play thing

2012-02-13T21:44:00.003Z

Mustn't forget this Gothic nightmare. Slightly unbelievably taken from exactly the same gardens but just facing the opposite direction. What a difference a direction makes.

2012-02-13T21:36:00.004Z

Mount Stuart estate on the Isle of Bute. The inside was equally impressive. The boys took excitable photos of the Victorian toilets. Water closets, I suppose I might say.

A very pretty day out.

2012-02-11T19:27:00.001Z

I'm in The Book.

Man alive.

More than once.

He mentions me by name.

He mentions the group name thrice, spelt correctly n'all.

God bless him, he mentions that Leith paid the venue licence fee.

He does not mention anything that It Would Be Wrong To Mention.

Not, I think, that I told him anything that It Would Be Wrong To Mention.

But a year and a half on, well, let's face it, I couldn't quite remember what I did tell him.

Then.

Most triumphant of all.

I'm in The Index.

Me.

Man alive.

Well, that saves me the bother of writing my own book then.

Jolly good.

2012-02-11T15:31:00.001Z

I need to say this - only because I'll never get to say it again.

I'm on my way to a book launch.

2012-02-07T19:19:00.002Z

Because my Spanish class is on a Tuesday night and if I'm not there, I'm being a vulture of culture somewhere else, I've sorely neglected the SCDA Play Library in recent times.

I took out a whole bunch of scripts last autumn (very early September judging from the 11 September train ticket to Manchester I discovered in one volume): Sophocles' Electra, Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, Winter's Tale, As You Like It, CorioL, Ibsen's Lady of the Sea (one day), Strindberg's Miss Julie. Spot the theme. Out of copyright.

In the end, I've jumped a different way altogether to the dark remuneration-requiring side. But that doesn't mean others should be deprived of the pleasure.

So betwixt fortuitously placed meetings today, I hopped into the library to return these great works.

The door was shut as I approached. I felt vengeful as it was a Tuesday, not within school holiday season as far as I knew. How dare it be shut when I'd come 'all' this way?

But on shoving at it, it yielded.

And inside, the golden glow of happy industry. Douglas and Alison laughing and chatting by one bookshelf. Susan sat industriously working through a heap of books, cataloguing? studying? logging? defacing? them at the other side of the room.

Having flown from one place and about to fly to another having flown about frantically all morning, I filled up with envy. O to be retired! O to spend my Tuesday afternoons (in termtime) laughing and cataloguing the finest of our country's dusty art! Chit chatting here and there with those that fly in and out. Laughing and chatting. Having cups of tea. Happy busy bee industrial.

At that moment, I vowed that the second I retired, I would take charge of the SCDA Play Library. And that will be my happy laughing chitty chatty life.

Logged. Noted. Committed. In virtual ink.

I flew off to the next meeting with the golden glow clinging to my stooped (only for now just for now til I retire then I'll be spry) and sorrowing shoulders.

2012-02-05T22:29:00.001Z

Eeee. The blogger app doesn't much like phone pic uploads.

Forgive the unruly nature of the post below.

2012-02-05T22:27:00.004Z

Perthshire earlier today. Not laden down with snow.

2012-02-04T18:10:00.001Z

50/50 is a very fine film.

On the surface, it's a bleak subject matter.

A fine young man with everything to live for gets a rare form of cancer and struggles with a virulent treatment and his impending fate.

But the subject matter is handled with such a delicate touch and such an eye for the beautifully dark humour that can be wrung out of his situation that it's not nearly as dreary as a cinema goer might fear.

Like Coriolanus, I would not have sought this one out if I was left to my own devices. I suspect it's age-related but I am increasingly unwilling to sit through relentless misery on a giant screen, unless I believe it to be in a good cause. So I avoided it when it was first out for this reason.

Luckily, Gail wished to see it for work purposes. The lucky girl is working for the Government on a campaign about cancer detection so saw it as research. And I strive to be a good friend so said I would accompany her.

It turned out to be much more of a story about people who seem selfish and aren't. And those who apparently strive to help others but turn out to have all sorts of selfish reasons for doing so. With the cancer as more of the pretext than the purpose of the story.

The ending is quite possibly slightly fanciful. But after unrelenting bad luck throughout, I was willing to forgive a little showy flourish.

Go see. If you can. It's surprisingly both funny and fun.

2012-02-02T22:32:00.002Z

You'll know that I'm not a big fan of Shakespeare on film.

To the extent that I still haven't actually managed to catch up with last summer's (the summer before's, really) The Tempest with Helen Mirren as Prosp. Era.

I went to see Coriolanus purely as an excuse to see a particular friend of mine whom I rarely see as she's childed so her weekends are wildness. So gifthorse and mouth would have been united if I'd turned down the chance to see her and see a cinema at a weekend. I figured the film would be good for me. Educational. And if the worse came to the worse - I could always sleep.

As it turned out, I slept not a wink. It was brilliant.

I loved the setting. Unspecified Eastern Europe. Loved the cinematography. All chilly greys and khakis mostly. Except for Coriolanus' lush palace but we lost sight of that towards the end.

I don't know how much they'd chopped about the script but I more or less fancied that I could follow the story.

And suddenly, the beauty of Shakespeare on film was revealed to me. Where in the theatre, you're stuck with one place - or lots of scenes with different palm tree pictures or whatever; on film, you can of course show whatsoever you like to make the point. How the story-telling is enhanced. (Man, I can hear Siobhan sadly shaking her head at my appreciation for the spoon feed.)

The direction was rather marvellous which helped. There was only one shot that felt a little bit gratuitous. Can't tell you what it is as it'll ruin the ending. But it was neither too sentimental nor too unemotional. Jarhead meets a story with a bit more of a heart.

I even liked Ralph (Rafe, I said casually to a friend a day later over noodles. She looked up at me sharply: "what? when did you get so posh?" I was plunged immediately into pronunciatory indecision) Fiennes. I've never quite understood the vanity of someone that would direct themselves in the main part of a play. I don't understand how you can possibly be objective. Fundamentally, I'll confess, I think I'm an amazing actress. (Oh god please see that as tongue in cheek.) And can only imagine the horrors I would turn in if I was watching myself doing it. (Actually, that situation would never arise. I'd more likely instantly sack myself.)

The point is - I would never do it. I judge those that do.

But he did. And he was great.

So maybe I should take it back.

Go see it if you can. It's a cracker.

2012-02-01T23:15:00.002Z

It's a delicious, delighting and exciting time. The first read through.

You steel yourself. You're about to plunge into it. Then Ross says - perfectly reasonably of course given that no-one knows anything about the script - "what's it about?"

So you stutter around the houses, babbling to recount a scarce-remembered plot, trying to retain a bit of theatre and not give the end away, trying to carefully egalitarianly make each part sound perfectly equally vitally important (but oooops oh oooops - "now that's a cracking part" she says, carelessly. Well, if you weren't there, you'll never know). And then you're dwelling on stuff that isn't at all important and not actually really telling anyone anything about the actual heart of the play. The actual reason you like it.

"It's just funny," you manage to spit out oh so eloquently. "And dark."

Oh great, think the onlooking actors, must make sure I go out of my way to audition for that.

And then the reading itself stutters into life. And you're sitting there, laughing like a drain at the slightest joke because, for this hour and a half, this play is (almost) 'yours'. Probably the only time that it really is, before everyone else starts (how wrong) feeling that they can lay some sort of claim to it.

And isn't it sounding lovely? And isn't it dark? But isn't it funny? And oh how they're laughing so sinisterly but delightedly at the darkest of dark jokes. They must like it. Do they like it? Are they laughing because I'm laughing? Or is it actually funny? It's funny, right?

And set alongside this frantic scrutiny of the onlookers' facial reactions (they hate it oh my god they hate it), you're also staring like a hypnotised cat at your watch. Because what you need to know above all else, above any sort of audience pleasure or artistic merit, is whether the little bastard will come in on time. Will it run at an hour and a half?

And this little script goes on for at least eight pages after I'd expected it to finish. And they're densely worded pages. Not just the quick witty repartee and banter that skips one page through to the next. Suddenly, the characters are all heartfelt pleas and soliloquies. And the minutes are ticking inconsiderately by and I'm thinking I'm maybe seeing my watch face at a Dali-esque angle and it's not that time at all but wait it is but that means I've only got...

And then. Phssssew. It's done. One hour and a half. A stunned (you imagine) silence. Because it's brilliant.

Right?

2012-02-01T08:21:00.002Z

So tonight, tonight, suddenly it's upon us. The official unveiling of my festival show.

We're reading the script after today's first Wednesday of the month meeting.

As no-one knows anything about it - and I've spectacularly failed to update the website with any sort of advance information - it could be an interesting session.

Imagine if everyone hates it.

(I hope they don't.)

2012-01-29T12:50:00.002Z

Zumba this morning. Now, zumba is a variable class. According to the official website:

"Zumba combines Latin and International music with a fun and effective workout system. With classes and instructors worldwide, anyone can Join the Party!"

Now the second line is the key to the thing. "With classes and instructors worldwide". Clearly whoever and wherever Mr And Mrs Zumba are, like most of these silly branded fitness classes, they give the thing some sort of official badge, fan the flames a little and then let it rampage around the place, picking up all sorts of bad habits along the way.

So in my short-lived relationship with zumba - a relationship born out of laziness, I might add, rather than desire. If someone stands in front of me and barks orders for an hour, I'm much more likely to stir my limbs into action - has seen my beloved Body Balance teacher put us through our paces in a clinical aerobic fashion, a Polish girl who taught zumba meets street dance (loved her), a wild whirling dervish of a girl who compounded the frenetic effect with the special zumba trousers adorned with all sorts of lashing tapes that whip and spin throughout the class for added theatre, an inoffensive nimble little girl who beamed throughout the classes and was possibly Spanish and my all-time favourite, the theatrical one, of whom I initially despaired but now secretly hanker for. Or at least, hanker for her Charlestons (so not zumba) and her hat collection.

I haven't been to a class of this kind for an age. I keep being away at weekends or at least, more gainfully occupied. And Christmas got in the way and so forth. So I trudged back today, excuse-less and heavy-hearted.

The inoffensive nimble girl rolled into the class approx 10 minutes late and spent another 5 footering around not really doing anything much before she finally began the capering and jumping. I capered and jumped with brooding resentment to her frantic tropical music, promising myself that I would not oh no I would not come back next week for this silly hybrid exercise.

A few capering and jumping tracks in, the nimble girl looks at us (she's been zumba-ing until now with her back to us which they sometimes do. She didn't used to do this but that's ok. It means - perversely - I can try and match her feet more easily as they're pointing in the same direction as mine. And she says "you like my new music, yes?" We nod dutifully though I hadn't given it any thought beyond the brooding.

We caper and dance on.

Few more tracks and she says "I brought this back from Brazil." (It dawns on me that she's just back from a couple of months off. I think I remember her parting class. Suddenly - Latin American holiday plans afoot - I'm alert and interested.) "It's playing everywhere right now. 24/7. It's been translated into many different languages. Spanish. The English version is just out there, right now. But this is the Portuguese original."

