made it down to Portsmouth later that day and shivered in bed for a while before beginning to feel a bit more human and starting rehearsals. Rehearsals were all going pretty well and we were having lots of fun. It came to the day of the dress rehearsal and we had planned to perform for a select audience of 2. Scene 1 went very well and the audience were enjoying it greatly, which was very heartening. I came on stage for scene 2, the scene in which I play a magic monkey, skipped gaily across the stage, turned to come back the other way - and collapsed in a heap, clutching my ankle. Treacherously, it had turned underneath me and was swelling and turning blue before our very eyes. Luckily, our audience members were both members of the medical profession, so ice and drugs were administered and I was rushed off to casualty for an x-ray. After a couple of hours and a few x-rays it was proven that there was nothing broken, which was a relief, but the fact still remained that I was due on stage in Belfast two days hence. The nurse looked at me slightly askance when I told her this, but then told me how to strap it up and sent me off with plenty of good wishes. When we got back home, I phoned my mum. She usually has great quantities of strapping, due to dodgy knees, so I wanted to beg some from her to get me through the Belfast show and subsequent weeks in Edinburgh. She then told me that she was with my granny, who had suddenly developed pneumonia. By the next day pneumonia had turned to renal failure. Knowing that it would probably be the last chance I would have, I spent the day with Granny. Despite being very weak, she retained her sense of humour; on finding out about my ankle, she laughed and told me that I should 'take more water with it next time, darling.' I travelled up to Edinburgh on July 30th, Granny's 90th birthday. She had always said that she didn't want to make it past 90, and she kept her word. She died that afternoon. One thing we always knew about Granny was that it was best not to argue with her as she would generally get her own way in the end. 'Today is the tomorrow that you worried about yesterday and all is well.' |
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For Huwie
As Huw so rightly pointed out yesterday, I got distracted from my original blog. So, here's the lowdown on the chatting up over the past week or so. Number One: As I walked back from the tube at about midnight, having been to an excellent comedy night. He was walking the other way from me and appeared to be about to ask me for directions or something. I therefore stopped. I don't think he could quite believe that he'd managed to make me stop, so he spent the next few minutes talking rubbish along the lines of, 'oh, aren't you the girl from - oh no, you're not. Anyway ...' He was nice-looking and chatty, so we spent a while talking, during which time he tried to ascertain what street I live on (I wouldn't tell him) and my phone number (I didn't give it to him). Actually, if we'd carried on chatting for a bit longer I would possibly have given him my number, but his mates came back and started being loud and annoying and trying to hug me, at which point I decided it was best to leave. He's local, so it's entirely possible I'll run into him again at some point, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it! Number two: As I walked along Oxford Street at about 1am, in stockinged feet, holding my shoes in my hand and probably with mascara in great streaks down my face. It had been an emotional and drunken night out and the reason I was walking was because the bus was giving me - er - motion sickness and I was better in the fresh air. Ahem. He caught up with me just as I turned into Gloucester Place and asked how I managed to walk so fast with no shoes on. This made no sense to me - of course it's faster walking without shoes. I can't remember what I said to him but he seemed to take it as an invitation to start chatting to me. I told him flat out that I'd had a bad night and wasn't interested. He tried to give me his card. I told him again that I wasn't interested. He carried on talking. I ended up getting onto a bus just to get away from him. I had to get off again two stops down the road, but at least I'd lost him. Another one of those nights where I ended up walking 90% of the way home. My tights were shredded and my feet hurt, but at least I'd got home safely. I was (quite rightly) told off for this by a concerned friend the next day, but when the homing instinct hits me I just keep walking. Number three: waiting outside Oxford Circus tube station; I was a bit early, my friend was running a bit late, so I was lounging by the railings and looking bored. While doing so, I watched the people around me for entertainment. I noticed a guy and a girl about 20 yards away from me. They didn't look totally comfortable in each other's company, and the girl kept making to put her phone to her ear. 5 minutes later, another guy appeared, she flung her arms around him in relief, and the original guy slunk off. Oh no - he's coming this way. Sure enough, he made a beeline straight for me. 'You are waiting for friend, yes?' Yes. Yes I am. Now sod off. I didn't say the last bit, obviously, but anyone with half a brain would have got the message when I started frantically looking over his shoulder for an escape route. Not him, however. He was out to pick up a girl, come hell or high water. Eventually I managed to get rid of him by just being openly rude. I wonder if he managed to find anyone daft enough to fall for it? |
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The Other
Sorry I've not been around much recently - busy busy busy (and maybe just a little bit lazy). Anyway, to keep you entertained, here is a story I wrote to order for a writer's group I've joined recently. Sleep well, my pretties... He told me that it's over between us. He says he can't cope with the lies any more and he is choosing her. I smiled and told him I understood. Not for me the histrionics of other women. There are better ways to deal with a situation like this. |
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Mix Tape
