So FerryEgg… it’s been a while. In the age old terminology:
It’s not you, it’s definitely me.
Since we last spoke, I have turned the ripe
old age of 27; I am now officially in my LATE twenties. I can no longer cling
to the youthful ‘mid’ but am now forced to reside in the upper echelons of that
limbo decade between your teens and your thirties where society is hinting
SUBTLY that it’s time to grow up but your innards are positively screaming for
a 2 litre bottle of white lightening, a park and a spotty boy to snog.
I celebrated my birthday, or as one of my cards called it
‘the anniversary of when [I] popped out of a vagina or something’ (my friends
know me SO well)...
... albeit not in a raucous fashion as I am wont to do, but laid
up in bed, plagued by a chest infection, spouting more green mucous than an
episode of ‘Get Your Own Back’ (WHERE THE HELL IS DAVE BENSON-PHILIPS NOW?!?)
and with Bridget Jones haranguing me in the background via the dubious medium
of channel 5. If only it were just a cliché.
At the end of the day, the grass is always greener and every
cloud has a silver lining. These are a few of the clichés I would have
preferred to have embodied rather than a snotty 27 year old sobbing away to
Bridget Jones. (I wasn’t ACTUALLY sobbing; sobbing is just for girls… Oh wait.)
But
hey, in the words of D: Ream (another promoter of the much beloved cliché); things can only get better. Right?
RIGHT?!
(This is not my t-shirt...)
Right. I have resided in the Lake District now for nearly
seven months, performed a different play every night, climbed many a mountain (HILL)
with the assistance of a blue inhaler and an apple at the top, pretended to
learn the ukulele, hosted a hen do, swam in the lake, sprained my foot and come
up smiling.
I may sound like a stilton based voice over for a bad Richard
Curtis movie (About Time was pretty
terrible, you have to admit it); however, with two weeks left in this idyllic
part of the country I feel that a mild bit of cheddar is allowed.
As long as it is accompanied by a grape. Or two. In my case
the grapes are usually embodied as horrifically bad genital jokes but to save
your eyes and ears from my nether based wit, my grape, for now, will be embodied
as the Future.
Epic, huh.
And my Future currently is in Pantomime. Yes, I, Laura
Darrall will be directing a Pantomime. Cinderella
to be more specific. I will be going from the peace and tranquillity of rep
theatre in the Lake District to the back end of a horse in a primary school.
And I cannot WAIT.
Theatre by the Lake in the words of my grape is,
regretfully, almost BEHIIIIIND ME; but I know that, like Arnie albeit slightly
less violently, I’ll be back.
And equally, I cannot WAIT.