And guess what, suddenly, I'm loving this music. Loving this dancing. So superficial.

The nimble girl has spun round so she has her back to us again. She dances (she's very lithe, beautifully tanned, wearing a kind of lycra strippy top, a lot of skin exposed) and her torso ripples like velvet. Suddenly I'm thinking that I too could look like this (yes, I know) if I dance well and hard. I jump about with more vigour.

Now nimble girl has her eyes shut and sings along with fervent dedication to every one of the words of the (Brazilian) songs.

And I'm inventing a whole tragic romantic backstory for her. Lost love, family tragedy, ripping asunder, all sorts.

A gap between tracks. "You want to see how they dance in Brazil" she cries. "None of this silly formal" she seizes a lycra-clad slightly startled looking woman with a straight body and waltzes with her delicately. "No no! It's like this!" she presses the straight woman to her, planting the poor woman's arms all over her bare flesh, lays her cheek against straight woman's and gyrates around the room. Twenty women in various states of sagging jersey look on, vaguely appalled but flickeringly jealous.

She resumes the class. The romantic tragic story is embellished with scintillating steamy gyrations and red lipstick in steamy seething nightclubs.

The class winds (wriggles) to a close. I, by now, am heartbroken for the girl who's had to leave her love, her ageing mother, 84 children and the beloved family dog behind in the favelas of Rio. Small talk as we gather our things and I offer to the lady next to me: "What must that poor girl feel like? Imagine having to come back from Brazil to Portobello. Portobello!"

The woman stares back unsympathetic. "Yes, I think she had a family break out there." (My backstory starts to wither.) "What I'm more annoyed about is that she didn't do the full hour. I mean I'm not even paying the full price as I'm retired but imagine if you'd done that, if you'd paid six pounds and then you only got 45 minutes. You'd be really annoyed."

Back to earth with a bump.

2012-01-27T08:50:00.002Z

Oh for god's sake. May I just log here once and for all that I hate blogger??

We're trying to whip up a bit of publicity around Ross' show, Six Degrees of Separation, by looking at his cast's connection to the original film / show cast.

It's the sort of thing that's anathema to me as I know so few of The Famous. But luckily, his lot are well-informed and well-connected so they're turning in six degree connections by the bucketload.

Cari / Kitty posted (days ago but I never look at facebook) her connection to the 'original' Kitty. She's separated by an impressive four degrees.

I curse blogger because I tried to paste her narrative in here but blogger doesn't embrace pasting to my eternal chagrin.

The notable (oh so casual) introduction to the four degrees is this beautifully nonchalant:

Cari massaged Mel Gibson.

A story waiting to be told there, my lady.

2012-01-25T21:12:00.002Z

Oh, btw, if you have a burning and urgent desire to see this book for yourselves, there are several options.

Mr Fisher has a blog here.

Oh my god, look at that.

(I clearly haven't really inspected this site yet.)

It has a facebook page here.

And you can buy it here.

But beware about buying it. You might read something terribly spiteful about yourself.

Although I did tell him not to use my real name. You'll find me always referenced as Pashmina Lady of Leith. Just to protect my secrets, you understand.

2012-01-24T23:16:00.004Z

Way back when, if you can cast your mind so far, we did a show on a boat.

Feverish with enthusiasm - full of that pallid fervour perhaps peculiar to directors - myself and my favourite Ross trotted along to the Traverse festival launch event. Drank deeply and threw ourselves honourably at people we hoped might be useful.

Suffering from a ridiculous case of hero worship for a fellow called Mark Fisher who writes for The Guardian, I somehow took it upon myself to think that I might go and talk to him.

He was very patient and listened politely as I babbled about this and that show that we'd done. And oh don't you know, you should come and see this show that we're doing on a boat in Leith in the festival. The Tempest, don't you know. Oh how brave and bold and imaginative we are. And so the self-congratulation (slurrily) rolled on. Poor Mark Fisher.

I rued my shameless exhibitionism a little less when he emailed me weeks after the show on the boat had sunk not quite without trace and asked if he could interview me for a book he was writing about putting on shows in the Fringe.

Hmm, let's think about this. Ok.

So we met, one lunch time, I frisky with excitement but trying to appear cavalier. "Do you mind if I record it?" said he, "it'll save me taking so many notes". Oh how we laughed that this was my day job spiel too. Oh how I tossed my hair and simpered and tried to look worldly wise and plump with sense. And oh how I tried to tread a careful political line between what I wanted to say and what I ought to say, given that heaven forfend, it might end up in print.

And then he wends his way away, back to the world of reviewing for a national newspaper. And I wend my way back to my day job and mooning over half-empty squash bottles in kitchen cupboards that reminded me of the show on the boat that hadn't quite sunk without trace.

Fast forward eighteen months and it's now. The publication date is imminent. In fact, Mr Fisher now has a printed copy of the book in his very own hands.

And you know how it is. You're assuming you're cannon fodder. The initial tokenistic research, soon discarded for much sexier stories from people that - you know - people have heard of. I didn't really - in my wildest of dreams - expect to form any composite element of this aforementioned book.

So imagine how I fizzled with delight at this:

(On twitter, for B S Neill's benefit.)

Man oh man.

You know, even if no mention at all ever even in the index or footnotes of this admirable tome is made of me, I feel absurdly happy that my name made it into the same tweet as a Fringe reference, a link to a book and a journalist.

Who'd've thought?

2012-01-23T07:52:00.001Z

You'll be pleased to know that my local phone repair shop has sold the saxophone.

Or else given up on the range diversification idea.

At any rate, model, Santa suit and sax have all disappeared from the neon window.

What next, we wonder?

2012-01-19T21:14:00.002Z

This was a delightfully lovely film. The Artist.

At least, I'm pretty sure it was.

I had a few little sleeps as it silently wound its way to its close.

I didn't even mean to.

Whereas I slept quite deliberately in Sherlock Holmes again at the weekend.

But last night, I tried my very hardest to stay awake.

To no avail.

I have no idea how much I missed unfortunately.

Possibly quite a bit.

But the bits that I saw were really lovely.

So don't let this dark truth call into question my otherwise honourable and honest recommendation.

Because it was delicious.

And I wouldn't want you to miss it.

2012-01-17T18:32:00.002Z

Now, I'm no campaigner.

But.

There's apparently a government consultation underway to understand the things that influence national wellbeing.

And it suggests that various factors have a part to play but makes no reference to the lifeblood of this humble blog - "the arts".

Well, I think we need to take that in hand. Deadline for the consultation is 23 Jan.

Get busy. Here.

2012-01-15T20:51:00.003Z

The Stantons did their last concert for a little while last night.

Bad Girl wasn't there.

I hated missing it. I love seeing them play. Irrespective of the fact that I'm lucky enough to consider core components of the band as my very good friends, I love their music. And their performances are always cracking fun.

But torn and conflicted, last night also saw the tenth birthday celebration of The Child. And I've been attending these celebrations since they began.

This year's commenced with Sherlock Holmes whatever this one is called at the cinema (yes, yes, I know I've seen it but that wasn't at all the point), was followed up briskly with Frankie and Benny's with the assembled (mostly young) company and then a "sleepover" punctuated with the first Sherlock Holmes and Mean Girls.

I'd firstly fantasised that the cinema might be it so I'd still be able to attend the gig. I then briefly fantasised about sneaking out of the house to attend the gig at an appropriate juncture. But The Child was clearly wise to my lurking sneakery.

She stayed up defiant til 12:45am.

So Stantons, I'm sorry. I hated to miss your (temporary) farewell gig. Please hurry and record your album so I can enjoy your art whensoever I please.

And Child, (as DKPW would say) Respect.

2012-01-12T20:58:00.002Z

Itchy itchy feet.

I scanned my festival show script this morning.

So when people flood to request it, I'm (illegally) ready.

I think we'll be reading it sometime in Feb so feel free to come listen.

And in the meantime, request away.

2012-01-11T22:52:00.001Z

The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo - the Hollywood remake, for shame - is a beautifully elegant potboiler.

I admit I was sceptical. Daniel Craig alone - for shame - would have lured me along. But then DG said boldly that he preferred it to the Swedish original and I wondered whether I might want to see it more than I'd originally thought.

It's a rollicking story, neatly squished into two and one half hours. It's very nicely cast. They almost didn't succumb to the temptation to make Blomkvist and Salander beautiful. The pace is nice. Neither too whistle-stop nor too ponderous: it just breathes nicely. The story is - well, I love the story so I'm biased.

But the triumph to my superficial mind is the cinematography. The film must be treated like anything because it's mostly grey-hued but they have odd little snatches of colour here and there to make a point.

My favourite shot of all was absolutely mundane. The innards of Salander's fridge. Which are a lovely shorthand for how little she looks after herself.

Fridge door opens and you get the full inside shelf. I can't even remember what's in there - the point is not much. I think something yellow-y. But then in the midst of all this monochrome, you have a huddle of cans of coke. Vivid red. Gorgeous.

So most well done to the art director. And a bit of a pat on the back for the rest of them too. And go see it. It's fun.

(Oh. But beware though. Whilst I liked it, I don't think B S Neill would like it at all. As with the infamous Trollhunter episode over Christmas, he may possibly think it terribly silly. So don't rush to see it on my account.)

2012-01-11T18:02:00.004Z

I'm looking for pictures at work. (Yes, my life is hard.) And I found this. Useless for the work purpose but o how pretty.

2012-01-08T16:03:00.001Z

There's a "computer and mobile repair shop" on my local high street. You know the sort. The window is too full of stuff to even begin seeing any of it. Neon signage, phone covers, bits of computers and more (needless) gadgets than you can shake a stick at.

In this midst of this array of finery stands proudly posed, for reasons that were never clear, a life-size shop dummy of a man. Seasonally apposite (though now surely inviting endless bad luck for the computer and mobile repair shop), he is dressed in a Santa suit. For less clear reasons (remember the shop's purpose), the dummy clasps within his hands a saxophone. Attached to the resounding end of the instrument is a neon orange cardboard starburst: "only £95!"

The shop owner clearly knows something of his customer's wants and wishes that a less imaginative soul could surely never have predicted.

2012-01-07T09:34:00.003Z

I found myself rather carelessly not even agreeing but worse still, volunteering spontaneously without any even small degree of pressure being applied to be the general manager (i.e. producer for normal people) for our April show.

Look forward to the wheedling emails coming your way any day now.

2012-01-02T21:32:00.002Z

A most happiest of New Years to all my abundant, artistic, absurdly talented and appropriately attentive readers.

May I wish you all the very best of fortunes for 2012.

2012-01-02T19:47:00.004Z

Edinburgh does do Hogmanay really rather well.

New Year's Day this year served up The New Year Games that beautifully capitalised on one of the things that Scotland does well (gaming) and married it up with a very healthy dose of interactivity (at the kind of low level dose that even a slightly shabby feeling hopelessly impracticalfool such as I could cope with) in some of Edinburgh's finest locations.

We made it to two of The Games. Throw Things at FOUND in the Hub. And The Labyrinth at St Giles' Cathedral.