At the weekend I bought a tape player. I haven't had a working tape deck in a very long time, so I have been going through my old mix tapes, playing them systematically and being both hugely excited and mortally embarrassed by the music that I used to like. I have a series of tapes, made between the ages of about 14 and 17, titled 'Various Excellence ...'. Yep. There are a few tunes on there which have stood the test of time, but there are some real howlers as well. Anyone remember Lena Fiagbe? Genesis's chart revival? Red Dragon? They're all there. These tapes are like mini time-capsules. Each one has a beautifully made cover - cut from Cosmo in the early days, Vogue later on - and say far too much about my teenage self. The earlier tapes are mainly made up of songs recorded from the charts on a Sunday night. I used to listen religiously, recording the whole chart from beginning to end. I would then transfer the songs that I liked over to a mix tape, spending hours trying to cut the recording off in just the right place so that I didn't get Bruno Brookes's voice over the end of the song. I haven't always managed it. Nor have I always managed to get the levels right. This was in the days before I had Dolby NR or graphic equalisers on my stereo, and the volume goes from barely audible to eardrum-shatteringly loud in the space of a few seconds. Then there are the tapes that have been made for me by other people. The ones made by school friends are full of James Taylor and Neil Young. The ones from old boyfriends are full of coded song titles and secret notes in the spine of the cover. I got into trouble over that one, in fact. I missed the hidden message and he was mortally offended. I once made a tape for an ex, thinking that I was being everso subtle with my choice of music, but he saw right through me. I've never been any good at game-playing. |
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6 Degrees of Separation, the Actor's Way
I spent my first gap year studying for a 4th A-level (in drama) at Stratford-Upon-Avon college. Yes, I'm a geek. However, it was so much more than just an extra A-level. It meant that I could spend a year living in Stratford, seeing endless shows and generally having a great time. It was a fabulous year, and having friends that worked behind the bar at the Duck meant that I could often get in on the lock-ins that used to happen, when the actors came out of the theatres. This was in the days when Pam was still in charge and the actors ruled the roost there. I think it's changed now - when I went back last summer it seemed far less exciting than it did then, but that may just be me being ten years older and more jaded. I'm not quite sure how it's taken me 11 years to realise this (or, rather, to make the link), but 1996 was one of the years that David Tennant was in the RSC. I could have drunk out of the same pint glass as he did! *swoons* I think I was probably more enamoured with Joseph Fiennes (who was also in the Company) at the time, but looking back on the notes that I made in the programmes for As You Like It and The Herbal Bed, it seems that I was rather impressed by DT as well. The words 'fab' and 'brill' crop up more than once. He he. On looking through the programmes I see quite a few names that are now very familiar, including two people that taught me at drama school. As my friend B is constantly saying, it's a small world (but I wouldn't want to stick it up my arse). In fact, she worked as a dresser for the RSC for that same season, up in Newcastle. Not that we knew each other back then. The acting world keeps getting smaller, the longer I manage to stick at it. It's a war of attrition - I'm aiming for grand-dame stardom, by virtue of being the only one of my contemporaries who has been stupid enough to stay in the game that long. |
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Weekend round-up
Saturday morning travellers. The man who got lucky last night, still in his suit, carrying a big bag and an even bigger smirk. The teenagers running late for their Saturday jobs, all windmilling arms and skinny legs, racing along the street and holding a shouted conversation punctuated with fits of giggles. Then there are the out-of-towners, newly arrived on the train, dragging their enormous suitcases behind them. WHIRR CLUNK WHIRR CLUNK WHIRR WHIRR CLUNK CLUNK WHIRR. The pavements aren't even enough for these beasts, designed for the smoothness of airport floors. More goating around. Moobs and P came along to see the show on Saturday, bringing friends, small children, and lots of laughter and audience participation. I haven't enjoyed a show so much in ages - thank you, chaps! I'm currently acting editor over here , and there's a new story up today. If you have a chance, why not head over there and comment? I do like to make a good impression in a new job. I was woken up at 5.47 this morning by a fox attempting to get in through the cat flap in the kitchen. They need to learn some manners, those foxes - I mean, if you're going to come in unannounced then at least do it quietly, rather than making such a bloody song and dance about it. I think this might mean war ... Finally, is anyone else getting spammed by fashionhause.com? The buggers. I'm not interested in buying Burberry handbags and knock-off watches, thanks. Grr. |
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Class Act
Disclaimer: I've tried to write this post about 5 times today and have had to give up and delete every time, as I tie myself up in knots and contradict my own points, so I do apologise if it's a bit rambling - it's a lot better than my earlier efforts, believe me. I've been involved in a few very interesting discussions of class recently, which lends weight to the idea that Britain is still very far from a classless society. However, the boundaries have blurred so much that it's often difficult to work out where one section of society ends and another begins. Is it money, education, jobs or even aspirations that define us? I don't think it can be any one thing on its own, to be honest. Is a child of working class parents, who has gone to a good university and is now working in a white-collar job, working class because of their background, or middle-class because of their current situation? What class is someone, originally from the landed gentry, who dropped out of school at 16 and became a plumber? To be honest, I don't even know why it should matter in this day and age. Maybe it doesn't. However, the fact that the discussion keeps coming up means that it must be striking a nerve with people somehow. I have heard it said that it's a peculiarly British obsession, but I'm not sure that's true. We just call it something different to everyone else. Americans have Rednecks and Trailer-Trash, we have Chavs. It's human nature that we should judge the people around us and everyone has their own brand of snobbery. Personally, I think that moral values should matter much more to people than how much money someone earns or what job they have; but I'm probably being hopelessly idealistic. Your thoughts ...?
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