So it’s all over. I have one cruelly bruised knee and one that is less so. Less hair than when I started. Perhaps a little less waist. A head full of useless lines. DG has a flat full of empty glasses. And so it goes.
I spent yesterday in bruised, slightly hungover, slightly resentful shock. But now, when I flick through the pictures, old faithful nostalgia taps on the back of my head demanding a look in.
The last night was, according to DG, an 8 (or did he say an 8½?) out of 10. Friday - the night that the critic came - made a 9.
I remembered all of my lines. And smugly revelled in the fact that consistent Matt who barely appeared to have put a foot a wrong in our scenes until that point, forgot a precious line. Relatively inconsequential, it was only a “So you’re determined to refuse all of my suggestions, however respectable?” from scene 2. And I was able to demonstrate my amazingly skilful grasp of the script by replying with the right line rather than the line before. But I was pleased to see that the til then infallible had an armourary chink.
Apparently my faint was the best I had done to date. But then I’m losing track of the ‘best til’s – I think they demonstrate only how consistently off the mark they had been til then. I blame the coffee table.
I tried my very best to savour the moment but only really got round to savouring it when I’d thunked my knees on the mahogany and was sobbing my little heart out precariously close to the chaise longue. I sobbed extra noisily as Siobhan hauled me off the stage to make the moment last.
And then the show is over, curtain call done, costumes wrenched off, jumbled into cases and everyone is running like maniacs to dismantle the set as quickly as humanly possible to get to get to get to the after show party.
I am always particularly mournful at the moment when the army of helpers have finished their scurrying, the theatre is empty, the stage is bare, the house lights up and not a single task left to be done. As that is the end of all of the effort. So I have my little moment of quiet reflection about the madness that is all of this four months’ worth of tremendous effort that has been collapsed in the best part of two hours.
But this time, worse still, it was maybe our last time in Adam House as we simply can’t afford it any more. So for a terrible moment I thought I might cry. So overly sentimental. The faithful servitor who has been enjoying his lunchtime pints for the eleven years that I have been serving shows in Adam House, looked like he was even closer to weeping. Though that might have been the cumulative effect of the lunchtime pints.
I have endeavoured to capture some of the grimy magic of one of my favourite little theatres in a selection of variable quality pictures which can be found here. And if you take pity on us and want to give us a massive donation so we can return to our faithful red-threadbare-velvet seated venue, do feel free.
Adam House, in all your filthy malfunctioning inadequacy, we salute you.
I spent yesterday in bruised, slightly hungover, slightly resentful shock. But now, when I flick through the pictures, old faithful nostalgia taps on the back of my head demanding a look in.
The last night was, according to DG, an 8 (or did he say an 8½?) out of 10. Friday - the night that the critic came - made a 9.
I remembered all of my lines. And smugly revelled in the fact that consistent Matt who barely appeared to have put a foot a wrong in our scenes until that point, forgot a precious line. Relatively inconsequential, it was only a “So you’re determined to refuse all of my suggestions, however respectable?” from scene 2. And I was able to demonstrate my amazingly skilful grasp of the script by replying with the right line rather than the line before. But I was pleased to see that the til then infallible had an armourary chink.
Apparently my faint was the best I had done to date. But then I’m losing track of the ‘best til’s – I think they demonstrate only how consistently off the mark they had been til then. I blame the coffee table.
I tried my very best to savour the moment but only really got round to savouring it when I’d thunked my knees on the mahogany and was sobbing my little heart out precariously close to the chaise longue. I sobbed extra noisily as Siobhan hauled me off the stage to make the moment last.
And then the show is over, curtain call done, costumes wrenched off, jumbled into cases and everyone is running like maniacs to dismantle the set as quickly as humanly possible to get to get to get to the after show party.
I am always particularly mournful at the moment when the army of helpers have finished their scurrying, the theatre is empty, the stage is bare, the house lights up and not a single task left to be done. As that is the end of all of the effort. So I have my little moment of quiet reflection about the madness that is all of this four months’ worth of tremendous effort that has been collapsed in the best part of two hours.
But this time, worse still, it was maybe our last time in Adam House as we simply can’t afford it any more. So for a terrible moment I thought I might cry. So overly sentimental. The faithful servitor who has been enjoying his lunchtime pints for the eleven years that I have been serving shows in Adam House, looked like he was even closer to weeping. Though that might have been the cumulative effect of the lunchtime pints.
I have endeavoured to capture some of the grimy magic of one of my favourite little theatres in a selection of variable quality pictures which can be found here. And if you take pity on us and want to give us a massive donation so we can return to our faithful red-threadbare-velvet seated venue, do feel free.
Adam House, in all your filthy malfunctioning inadequacy, we salute you.
posted by Claire at 8:51 am
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