Throwing things at FOUND involved packs of us being admitted to the balcony in the (beautiful) main hall at The Hub, folding paper aeroplanes like the wind (though sadly none of mine were) and hurling them at a couple of electric guitars and a fancy looking box suspended mid-air part way across the hall. If an aeroplane made it to their proximity, this triggered a portion of music. It emerged after a time that if we, the pack, threw and struck these items simultaneously, all three pieces of music would be activated and we, the pack, got a point.

(All players had to choose a team. Aligning your cause with those of the Uppies or the Doonies. I chose to be an Uppie as I aspire to be their mascot: a silver eagle described as a "high flying adventurer with a taste for surprise". And you then endeavoured to amass tokens for your team.)

Now this throwing game would have been more fun for me myself if any of my aeroplanes had made it anywhere near the appropriate items. More usually, they spiralled up sharply and then dived like a diving birdy thing to the ground on an approximately vertical axis. My skillfully folded aerodynamism clearly wasn't interested in horizontal passage.

But it was kind of thrilling when someone did strike the mark and the music struck up. And it obviously encouraged collective endeavour which must form the foundation of our Big Society. David would be proud. And they gave me a pity token as I left the Gaming Area even though I'd done approximately nothing but waste trees to help us on our teamly way.

But the second game - the labyrinth - was a selfish one and for my token's worth, all the more fun for it.

In the incense-wafted heart of St Giles, they'd created a maze. In the heart of the maze paced a beautifully costumed minotaur. Players were fed into the maze at certain entry points, charged with making it across to the far side of the maze without being 'caught' by the minotaur. If he saw you move, you were dead.

If you fancied a further challenge, the minotaur was adorned with ribbons. If you snaffled a ribbon from his prowling body as you ventured past his lair - and if, still better, the ribbon was in your team colour - tokens for you.

My goodness me, it was thrilling. I crept, I froze, I boldly didn't even meet the minotaur's eye as he trickily stared into my face - he would not catch even a tremor of a pupil, I vowed - I reached, I snatched, I rushed. And a prize silvery ribbon was mine. Huzzah!

I tried to take action shots to capture the moment but they were so shaky (shaking hands the morning after - moi?) that I shan't share them with you. (I also tried taking all sorts of artistic shots of the church that at the time, appeared very thoughtful. After the event, they appear equally shaky. The one half respectable remnant is above.) But two proud tokens became mine. I loved that game.

We deposited our tokens in giant bins in the Grassmarket, alongside a stage from which further team games were being organised alongside giant jengas, connect fours, a hook a duck stall, a hammer bashing show how strong you are stand and periodic musical performers. The samba band were in full tippy tap flow as we passed by.

We missed the judging ceremony and prize giving - steak pie called. But next year, if it happens, I shall be better organised.

The day was beautifully rounded off with all sorts of waltzes, charmingly delivered by the SCO and their bouncy and adorable conductor, Nicholas McGegan. A Night in Old Vienna.

It was so charming that I mostly stayed awake. I trust this is a good omen for 2012.

2011-12-30T14:57:00.001Z

Indolence appears to agree with me.

2011-12-24T12:13:00.005Z

The weight of expectation was bundled round my shoulders for this one. Father had travelled to London for the day. Aunt (who is a much less frequent theatre-goer, i.e. a Normal Person) travelled to London specifically For The Show. So - o god - please let them like it. I sat tense in our (restricted view so cheaper) seats, craning to hear whether or not they were laughing throughout.

In fact, the restricted access was hardly restricted at all. Aunt probably fared worst as she had the (thin) bar more or less in her sightline. I was on the far edge of the restriction so had the tailend of the thin bar that scarce impeded anything. A positive luxury in comparison to The Man With The Fattest Head In The World behind whom I was (much more expensively) seated for Jerusalem. These scarcely impeded seats cost £20 each. Jerusalem stalls behind Fat Head: £52.50. Each.

Anyway, the show was fun. It's a play about a rep company doing a play. First act is the tech. Then you see a performance but the set's been spun round and you're now backstage. Final act is a performance from the front, weeks into the tour as it's all collapsing around their ears.

I should read into it but I'm presuming it was written at about the time that he wrote Audience, as part of his tussling with theatrical conventions phase. It's a very smart script. Very funny when it's done well. And this production was done execedingly well. But ultimately, it is only a story about a bunch of people doing a play. It's impressive as a feat of choreography and impeccable timing but it doesn't leave you doing much soul searching.

But - I'd seen it before. EPT did it years ago. Lorna was an excellent flightly young actress who ran around in her pants mostly. And I suspect this sort of play doesn't stand up to repeat viewings terribly well. And I had seen Jerusalem only one day before.

Continuing the downward slide, I saw - and I'm almost ashamed to admit it - Legally Blonde on Friday night. After dire warnings from Father - "mind you, the dogs are good" - I expected to hate it. And sat frozen with disdain in my seat surrounded by chattering sequinned girls for most fo the first half. The charm of the lead girl - the Renée character - almost won me round. Until the final absurdly sexist, quasi-homophobic throes of the plot were vomitted up onto the stage. OMG indeed. Father was right. The dogs were good.

(Though the bulldog was so fat with the treats hand-fed by every cast member that laid hands on him (cue surreptitious wiping of hands on dress by 'Renée' after it had slavered vilely on her) that he could scarcely be lifted and looked rather as if he might burst. Perhaps an actor's life does not agree with this one.)

2011-12-23T17:34:00.002Z

Now, caveats:

a) I'm on holiday so unnaturally good tempered

b) I love far-fetched and fanciful stories

c) I have a yearning for contemporary theatre that isn't just middle-class 'oh life is hard' angst served up with a side order of a drug slash alcohol problem to demonstrate an understanding of the 'urban' landscape

d) Stories of the Put Upon Misunderstood Putting A Brave Face On Things always clutch clawlike at my heart

e) And I could have been heavily influenced by the seventeen year old girl sat next to me in the theatre who was bouncing - actually bouncing - with enthusiasm before the show started. She was seeing it for the third time.

But put all of these things to one side for a second, remember I'm very vulnerable to a nice set and a nicely acted story and then consider the following.

Jerusalem was wonderful.

It's an innocuous enough story. A man living in a caravan on the outskirts of a village in Wiltshire is served up with an eviction notice by the council who want to build a new housing estate on 'his' land. He doesn't fancy that, thank you very much. And spends the rest of the play drunk and in denial.

But luckily accompanied by a ramshackle collection of glorious characters who all use this main man (Johnny Byron) for whatsoever they wish to use him for. Until he doesn't turn out to be any use to them anymore and they scarper.

The play begins with - in fact, I'm not even going to tell you. The opening - the pre-curtain up - was eerily beautiful. If I can one day be responsible for something half as lovely, I'll be a happy girl.

The set is a winnebago nestled in the forest, surrounded by junk. And hens! Live living hens strutted and clucked - albeit in a cage - behind the caravan throughout. And the thing is - I had an excellent stalls seat on account of the queueing situation but - the greater part of the audience won't have had the first idea that there was anything living on stage beyond the actors because of the sightlines. A grand indulgence.

The acting. Well, Mr Rylance was outstanding. A proper tour de force. Half of the audience rose in a shambolic standing ov at the (three hour) performance's end. And the poor chap's been at it for two years. Roaring and strutting and limping and captivating like the real proper showman that the script (perhaps) called for him to be.

Mackenzie Crook also featured. Not a great lure as far as I was concerned but let's take back all the mean thoughts I've ever had about him. He was tremendous too. As were a whole bunch of others, none of whom were dwarfed by Mr Rylance, which is important and an achievement and a tribute to them.

But what I liked so much was the story. The subject matter, to be precise. The 'what is happening to England?' or has, in fact, already happened to England, as civilisation steadily encroaches around us. The safety curtain has a huge St George's Cross slapped onto it. Which I found particularly interesting as the face of Mr Redmayne in the day's before Richard II had a huge St George's Cross slithered all over it in the Donmar's publicity materials.

Both plays presented opinions about the state of the country today - and how we do or don't cope - that are one million times more interesting than - well, how can I judge as I haven't seen it but, for example - a trilogy of plays about what it means to be pretty in today's society. (Miaow.)

But I suppose it's just a question of priorities.

2011-12-23T16:33:00.001Z

This, for Mr B S Neill. He was playing - with all sorts of syncopation - Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer.

2011-12-22T10:32:00.007Z

First up, Richard II.

You're all much cleverer than me so you'll know the story. Given my deep-seated suspicion of programmes, I accosted a gentle and refined looking man as we sat in the Circle Bar awaiting admission to ask for a plot synopsis. (Yes, Siobhan, I can hear you snorting from here.) But by the interval, I liked it so much that I lashed out and bought an aforementioned brochure. Though plot-wise, it didn't prove very useful as it contained only an intellectual essay from the Allardyce Nicoll Professor of Drama at Birmingham University on the concept of kingship. With a few plot pointers thrown in for fools like me to thirstily lap up.

The programme was further proved redundant as I'd (secondarily) wished to check the identity of Richard. I spent the entire first act half-convinced that he must be the red-headed boy that featured in our (DG's) Dangerous Liaisons a few years back. Hasn't he done well for himself? I marvelled. However, it turned not to be this boy at all but in fact, a boy that Cari and I had watched on celluloid a few weeks before in My Week With Marilyn. Eddie Redmayne is his name. Bolingbroke was pretty hot too. It was a fine play for eye candy.

But the production. Was wonderful. The set was beautiful. I wanted to take a sly photo but the ushers looked vigilant and impatient. Let's see if this will work:

Look at that!

A balcony, a staircase, an exit off on the high level and what you can't see because of the photo angle is that the stage was raised with little catwalks exiting off to the back of the auditorium to the left and right of the audience seats. Five different exits. Imagine! And just to reinforce the fact that they really knew their stuff, incense was wafting around the auditorium as we squished in to take our seats. Magic.

It's a cracking story. Eddie was effetely radiantly perfect as Richard II. Well, as far as I could see. I concentrated my very hardest and didn't feel sleepy once. (To be fair, I'd deliberately gone without dinner in the hopes of maximising my alertness. The high quantity of handsome boys in the cast I'm sure made no contribution.) I got a little bit confused about who was whose brother. But that's possibly just the nature of the history plays. Given no prior study, I kept pace remarkably well.

The costumes were stunning. Oh to have money. It was beautifully directed. (Michael Grandage's swansong at the Donmar.) Not remotely histrionic although the script could seamlessly slide into so being with the amount of shouting and ranting squashed into the lines. And the thing that really got me was that they all spoke Soooo well. As if it wasn't Shakespeare at all. It just happened to sound lovely. Of course you'd expect them to be so competent but a real pleasure to see the language so well and effortlessly (apparently) spoken.

(Spoiler alert!) As an additional pleasure, Richard / Eddie died beautifully. A demonstration, should one need it, that you don't need to screech and flail your arms about. Lie still. People will get the point. I like these lessons.

2011-12-22T09:59:00.002Z

If you're feeling benevolent this Christmas, my little sister is taking nil by mouth for 24 hours lurching into The Festive Day in the name of WaterAid.

