A hurricane has hit Keswick, and no, not a real one- this isn’t 1987 and I am not Michael Fish- (I WISH I WAS MICHAEL FISH) but a mere metaphorical one. And it comes in the form of our work schedule.
I realise that I’ve used an excessively dramatic metaphor for what is, essentially, a boring subject. But yes, we have been working NON-STOP since I last glanced at a FerryEgg let alone wrote one.
The headless chicken and I have become the best of buds over the past two weeks, like Thelma and Louise, except set in the Lake District and with Louise being played by a decapitated fowl.
(I was always going to be Thelma, Geena Davis is my double denim hero.)
The golden days of frolicking at a village hall ceilidh are over and it’s back to the blood, sweat and tears of the rehearsal room or the “Fire, blood and anguish” of it, to quote a certain Inspector.
We finished technical rehearsals for Vincent in Brixton on the Thursday, opened on the Friday and then smashed into An Inspector Calls rehearsals on the Monday, performing in the evenings and rehearsing during the days ever since. I feel not too dissimilar to a pop star that has gone to the press with exaggerated claims of exhaustion.
Maybe I’ll shave my head like Britney... Maybe not.
Tech rehearsals for Vincent went surprisingly smoothly considering the amount of food that is cooked on set during the performance. I thought we’d end up covered in eggs and sprout peelings; however, the only eggs that made an appearance during the rehearsal process were mine.
You see, in the second half of the play, there is a scene where I have to do some proper acting (shouting and crying- in a Dutch accent no less!) and at the pivotal moment... my skirt fell down. TWICE. I'm not even kidding. On two separate occasions, in two different runs, I was bagged. Bagged to the hilt.
(To bag: a term referring to the ancient art of pulling one's classmates nether garments down. Be it skirt, or trouser, the power of gravity mixed with the determination of one's peers leaves the elastic powerless against the onslaught.)
The gods of Dignity looked down upon me that morning and said,"Nay, you shall have NONE today. Not even a smidge. Not even a tenth of a smidge. Not even a midge on a tenth of a smidge. We have tampered with your what you call 'safety pins' and have deemed them broken. Deal with it." And thus I was bagged. By destiny.
"Bagged by Destiny"... HELLO AUTOBIOGRAPHY TITLE!
Just to clarify, (for my Mother’s sake) my eggs or ovum as my year 9 biology teacher Ms Hoare would call them (yes, yes her surname was a gift to an over-excitable class of 14 year old girls) did not technically make an appearance. That would be a physical impossibility... or a horrific injury. Neither of which occurred.
Only my undergarments (Marks and Spencers best) and the space where my dignity used to be decided that it was their time to shine. I was merely being vulgar to keep you interested. I’m a product of my generation, what can I say?
But worse things happen at sea don’t they. DON’T THEY?!? So yes, my skirt fell down, twice. But as Fred Astaire advised, I picked myself (and my skirt) up, dusted myself off and started all over again.
Luckily it hasn’t happened in performance yet, but we’ve got until November so there’s plenty of time…
(Cue manic touching of wood, crossing of fingers, removing of shoes from tables and any other form of suspicious security blankets available to mankind…)
We start technical rehearsals for An Inspector Calls tomorrow so who knows what will happen then!
I’ll keep you informed either way. Over and out!