You can contribute to her kindness if you feel so minded here.

www.justgiving.com/nofoodruth

2011-12-21T11:56:00.001Z

Boy in front of me in this morning's queue said: "the trouble is, it's my competitive spirit. It catches up with me every time." Just so.

I limped away from this morning's queue with a chilled nose, feet like ice and a cold, cold body. Notwithstanding Greta's animal embrace.

I learn that there's a sort of dark mystery to these queues. There are the fools / the optimistic who pitch up with no sense that there is any art to this strange system. There are the queue elite who have all the numbers in their heads: quantities of seats per theatre, multiple purchase options, optimum arrival times. Then there are those - and I clump myself into this category - who have a glimmering suspicion that they should try harder but are a little bit coy about displaying any sort of "inside" knowledge.

Chatting to a couple of fellow queue-ers at last night's show, it appeared that Jerusalem is The Problem Show (for the stubborn on-the-day-ers at any rate. And as it's sold out seemingly now and for always, these are the only ticket options available.) I heard a dispiriting story about a man who started queueing at 4am. (Tickets on sale at 10am.) He was too late to get a ticket.

Then The Woman Who Taught The Identical Chinese Children (and nightmarishly was sat right next to me last night - I wondered if the guilt at my online mockery flashed across my face when I recognised her) told me that she'd arrived at quarter to nine and got an excellent seat. Because there are fourteen seats on the front row of some bit of the theatre, reportedly, that afford an excellent view. And then there are seven others that are barely worth having as you can't see anything. At all.

(That theatres get away with this makes me squirm slightly. But it didn't prevent me joining The Queue.)

So this morning, I rose at seven. Seven! It was still more or less dark when I left my temporary home. The tube behaved. And I walked as fast as you might without actually running from tube to theatre.

The Queue snaked around the block. At half past eight. Half past eight!

Remember what I said about observing but being too shy to ruthlessly observe The Wisdom Of The Queue? ICCW (Identical Chinese Children Woman) had instructed me to count those in front of me. If there were more than fourteen ticket requests in The Queue (given the sightless seats), I should give up and go home.

Two shows on a Wednesday. ("Don't leave it til Friday" said ICCW, "everyone has the same idea. And think of all the tourists. It'll be hopeless.") I had my heart set on the matinee as the show lasts three hours. I thought this would maximise my chances of not sleeping. But I was graciously resigned to the fact that I might have no choice.

So I counted the queue. I needed no more than fourteen tickets times two minus one in front of me. I promptly forgot the number (it was more people than tickets) and joined the queue thinking (again): damned if I'm getting up so early and not etc etc.

It was drizzling but only very finely. Two beautiful boys in suits in front of me along with an exotic looking girl who turned out to be an actress in waiting. No-one behind me for a long, long time (which enraged me. Nothing like feeling you're the stupidest in the queue). Big plops of rain dripped from the guttering above onto my book. I waited.

Waited.

A procession of seventy brown horses trotted past.

Waited. Trying valiantly to screen out the stereo chatter (at last some (less attractive but interestingly, also young) people behind me). Luckily my book ending wasn't remotely moving (Generation A, Douglas Coupland) so I wasn't left in an awkward crying in a queue situation.

Ten a.m. The Queue began to creep forward. I was ambivalent by then. The thrill of the chase - the length of the queue - the mizzle drizzle - had worn me down. ICCW's words echoed in my head: "I see a lot of plays and don't get me wrong, it's brilliantly acted, but the script's a bit rubbish. I don't know what he's trying to say." I thought energetically about how character-forming queueing can be.

Then we're inside the building. Well, barely. We're admitted into a kind of antechamber, housing a ticket desk. I suppose so they don't have to admit The Poor into the venerable interior. A lucky few are allowed to violate the foyer to attend a parallel ticket desk. We shuffle forward.

Mutters run up and down the queue about availability. Matinees. Evening shows. This number or that number left. People stepping out of the theatre doors clutching their prizes.

Three tickets left supposedly. Me and the two besuited boys and the wannabe actress to go. "I'll only get one ticket" exclaims exotic girl, opening her cat-like eyes wide at the besuited boys. "I couldn't queue for all this time with you and then take two tickets, knowing that would only leave one for you both." The boys hum with gratitude.

Cat Girl is admitted to the inner sanctum. "Did you get one?" asks one Besuited. "Well, I had to get two" she shrugs, face full of sorrow. "There were two sitting together so that wouldn't have been any good to you as you wouldn't have been sitting together." Oh, how she sits in judgement.

Somehow the extra ticket is gone. Besuited Boys go forward. Only returns. £52:50 or £75. Besuiteds look crestfallen and turn away. "I just can't justify paying that" says one to the other. A little shred of my cold cold heart breaks for their middle class anguish.

I'm next up, thinking - fifty quids - for a show I don't even know if I want to see - that I've only queued for out of some kind of crazed notion that I'll otherwise miss out. And then I hear ICCW's sincere as the Christmas spirit voice in my head. Her parting words to me last night after the show: "I really hope that you get a ticket for Jerusalem tomorrow. And have a great Christmas."

ICCW would've wanted it. I hand over my credit card.

2011-12-20T12:13:00.001Z

In a feat of spectacular disorganisation, I've cleverly come to down to London for a packed theatrical spectacular week with - hmm - no tickets. Well, except for one which is probably readily available anyway.

A supposed pleasant evening's browsing at the weekend's end was thus rather impeded by the skimpy availability of tickets for anything I actually wanted to see. I could see the Woman in Black or The 39 Steps or Crazy for You or a whole host of equally banal pleasures (miaow) every night twice over if I wished. But anything interesting is sold out sold out sold out.

This is the only way to explain how I ended up in the queue for x10 on the day £10 tickets for a show that is bottom of my list of things I ever want to see. Pure vexation that I couldn't see it. And so - typical me - it must be the thing I strive for. Along with a rather lame justification that I haven't been to the Donmar before and of course I should. So this drove me out of bed and into the tail end of the rush hour tube this morning.

It was a suspenseful experience.

I arrived to find a small clutch of people lurking in the theatre doorway. A quick count reveals that - in total - we are ten. Hoorah! But wait. "You're the twelfth" they seethe as a pack. "Do you want a standing seat?" "Tchah!" quoth I, "not for Shakespeare." "I know what you mean" murmurs one of the gentler looking seethers, smug in the knowledge that he is One Of The Ten.

Listening into their Blitz-style camaraderie reveals that queue-ers are entitled to queue for two tickets. And then another slim young fellow climbs over some strewn feet to take his place by a hard-faced girl defiantly clutching a flask. Ten.

But because I'm a stubborn girl and because I'm thinking that I'm damned if I'm getting up this early for nothing, I wait out the hour with patience. One half of it cluttered on the pavement listening to one woman with a triumphant face recount the tale of how she ended up "for personal reasons" teaching at a middle school full of identical looking children (her words - my place is not to judge) in the capital city of China after thirty years tending to a small Welsh flock in this land. And one half hour queueing inside which was more irritating as we had to queue alongside cast photos which reduced leaning opportunities dramatically. This to the accompaniment of a woman from Minnesota ("well, not originally") who taught in a college and has been coming to London at Christmas every year for 26 years to queue up for last minute tickets for shows. (Why not book ahead, love?) She's going to the Orange Tree tomorrow. (I silently thank the lord above that this is not tomorrow's hit list for me.)

So we wait. I eavesdrop and pretend to read my book.

And at half past ten, a great humming murmur goes up: "half past ten! It's time!" Followed by a gentler hubbub and then a cry of indignation: "they're three minutes late!"

In the nick of time, the middle classes, brutalised by the experience of having to queue like Russians, surge forward.

Despite the fact that I've told myself that I will walk away - just walk away - if there are standing room tickets only, my heart starts to race. Suddenly this play that I didn't even want to see 48 hours before becomes the possible pinnacle of my theatrical experience. I stare vengefully at the backs of those (ten plus who knows how many absent accompaniers) ahead of me. The queue shuffles forward.

Two people in front of me, (perfectly able) Teacher of the Identical Chinese Children is dithering about how easily she'll be able to get out of her seat. "Everyone will be leaving at the same time" says the long-suffering box office man with more patience than she deserves. But wait, miracle! She opts for two standing seats, presumably to give her full freedom to manoeuvre. Fool!

The Man In Front Of Me steps up to the window. He remained silent in the queue so I know nothing of him. I cannot assess how much he deserves (or does not) a ticket.

"We have one seat and eighteen standing room places" says Mr Long-Suffering. "Only one seat?" says The Man In Front of Me. The other box office man waves me forward but makes a gesture to invite my silence while we see What The Man IFOM will do.

"Can I just wait to decide?" says TMIFOM hopelessly. "Well, yes, but we can't hold tickets." TMIFOM turns hopelessly to the rest of the queue. "Can we stand for three hours?" The queue seethes back. A kinder man steps toward him: "it's only two hours and forty". I laugh derisively, forgetting my vulnerable position. "Two hours and forty too long."

TMIFOM takes out his phone. "We can only get two standing??" These compassionate fools who have co-theatre-goers to worry about. "Think about yourself!" I cry in my head to him. "Be selfish!" But The Man is obviously a kinder soul than I and opts to stand.

Impatient, my box office man starts to say "So we have one seated t.." "The seat, please" I crow, triumphant. "It's only one seat on it's own?" he says. (Obviously I don't look like a girl who travels alone.) "Yes! Yes, that's great, brilliant" thrusting my (such a small amount of) money at him. And he places the ticket in my hand.

Huzzah.

(Richard II, by the way. Shakespeare!)

2011-12-19T21:17:00.002Z

I'm listening to a livestream of Mozart's Requiem.

It's most gorgeous.

There are only approx 4 minutes left (by my uninformed calculations) so you've most probably missed it. (No, wait. Bad luck. C'est fini.)

I'm monitoring the chat about it on twitter which is also fun. (Check out #guardianmozart.) And randomly conversing with someone who is a very proud godfather/mother of the female soloist.

Perhaps you can catch it on catch up.

Enjoy.

2011-12-18T23:10:00.001Z

2011-12-17T13:31:00.003Z

All I can offer here by way of cultural commentary today is my exquisite delight at the concluding moments of Series 2 of Mad Men. Beautifully presented drama.

I've just dashed through the final 4 episodes on my laptop. A superlative use of a train journey.

However, I hope to have more to say (phew - thank god - the relief is audible even 400 miles away) in the coming days.

A bientot. (With a slash on the a and a little hatty thing on the o.)

2011-12-13T22:15:00.001Z

You know me. I love a trip to the theatre.

So what reprehensible day was this that saw me celebrate the human error that resulted in my not attending a long-planned theatrical extravaganza tonight?

Well, I had not wished to see the play in the first place. It sounded dull and worse still, worthy.

I don't much like the writer. Though feel that I should for silly sentimental reasons. She brought me love - albeit briefly - back in the day.

And much as I love the booker (not-booker - more usually my role) of the tickets, I felt our chances of chatting were slim with the competing (the play's the thing) demands on our attention.

Furthermore, it was Final Spanish Class of 2011. A Christmas class, no less. And much as the day rarely lives up to expectation, there are few things I like as much as Talking about Christmas.

So all in all, when aforementioned not-booker said she hadn't booked, I'm ashamed to say I dashed off an email entitled "stupendous" to my compadres. And enjoyed Rioja and Manchego and olivas instead.

Feliz navidad, todos.

2011-12-11T18:15:00.001Z

Well, after an extremely concentrated effort, I am ready to be festive.

Gifts mostly bought. House tidy-ish. Wardrobe in place. Cards partly written.

And my house lacks the festive vomiting that appears to have blessed DG's abode but by my standards, it looks a little bit festive.

Accomplished principally by the retrieval of what I really hope is "my" little potted fir tree from the back garden. Poor scraggly thing - the exercise demonstrates neatly to me the value in having some cultivate these trees. As uncultivated for approx two years now, this aforementioned foliage lacks much discernible shape and most of it's lower branches. But it is fir and that will do for my low standards.

To further shove me into the festive spirit, I enjoyed a vigorous performance yesterday from the Dunedin Wind Band. It's a shame they didn't all possess the sax appeal of Mr Neill but they seemed to have fun. And I sang my first (accompanied) carols of the year. It was great fun.

So Christmas, bring it on. I'm ready.

2011-12-11T18:14:00.001Z

My mother just said something she's never said before.

She said: "I know. I read that on your blog." She sounded strangely proud as she said it, as if she knew she'd done well.

I continued to be astounded that anyone at all reads this blog, in the absence of the actor's narcissism, rushing to check whether Mme Director has said Anything Other Than The Notes. So it's always slightly startling to discover that a few poor souls do.

Then Sister said exactly the same thing.

I must manage the release of my wardrobe news more efficiently next time.

2011-12-06T08:37:00.001Z

I went to London at the weekend and didn't go anywhere near a theatre.

I feel a little bit like I've betrayed TheatreLand.

I did keep pointing hopefully at nearby theatrical establishments to the gaggle of girls to whom I'd attached myself.

But not once did they take the bait.

Culturally void, clearly.

2011-12-02T19:28:00.001Z

On Monday, I took a substantial step towards adulthood.

On Thursday, a leap.

On Friday, a big springing step.

And by Christmas, I should be there.

I vowed at the start of the autumn, as in fact I did last autumn, that by the end of the year, I would have a wardrobe as opposed to the student buckling clothing rail of shame. (O yes! Don't think I'm pleased with this dishevelled arrangement of mine. I'm just inexorably lazy. Or more accurately, almost insurmountably disinterested.)

As December looked set to rather carelessly roll around again, I thought I should take action. I asked a friend if she could drive me around wardrobe shops on the only Saturday in December that I was free. She could not.

The plan almost collapsed.

But I was bold. I forged on.

On Monday, I sprang from a taxi on my return from a meeting and flung myself into a nearby secondhand shop to which I've developed an inexplicable attachment. Two ugly wardrobes jostled for my attention near the door. (For this particular shop is less a carefully laid out selector's paradise and more a wild quagmire of Things. Old pictures heaped, chairs tangled, dressing tables, mirrors mirrors mirrors stuffed in every available space, some nice desks, a fireplace, a dressing table, eight pink velvet and gold chairs strewn, some waist high wooden soldiers. It's like Home Street. Except they're trying to sell stuff. And they don't have the moth problem.

I prowled through the thin gap between the doorway and the back of the shop, knowing that if I did not purchase today, I would not purchase.

And there. At the back. Tucked behind chairs, pictures and a coat rack. A wardrobe that was not ugly! For this was my main criteria. Better yet, given the spectacular absence in my flat currently, the door boasted quite a long mirror. Huzzah!

I hastened to The Man, terrified it was bought. But no. He issued a tape measure. I measured. I took his phone number. (For purchase purposes.) I departed.

On Tuesday, I did not dare to measure the space for fear of disappointment.

On Wednesday, I steeled myself. I measured. It seemed it might fit.

On Thursday, I phoned.

And this morning, it was hauled up the staircase stairs by two perspiring fellows, one with a long (hair) tail, one in a boilersuit. "This would be a lovely blond colour if you stripped it down" said The Tail, sweating and panting. Clearly not realising that it has exhausted all of my interior design interest getting it there in the first place.

Attentive readers will note that I don't expect to reach fully-fledged adulthood for a few weeks yet. For my wardrobe is not yet in full working order. It lacks - I know it almost beggars belief - a rail. So I must sort this out before I become a real grown person.

But as a glorious sign of what is to come, as I skipped (adult-ly) into work, I collected an email informing me that I'd won a tea towel. And my heart sang.

Welcome to (almost) adulthood.

2011-11-30T08:37:00.002Z

I've been puzzling for days about what to write about my First Ever Gang Show at the weekend.

And I conclude that - as ever - the problem arose from the gap between my expectation and the actual event.

I've always been fascinated by the idea of the Gang Show.(For the uninitiated, the gang used to be composed of boys in uniforms. In this age of equal opportunities, they had to broaden their intake to girls in uniforms too.) In my head, it's always existed as a be-sweatshirted Bugsy Malone, shimmering like a mirage in the impossible to reach mid-distance. So over the years, I've always clocked the forthcoming show advertised at the Kings and felt vague regret that I had no possible legitimate pretext to attend.

This year, I celebrated. The Child auditioned and was cast. Thus entering the ranks of the elite worthy few. The Mother was organised, took our bookings very early doors. And this made complete sense. Who would not want to be present at the scintillating debut of their darling? Understandable that tickets would be hotter than those for the final night of the One Act Play Festival Final. Even ice-creams had to be pre-ordered. The anticipation was exquisite.

I was taken aback on arrival at the theatre on Saturday night at the quantity of men in uniforms. Avid readers will know that this, in itself, is not a problem for me. But a valuable learning: the nature of the uniform is everything.

A uniform that marks out those that help others = alluring.

A uniform that marks out those that boss about big packs of young boys = hmmm.

So you can rest assured that I won't be rushing to direct Scout Masters Anonymous anytime soon.

The show itself. Well, it started rousingly. 260 kids dashing about the stage delivering Take That's Kids. I expected to be reduced to a quivering mass of soggy tears within about 29 seconds. But lucky for me, the dashing was so over-bearing that the singing was less - soaring, let's say. More campfire fervent than heart-rending.

And so it went. A motley (though exceptionally well-thought through and choreographed) collection of pop songs, hymns to queen, country, land and lord above, musical medleys and sketches of assorted entertainment value. So far, so easily dismissed.

Til The Child stepped on stage. Handily in a Nativity number. Looking all very angelic and ethereal in her Mother's Triumph ebay outfit and feathery wings. In amongst the other 60 odd angelic / shepherdly / inn-keepery / star sparkly cast members. And trotted her way through their musical medley which of course was wonderful. Necks craned, hearts clutched, hankies wafted, eyes wide with pride.

Therein, the point.

I hope - if She chooses to sign up for the Guides - that She features in a couple more numbers next year.

2011-11-25T08:21:00.001Z

I love an audition.

There's something delightfully liberating about pitching up to do your thing after one (albeit attentive) reading of a script with no idea what the director hopes to do with it and no fankley practicalities about where to stand and how to say things knocking around in your head.

For one night only, the "actor" (and pay close attention to the inverted commas - I am under no illusions or delusions about my capabilities) can skip about, footloose and fancy-free, unencumbered by anyone's burden of expectations. It's great fun.

Having said that, for these particular auditions - Six Degrees of Separation, spring show - I had not taken into account the peculiar terror of having to deliver this aforementioned skipping in front of one of your oldest and dearest friends. Hats off to all of you that have done said gambolling for me over these years.

To add to the paralysis, oh, there's trained actor sitting at his right hand (well, left hand actually, but you get the picture) watching watching you with oh such a sweet attentive face. And suddenly, your two dear friends - Ross of a thousand late night collective inanities and Caroline of a thousand snorting when we shouldn't on and off stage (in her pre-pro days) are transformed into the arbiters of your fate.

Take this already horror and ladle on - for good entertaining measure - The Accent. American. Well, I felt I should step in there and represent The Common Man (well, woman) so my "accent" (as before) was a glorious patchwork of states, nations and continents. In my head, I was Blanche Dubois. But from my forays into Irish ("are we gathered?" still haunts me. Losing Venice. Jo Clifford / B S Neill / 1998 I think), I am all too aware of my vocal limitations. Bless them all, they sat deadpan as I skated and skeetered through my mongrel rendition of (glamourous, poised, elegant no more) Kitty's lines.

But see these things principally as a social occasion - for there were bundles of nice people waiting alongside me - and the night is saved. It's an odd hobby that we have. But I would not change it for the world.

2011-11-22T22:37:00.004Z

I'm sorry to see that Senna didn't make the Academy Awards shortlist. I might powerfully use this blog to campaign for its reinstatement. (Or 'instatement' possibly as I'm not sure it was ever on the (short)list to fall off.)

I slyly slipped off to the movies for another cinematic treat tonight. BEB. (Behind Everyone's Back.)

It was a last minute notion (your honour) based on a happy collision of several factors:

- a nigh on miraculous trip from one side of Manchester to another on / in a combination of legs / vehicle including a bag stop to reclaim my luggage, shed this morning at the obliging hotel, in approx 12 minutes which meant that I caught a train I had no right to catch

- a disbanding of my Spanish class on account of the absence of one and the sickness of another which left me footloose and fancy free

- a jilting by a recently returned from Caribbean luxury friend who shunned sushi and me for silence and solace (incredible!)

And so thanks to these collected circumstances, I slipped along to my trusty not-local and was roundly entertained by The Rum Diary.

Let's be clear. I don't think B S Neill would like it. It was a pretty silly story. Though grounded in some sort of quasi-truth if Jonny Depp (and his miraculous manuscript discovery) can be believed. Though with enough of a sprinkling of vaguely political overtones to keep me happy.

It rambled a little and sometimes, in its self-indulgence, it lost its way a little. But hey, it featured Jonny Depp looking hot. It featured a very pretty girl also looking hot, should this be more where your interest lies. It featured some great actors. Some great lines. ("How can someone drink 161 miniatures?" "I thought they were complimentary.")

And it made me think of my summer holiday. Which for two hours, in the middle of a brisk and frisky November, is no mean feat.

2011-11-20T21:50:00.002Z

In the year BB (Before Blog), a boy met a girl during our autumn production of Tom Stoppard's Arcadia.

I don't remember much of this show beyond it needing a tortoise, a hideously long dining room table, Gordon being very good as something prodigal, Asha also, Ian A making inappropriate comments backstage, Ross fretting about learning his intensely intellectual lines and my wearing of jeans that were inappropriately low-slung. (My own - so my own fault.)

But during this show, Gordon met Lorna. The spark that is the spark that matters was - whatever the spark is. Kindled? Ignited? Teased? Provoked? Lit? Whichever, this is where it began.

And yesterday, they were officially wed.

In the loveliest of ceremonies in the midst of the very loveliest of celebrations in the midst of the wilds of (Western - just) Scotland.

We wish them all the very wellest of wellness with their marital bliss.

(Though I don't think they'll need it as they seem to have got this togetherness thing down to a fine art. Well done, lady and gentleman. And have fun.)

2011-11-18T18:55:00.001Z

Sorry, beloved blog, I've been neglecting you.

And will be neglecting you again this weekend.

I promise to do better next week.

2011-11-14T22:45:00.003Z

I don't know what possessed me at the time that I thought going to see Scottish classic, Men Should Weep, was a good idea. But I was not in the same passionate grip on Saturday afternoon.

My lord, what a dreary play.

I mean, goodness, it was beautifully (dingily) set. Beautifully (dingily) costumed. Beautifully acted. And very nicely directed by the man who directed the RSC workshop that I've still got a half-written blog post lying about for. (I hadn't much liked him at the time so it was wonderful to see the fruits of his oh so practical for amateurs workshopping approach so nicely realised....)

But goodness, it was miserable.

It cheered up for about five minutes towards the end when at last the poor drudge family could afford biscuits and spindly paper chains in honour of the impending Christmas season. But then loads more bad stuff clambered out of the closet so the biscuits were all but forgotten.

To top it off, the dreary scenes were punctuated with dirge-like / traditional rousing Scottish ballads delivered by an earnest looking fellow in a flat cap who hovered near the front of the stage and addressed us in his medium of (dingy) song with an earnest pleading tone.

Now, as ever, I'm not the best critic. As if to highlight my wriggling disinterest, when I did finally fall asleep (and this, surely, was inevitable), I awoke to find a fine long string of drool trailing down my chin.

I'm not leaving myself much room for further maneouvre when it comes to growing old disgracefully.

2011-11-12T09:58:00.000Z

2011-11-12T09:48:00.003Z

I've now seen our Hamlet (as opposed to the Michael Sheen version which opened on the same day) x3.

It's a cracking show. I do hope you'll be coming to see it tonight if you haven't already. (7:30pm, St Brides on Orwell Terrace.)

Having seen it thrice, I feel I'm now at slight liberty to take brief attention away from the actors to ponder the audience and their reaction.

So I witnessed a prize moment last night.

If you don't want to have any sort of indication about what happens in the plot, don't read on.

If you don't mind (or indeed, already know what happens), there's a gun shot towards the start of the second half.

It's very sudden and startling so the audience reactions are quite entertaining.

Last night, I was sat in the bank of raked seats so I had a prime vantage point.

The shots were fired.

A few people leapt about a bit like salmon flailing on one of those fish ladders that I still hunger (bad choice of word) to see in action.

One lady clapped her hand over her mouth in horror. She was directly opposite the incident so was fully exposed to the outrage.

And then I spied She Who Shall Remain Nameless, sat upstage, looking utterly unruffled while smoothly, confidently, guiding her glass of wine to her mouth.

I'll give you a clue as to her identity.

A child of hers features in the flyer for my 2012 festival show.

Orla Guerin, eat your heart out.

2011-11-08T22:29:00.005Z

Sunday was a fun day.

Unconscionable time of bed departure aside.

For it was the move in for our autumnal show which begins tomorrow. Mr Hamlet.

So to Home Street to humph (in my case, small light) things out of The Store and into the van, tetris style.

To Orwell Terrace and the venue to decant it all.

And then getting busy busy with setting it all out and up and making sure the lights were pointing in the right direction and the set would accommodate (oh let's not spoil the surprise) The Things it needed to accommodate.

I clambered up and down the ladder of death to the lighting box TWICE. Known to those that know as a cat (?) ladder. (I do not know - hence, not knowing how it should be spelt. But cat feels appropriate as no human should have to haul themselves up such a vertical.)

And then I slunk away before they were even done.

But I saw enough to see that the show will look stupendous.

I love a get in.

And now we've got, make sure you get your tickets here. The Hub is listing our Hamlet as its second biggest seller. So get busy with it or you'll miss a treat.

2011-11-08T22:04:00.002Z

Six months ago, I posted a bunch of postcards in Trinidad, the beating colonial heart of Cuba.

They turned up in the UK today. Six months on, to the day. In Nottingham and Canterbury respectively.

As did the card that B S Neill posted to his brother and sister-in-law.

A conscientious amount of quarantined time I think.

Oh, to live on Cuban time.

2011-11-07T21:30:00.002Z

27.

I went to see this purely because the script is by Abi Morgan.

Now I know it's hard to imagine a time BB (Before Blog) but I directed a play by this aforementioned lady called Tiny Dynamite some years back. A gorgeous little script that told the tale of three - two boys and a girl - and they were all kind of in love with each other.

A young person's modern day version of the Noel Coward play I'm so keen to do. (I say "do" but actually, I mean, "be in".)

Turns out that it's also a National Theatre of Scotland production. So I could (unwittingly) bang the sanctimonious drum about the thriving Scottish theatre scene.

And it was directed by Vicky Featherstone who I also feel (obscurely) fond of - for no reason other than having seen her give a talk to students at QMU some time back. And she looked cool. (So superficial!)

Anyway, luckily, given the great concatenation (Siobhan, that's for you) of auspicious circumstances, I liked it.

The script is a little ponderous. But the themes are laudable enough. And not so weighty that they drag the story down into the dark and dusty nether aisles of the library you hope you'll never have to visit because it's too worthy and dull.

I'm possibly inclined to agree a little with Mr Graveling who was outraged at the liberties taken with scientific truth and felt that the characters verged at some points on caricatures. But for I, the non-scientist, this was much less of an issue.

The set was gorgeous. Though lacked the dilapidation referenced in the script (thanks to Father for that observation).

And it was very nicely acted. The 'breaking points' were all suitably delicately executed. Which is important, I think, in a Abi Morgan play. (Lord, listen to me. What do I know?) She is not heavy-handed with her drama, that one. (Snide aside alert.) (Oh, unless she's writing for TV.) (But that's a different audience. I'd argue you need a heavier hand.) (Danger - patronising.)

Not all of the audience at our particular showing made it all the way through the show. Some were absent in body from the second half. Others (and maybe I too fell into this camp) enjoyed some quiet restful times at certain points as the story wended its way homewards.

But an admirable creation from all concerned. Lots to think about. I'm still - three whole days on - thinking about it around the edges of everything else. Which I think is the finest possible tribute to a piece of theatre.

2011-11-05T09:42:00.003Z

Hey, this is cool. I don't think I've ever known people in a band with a video on YouTube before.

Though actually, I bet they've had vids up there for always and I've just been a bad friend. That's more likely.

Anyway, many congratulations and I hope you end up as stellar stars - as long as you don't shun me when you're famous.

2011-11-03T21:49:00.003Z

I just tried to write "cheering up the troops".

I spelt it "troupes".

Spot where my head is at.

2011-11-02T22:39:00.003Z

The Ides of March is very good.

Terse. Sparse. Spare. And gripping.

Thingumijiggy Young Goose is very good as the main man.

And George may feel he's sufficiently old to warrant saving his skills for behind the camera endeavours.

But George, if you're reading this, I'd find a place for you on stage any day.

Just give me a bit of notice. So I can find a suitable 'vehicle'.

2011-11-01T22:13:00.000Z

And now, for something totally different.

Story (still) to follow.

2011-10-30T10:56:00.007Z

The Salon Project by Untitled Projects. At the Traverse Theatre. Backstage first.

And then 'on stage'. (Those that were there will notice that the photos run in reverse chronology but getting them in the right order would have taken more time that I'm prepared to invest. Lazy as ever.)

2011-10-28T07:54:00.001+01:00

La Mascarade.

I owe you a full debrief.

But by and large, it went frighteningly well.

Mephistopheles was a proper tomcat on the prowl.

Faust was world-weary and easily head-turned.

Margareta was tragic.

Valentine was dapper, debonair and divine.

The witch was witchier than I'd ever hoped.

And the spirits - well, therein lies a story.

More anon.

2011-10-26T22:39:00.002+01:00

Now I don't know if I'd be so bold as to give One Man, Two Guvnors, a National Theatre production just transferred to the King's Theatre, five stars.

But I would give it four and a half.

I love a good farce. And this, though not featuring as much underwear as might classically cross the stage in a farce, is a superb job.

Now vehemently disliking celebrity appearances on well-trodden floorboards, I didn't expect to relish James Corden's performance. But to my discrete shame, he did rather steal the show. I don't think the director should have let him get away with it. But as (s)he did, I can only be happy that he was so sparklingly smartly brilliant.

Do what you must for a ticket. If you have any time at all for a farce, you shan't be disappointed.

2011-10-26T21:50:00.001+01:00

Hey.

I've got myself a festival show.

2011-10-24T22:53:00.002+01:00

I'm doing almost none of the organising for La Mascarade. It's wonderful. I'm being very spoon fed.

I've arranged the measley rehearsals for the actors. I gave them their lines. I arranged a costume appointment. And visited Home Street to harvest witchy props.

But that aside, Chris and Hilary have been as angelic as ever, gathering surprising stuffs from surprising places. Siobhan obligingly sourced some embroidery. Dear Margaret brought her shiny red tray. Cari brought....crisps.

And the producer girl, Jenny, has just sent me the politest nagging email ever to spur me into action on the music which she's obligingly sourced by various means. I just needed to listen and vet. Easy.

Oh, if any of you that this affects are reading this, no stilettos on the tables please. I don't suppose that'll break anyone's heart. This was the other Jenny note.

If only all gigs could run so beautifully trouble-free-ly.

2011-10-22T09:36:00.002+01:00

This week has been neatly bookended by remarkable cultural diversity.

Last Sunday saw us here, in The Salon, hosted courteously by the Traverse Theatre.

(More photos to come but I'm having - shall we say - technical issues. As usual, born out of my laziness. Or rather, disinterest in anything practical.)

The Salon Project was a rather wonderful idea. The brainchild of Stewart Laing and masterminded by his production company, Untitled Projects, it endeavoured to recreate the Salon experience of times (ranging wildly throughout several centuries) gone by. Which meant dressing the audience in a gloriously eclectic collection of fabric and feather stuffs to enable them to wholly embrace the experience.

It was great fun. But as it so often the case, the getting ready bit - for me, at least - beat the show itself hands down.

Backstage, we had a conveyor belt of a production line to enable 60 people in jeans and workaday hair and make-up (always impeccable Cari aside) to be turned into creatures of gentility. That was fascinating. And so like a 'real' backstage with hair and make-up girls and a jewellery man and dressers - I've never had a dresser! - and racks and racks of costumes and hats and boxes of shoes in abundance that I was quite enchanted. It was glorious.

And then the clock chimed and we were herded through into the Salon. Beautiful set. Quite white. Ornate mirrors. A grand piano in the corner. A proper chandelier.

I suspect I wasn't clever enough to 'get' the concept. We had a tableau something or other (and if you were in the first batch of people, you got two) which consisted of (we were instructed to shut our eyes during the preparation) a bunch of people standing around naked studying iPads and phones and other assorted gadgets. Making a powerful point, I expect, but I have no idea what the powerful point was.

Then a series of discussions led by Stewart, the host and featuring assorted speakers who mused on this or that theme. This established once and for all that indeed it was Joyce (my stalker!) Macmillan in the large red dress. Unfortunately the first speaker was boring. Or my attention span was non existent as Mother claimed it was very thought-provoking. Second up was some very beautiful woman who spoke about the role of costume I think in our drab daily existence. Topical at least. Joyce spoke of Scotland. Very nicely actually. Then we milled around a bit more and then we watched some film of the previously naked people lying around all dead and bloody. (This provoked Mother to rant on the way home about the outrageous laziness of modern day man who only has to be presented with a screen before he flocks to it and laps up whatever is there presented like a thirsty dog.) And then - to the accompaniment of some dramatic sound effects and an apparent dialling up of the temperature, a group photo and we were herded back into the dressing room to be stripped of our finery.

I should have entered into the spirit of it more than I did. Sweeping around the salon in my beautiful 1920s golden dress engaging in discussions about the topics therein raised with my fellow salon goers. But I wasn't quite in the mood for talking. Mother claimed she met some fascinating people. I was introduced to Stewart Laing by Kim, our enthusiastic 'people-sitter' and babbled like a foolish schoolgirl about a ball and Faust and people standing around talking "rather like this" (oh no no no Claire, so gauche) and a Tempest on a boat and oh! how I love this kind of thing. I'm sure Stewart thought I was insane. But this fumbling foray aside, I managed only to take 103 photos. Which I'm sure was an infinitely better use of my time.

All in all, a glorious 'project'. But costumes aside, I wasn't wholly convinced.

In beautifully stark contrast, I went to see some clowns last night. Slava's Snow Show at the Festival Theatre.

They didn't speak. They pranked. With the most extraordinary effects I've seen on a stage for a long long time.

Guess which theatrical experience I preferred.

2011-10-20T20:52:00.001+01:00

Monday's chasing was a false dawn.

I can see that next year's festival show shall be decided by whichever of the agents has the manners to get back to me.

If any of them do.

6 days til print deadline.

2011-10-19T19:04:00.001+01:00

Off to play in the giant dressing up box that is NOT Home Street to find costumes for La Mascarade.

Tremendously (sartorially) exciting.

2011-10-17T21:44:00.002+01:00

Dammit.

I spelt the agency wrong so I got a bounceback.

But dear google revealed the truth.

It's stupidly Gersh, not Gersch. (Though I suppose Gershwin might not consider it so stupid.)

Anyway, removing the pesky C yielded an email from Quinn informing me that (hot I'm sure) (polite I know) Matt would be dealing with queries in his / her (?) absence.

Transatlantic times.

2011-10-17T18:52:00.001+01:00

On the hunt for performing rights, I just called NYC.

It was thrilling.

I spoke to a lovely polite boy.

Who actually couldn't help at all.

Beyond sharing a minimal amount of information and politely suggesting I call back tomorrow.

Parsimoniously, I suggested I email back.

He (politely) gave me an email address.

I've even cleverly spelt "inquiry" with an i in the subject header.

Does that make me an International Girl Of The World?

2011-10-15T16:57:00.001+01:00

I always have high hopes when it comes to Woody Allen films.

But in recent years, I've more often than not been disappointed by beautifully shot films about principally mean people which only reinforce my slight (depending on the day of the week) disenchantment with humankind.

Midnight in Paris was a glorious breath of fresh air however. As it was packed with The Mean but in the empathy-inviting epicentre, we have a slightly bumbling slightly cynical but ultimately full of sweetness Owen Wilson. Who entirely made up for all the superficial sillies surrounding him.

In fact, he seemed all the sweeter on account of his superficial surrounds.
So the twist - for there was one, albeit a fairly early doors twist - was all the more glorious for it.

I shan't tell you more than that as it would spoil it for you if you go see. But be assured that Owen is delightful. Marion Cotillard - well, I want to be her. And the shining entourage including - whatsername - the short lady made the whole hour and one half a wonderful enormously fun beautifully set and beautifully clad romp.

Me thinks I have a theme for new year.

2011-10-12T22:38:00.001+01:00

I'm quite liking being described as "mystery, intrigue and entertainment".

I hope we live up to expectations.

2011-10-11T22:37:00.002+01:00

Btw, a phenomenal and heartfelt thanks to father.

Above and beyond n'all.

2011-10-11T21:14:00.002+01:00

Hey. Thanks to the miracle of t'internet, I'm downloading a script.

Guess what I'm thinking about...

2011-10-10T22:45:00.003+01:00

I suspect a fair few tears were shed in Edinburgh last night.

After a stupendously exciting "will we / won't we?" period of weeks, a brave party sailed forth on Friday to Northampton for the quarter final of the Sky Arts competition.

By a happy stroke of fate, I trotted along to cheerlead on Saturday. Though really, even if I hadn't been Nottingham-bound, I'm not sure that I could have missed it.

Beautiful theatre (Royal & Derngate). They all got to mill round backstage, lucky bastards. Apparently the wings were huge. Such is the stuff my fantasies are made of. A crack of dawn start (for what purpose, I'm not wholly sure). A morning tech. A lot of hanging about. And they set foot on stage for The Performance somewhere around half past two.

It was stupendously exciting, seeing them all trotting about on this big proper stage, with cameras craning about overhead, sound booms lurking in the wings, semi-celebrities roaming in the auditorium.

I felt absurdly proud of them all, despite the fact that none of this has had a particle to do with me. But I felt a little bit amazed and a little bit astounded to be lucky enough to know such stupendously talented people.

Of course, I'm vilely biased but it seemed that the audience enjoyed "our" (their) performance more than all the others. Of course they would. It was much funnier.

It sparkled along, technically perfectly (poor bastard on just before our lot completely dried at one point, just precisely as he knelt down for his camera close up - poor poor man), just angst-ridden enough to be squirm-worthy, just haughty enough to make you a little bit angry about the aristocrats' arrogance. (I'm not sure that they were technically aristocrats but I know 'people' will rush to correct me and I liked the alliteration.)

And we were left quite breathless with the "didn't they do well?" of it.

Two other, odder (vilely biased) performances. A bit of hanging about. And The Verdict.

Oh, we're not supposed to talk about it. So I'd better not tell you what happened.

Let's leave it with Matt's hashtag.

#WHINSIN

Sorry.

2011-10-06T22:50:00.007+01:00

Whilst I've been backroom gorging on culture for a few weeks now in my panic to find The Perfect Script, I've gorged thrice this week - in public.

Tuesday was the very stunning Far by Wayne McGregor at the Festival Theatre. Beautiful to look at, I couldn't tell you the first thing about what it stood for. Except for, perhaps at one point, there was a loud scoffling and gobbling noise as a part of the soundtrack so I thought perhaps they were all eating each other.

But they were ten. Beautiful people. Dressed in gauzy stuffs in monochrome hues. Springing about the stage in a fluidly sinister double-jointed way. With the most amazing board of lights behind them which raised and lowered (itself) periodically, sometimes light with little spindly spiney bits, sometimes in precise quarters, sometimes with a numbery countdown. It was a v smart piece of technology.

The music was a lovely creation of all sorts of genres, squished together in a delightfully contemporary mix but with enough classical wailing to satisfy all that's pretentious in me.

There was a Q&A at the close of the (compact) performance and encouragingly, most other attendees appeared to be as clueless as we when it came to the purpose of the piece. I tactfully sat on the front row of the stalls in front of 11 lean as lean dancers, gobbling a strawberry ice-cream and reflecting on the three almond croissants I'd eaten already that day and wondering when I would become lean like them.

Last night, I was lucky enough to witness a twelve minute sliver of Chekhov, our entry into round one (or would you count it as two?) for the SkyArts competition. And despite the fact that the poor cast were on - it must have been performance four or five (consecutively with n'er a pause even for a cup of tea) - of it for separate batches of their eager audience, they did a lovely job. Very very good luck to you all on Saturday in Northampton.

(Incidentally, courtesy of Margaret, Northampton was the location last time the group won the One Act Play Festival final. 1968 I believe. So let this be a lucky omen.)

Tonight, long long overdue, I stuffed in the latest Almodovar. The Skin I Live In. And this was all as fu**ed up as all his other ones. But in a beautiful way that you don't seem to encounter so often in real life. Needless to say, I loved it.

2011-10-06T22:47:00.002+01:00

I was a little bit late and slack getting the bus to work this morning so crossed my crossroads after the lollipop man had started his shift.

And it was quite like old times. As the first nipping autumn breeze of the season was wafting around my legs and I had some little scraps of paper clutched in my little hand as I swiftly tried to memorise the impossible illogical but pretty speech I've snatched for this La Mascarade.

Although I can hardly remember a single line and on occasion, can scarely remember the girl's name, I sometimes quite miss Isobel.

2011-10-03T21:07:00.002+01:00

Yet.

May the heavens rain blessings on Yipp Films for featuring the email addresses of their directors' agents on their website.

Yipp, I'm not sure about your company name but I feel very fond of you right now.

2011-10-03T21:04:00.002+01:00

Damn and blast and hellfire on scripts that only feature postal addresses for performing rights enquiries.

Further damn and blast and hellfire on those (sensible) agents that only feature postal addresses on their websites.

Weeks! Weeks it could be before an answer arrives.

#ohsheoflittlefaith (the twitter translation)

2011-10-02T22:42:00.001+01:00

Luckily, three of my scripts turned up from amazon on Friday. I gobbled them down by teatime on Saturday.

I think it must be wonderful to be a professional and not worry about whether or not something can be cast. Invariably, despite my best vetting and ruling out of anything with even a sporadic onstage appearance of a teenage child, I still ended up with a collection of three plays that would each present very minor casting predicaments. Or logistical / proppy predicaments.

For example, play two begins: "XX (forgot her name) is 27". I can think of no girl (that acts) that is precisely 27. Though as we're in the business of fabrication, this matters least of all.

Scene 2 and we see said girl passed out on the floor with "something" on the floor that "we" the audience cannot quite spot. This turns out to be a syringe (this, in itself, holds no fear for me now) and a pint glass of urine. (Now would this be more or less scandalous for a venue with concerns about propriety than a play about incest?)

And then icing on the cake - and this made me laugh alone in my flat like a drain for approx three minutes as dawn broke on Saturday morning - I turn the page onto the final scene and the sole man in the play - who plays 5 hugely different characters - no mean feat for anyone - has become a South African. Man alive.

Anyway, three more down. A couple of possibilities. One is a two hander. (Do I really want to do a two hander?) And I await a final volume which unfortunately is not published til the middle of October. I'm not sure this'll survive the programme print deadline which is my decision date.

Oh for decisions dictated by stationery.

2011-10-01T17:55:00.003+01:00

Eee I've been having a fine old fun day portioning out portions of lines for 'my' various characters for this masked ball.

(Back story: Cleopatra and myself have been lured into providing some sort of 'entertainment' for a Halloween-themed masked ball at the end of October. At the astoundingly beautiful Ghillie Dhu. I baulked at a choreographed musical number - the organisers' first thought. So instead, we have a Faustian themed offering and my merry band of troubadours shall each take a character from this story and recite a little. I pray to god it will work. It looks amazing in my head but I realise this doesn't always translate into real life.)

Lovely lovely lines. Considerately rhymed. (I'm using the Philip Wayne translation of Goethe's story for the geeks reading this.)

Here's a little Mephistopheles to whet your appetite.

And I feel like a tom-cat on the stroll
When sick with love he climbs the fire escape
And over walls, then streaks his shadowy shape.
I exercise a sort of moral right
In bits of thieving or of love's delight.
Then through my members, Sir, will thrill and leap
The love of our superb Walpurgis night.

Unfortunately we are not performing on Walpurgis night. But my hope is that the audience will be sufficiently uninformed (apart from Siobhan) to not know that this isn't an equally syllabled word for Halloween.

Do come if you're about. Tickets here. It should be fun.

2011-09-29T08:08:00.002+01:00

Reading reading plays. And still, my amazon order hasn't arrived so I'm having to wander through stuff that I don't think is suitable but as a time filler, it's worth checking.

Sometime ago, in the dead of night in a holiday cottage bedroom, I was chatting to a friend of a friend, busy trying to be a writer, who spoke of one of her favourite writers, an Irish playwright called Marina Carr.

A stupendous play, said this Friend Of A Friend, is this Marina Carr's Portia Coughlan. So I rushed home and ordered up two volumes of her work.

Unfortunately, most of the two volumes are filled with plays that are preceded with "I have written these to be performed in the Midlands accent. This accent is stronger than is represented by the words written here but feel free to deliver them as authentically as possible." Or words to this effect.

And of course she's not meaning a nice neutral Midland England accent. It continues to pain me that vast swathes of brilliant contemporary literature aren't really available to us as I continue to think there's nothing worse than a play (well, some things - let's not be melodramatic - but it's wrong to do a play) that relies on a specific location delivered in Not The Right Accent.

There are a couple of plays tucked away at the back of volume two. The Cordelia Dream is a (long) two hander about "old man" who appears to be in love with "woman" and lies around drinking, smoking and playing the piano, interacting with this "woman". Until at the end, we discover that the woman is... made of dust.

I had higher hopes for Marble. A four person play. Nice neat cast size. Neutrally accented. But it turns out to be a middle class angst play. Art and Anne are married. Ben and Catherine are married. One startling night (though it isn't very startling really), we discover that Art and Catherine dreamt lewdly about each other. Cue much soul searching how long we've been married how tiresome it's all become how we've settled pointlessness of life debate. And guess what happens? Art and Catherine, pages and pages and pages later, run off with each other.

I shall continue to hunt for something a little less suburban.

2011-09-27T22:16:00.003+01:00

Jupiter Artland.

Such are the things that are possible when Sundays aren't sucked up with rehearsals.

Tinker Tailor was good too.

2011-09-26T08:29:00.000+01:00

2011-09-25T10:57:00.004+01:00

Sunday morning.

Getting there.

2011-09-24T15:25:00.001+01:00

Fancying a little hip-hop (and as it's entirely absent from my music collection), I hunted out (that's a lie actually. The CD was laying demandingly on top of the vertiginous heap) the 'soundtrack' to A & C.

Popped it on the stereo.

And yet again I'm astounded by how the sound of the twiddley fiddley stringy te de da da da immediately takes me back to sitting at the back of the QMH at the so-called sound desk (aka CD player) impatiently fading then pausing then 'rewinding' the CD to the start of track one as the audience shuffle and fidget and the venue staff fankle about, apparently pointlessly, delaying delaying the beginning of the show as the actors fidget and fake camaraderie on stage. And track one strikes up again like Groundhog Day.

Fond fidgety memories.

2011-09-22T08:15:00.001+01:00

More show detritus shed.

Last night, the too large throw and the throw wannabe (i.e. a duvet cover) were both returned to their owner.

My flat is starting to feel quite airy again.

2011-09-21T08:15:00.003+01:00

There's a general rule when it comes to props and the lending of Things for use within a play that you shouldn't lend anything that you really don't want to lose.

It's not that we actor / director types are so wild cavalier and irresponsible that we can't be trusted with a preciousness. But more that in the general (hair-sticking-up-flurry) of putting the show together, it's possible that certain items, may at certain points, get overlooked or mislaid or placed somewhere that someone believes to be unfailingly foolproof secret safe - and then no-one can find it again.

And then the director is left with a lurking pit of dread in their stomach when The Thing cannot be retrieved and returned to the once proud now despairing owner. Such as was experienced last summer with the precious sailor's hat once belonging to someone's (possibly even now dead) father during his prized and fondly recollected naval days.

Take this feeling of doubt and self-loathing and magnify it by 1,000,000,000 when The Thing is lent by A Child.

But in this instance (this festival), as The Thing was a golden snake necklace, it seemed like too good a prop / costume opportunity to pass up. So I took it - albeit with hesitation - and with many attempts to gauge the perceived emotional value of the said serpent. And I deemed that it was a risk worth taking.

More fool me.

Suddenly it was lost.

The loss was discovered only in the wake of the play. When Child's mother reasonably enquired as to its whereabouts. "Oh well" (a sad look and sigh) "if it is lost, well I suppose it'll be alright. But I don't know where I'd get another such thing. As it was quite (sideways sorrowful look) UNUSUAL, you know...?"

Oh yes. I know.

So I scoured my house in case it was lurking nesting in the heap of costumes on my hall floor. Cleo and I we scoured the props cupboard and the shower (yes indeed) at the rehearsal rooms to see if it had slithered down some pesky gap. I sifted through the dust and the mothwings at our props / costume / set store in case it had slithered of its own accord to live amongst more dead kindred. And nothing. No serpent.

I must be honest. I had given up hope. (Don't tell the Child's Mother. She must never doubt my ability to take care - good care - of any precious props. I also had Mother's Father's prized golden paper knife which became Cleo's death weapon of choice.)

Until I set about the final stages of the clear up of my long neglected home at the weekend. Finally, I hauled the other crumpled dresses out of the Morrisons carrier bag long lying neglected on my chaise longue to hang them more respectfully on my student's clothing rail. And - wait - what's this? - nestling at the bottom of the shabby supermarket carrier, one golden shoe and - hzah! - a golden snake!

Honour, at last, is restored.

The lesson is - don't live like a pig.

For your piggery shall find you out.

2011-09-18T13:05:00.005+01:00

Some belated backstage photos of my boys (and girls) getting ready to play.

(There's one of me flying up the stairs from the stage to the lighting desk but I look so wild and frazzled and hair in the air that this photo shall remain unpublished.)

2011-09-17T13:02:00.001+01:00

"I have broken my own heart and I will never be able to mend it."

I'm such a hopeless romantic.

I just ordered a play purely on the strength of this line.

Thinking I should branch out from the confines - albeit ample, plump and sturdy confines - of the SCDA library, I've just been a play-huntin' on the 'net.

I await my orders with eager anticipation.

2011-09-16T19:18:00.001+01:00

Today is an exciting day for x2 reasons.

For one, I'm blogging on the bus. An action which has been eluding me for some considerable time on account of blogger's mobile site. Not site would be more accurate actually. But now (frabjous day), they have loosed an app on the digital world so I can pontificate on the move. O how this makes your collective hearts sing!

The second rather fabulous thing is that I am on a vehicle en route to our costume store with x4 bags of assorted potentially Egyptian but subsequently rejected paraphernalia, mostly of the fabric variety. Though I have some chains. And a small Pharoah's head.

My hallway at very long last is clear.

Very frabjous.

2011-09-16T09:00:00.001+01:00

Line in my head this morning belongs to Caesar. Unfortunately I can only remember approx three words of it:

"He has broken the letter of the law.
And I will never something something something
Something something something something."

Any ideas?

Though this did guide me in my groping towards a favourite (misquoted I expect) line spoken on his hearing of Antony's death:

"The breaking of so great a thing
Should make a greater crack."

(Such a horrible misquote I suspect.)

Anyway, quite.

2011-09-14T23:11:00.003+01:00

Tonight, wistfully re-reading my beloved (or rather Michel Tremblay's beloved) Solemn Mass for A Full Moon in Summer.

And get a load of this.

At one point, nine of the characters, very solemn, in unison, must say:

O moon, O blood of Christ, O moon, O blood of Christ,
In your passage across the sky. O moon, O blood of Christ,
In your passage across the sky, bring me peace. I cast
My gaze upon you. Hear me. Hear me. Pour your blood-red gaze
Upon me and hear my prayer. My life is falling apart.
My soul is in tatters. Help me. Bring me peace. O moon,
O blood of Christ. O moon, O blood of Christ, in your passage
Across the sky. O moon, O blood of Christ, in your passage
Across the sky, bring me peace.

Cast your mind back, for one second, to flash flicker burn press et al.

And that answers that, then.

2011-09-13T22:37:00.001+01:00

btw, I lied.

I'm not working on nothing.

I'm kind of loosely thinking about this.

2011-09-13T22:36:00.003+01:00

Poor dress.

It's just about uncreased.

And I'm about to stuff it back into a bag again.

Sorry, garment.

2011-09-12T22:01:00.002+01:00

The Zumba class teacher considerately included Beyonce's Single Ladies in her line-up tonight.

And oh Neil, I've forgotten half of the words.

I'm ashamed...

2011-09-12T21:57:00.003+01:00

It occurred to me suddenly today that given the nature of the social occasions ahead of me this week, I should extract one at least of the dresses discarded by Cleopatra (in this case, as a consequence of the sticky zip) from the plastic bag still discarded on my chaise longue and now of course heaped over with other, more frequently worn, garments.

So I duly fetched it this evening.

Poor garment.

At least one month of crumpledom has taken its toll.

And I'd had it dry cleaned before that.

But of course I shouldn't wish to iron it. That might burn the delicate stuff of it. And that would never do.

2011-09-11T20:39:00.001+01:00

Two remarkable things happened today, fortuitously at approx the same time.

I sat in a garden chair outside the one-time village library that is now a sprawling and properly higgledy-piggledy house belonging to an aunt and uncle of mine. I sat for approx twenty minutes doing nothing.

And the second remarkable thing: the sun came out.

Happy weekend.

2011-09-10T13:38:00.001+01:00

Well, that secret script I've just read was very good.

2011-09-09T23:37:00.001+01:00

Oh look.

This is nice.

Thanks, Thom.

2011-09-09T23:34:00.000+01:00

Time for a misquote.

Now I see. I see...

(in Fulvia's death, how mine received shall be.)

That you can't make an omelette with one egg.

(See how laudably, I try and imbue the basest tasks with a Shakespearean grandeur?)

2011-09-08T23:30:00.001+01:00

God.

The Stage, I'm sure, is only the beginning.

I'm never going to succeed in overturning this awful "Grads" name now, am I?

2011-09-08T23:25:00.000+01:00

Ah.

Ta dah!

As you can imagine, we're all rather pleased.