Take Me Right Back to the Track, Jack!

This morning I was bouncing on a gentleman’s paunch for 25 minutes.  Ah hem, clear those filthy minds please. For it was in an overcrowded train carriage on the 7.43 where each bump and jostle caused this complete stranger to break every clause in Patrick Swayze’s Dirty Dancing rule “This is your dance space, this is my dance space.” 

Overcrowded rush hour trains are sadly an accepted part of commuting and I have joined this hubbub eversince leaving the luxury of off-peak travel to a theatre job.  I could previously smugly snigger at the squashed faces pressed up against the windows of the trains going in the opposite direction as I travelled into work at 5.30pm and spread out gloriously over a couple of seats on my 11pm journey home where the only annoyance was the odd whiff of post-alcohol induced Burger King munchies.  But now I am one of those squashed faces attempting to read a free newspaper and retain some ounce of personal space.

It is impossible to find a seat between the hours of 7am and 10am no matter how much you sigh and look tired or how many months pregnant you are. (That is a sad fact that I have often had to glare at seated city fat cats on the tube as a heavily pregnant lady sways next to me on a tube and yes, they ignore us and continue to read.)

This man on the 07.43, who was inadvertently caressing me with his middle aged spread, was also really tall.  I know this because the back of my head nestled perfectly in between his man boobs every few seconds.  Now I am sure he didn’t mean this at all, as I said we are all crammed in like blueberry goodness in a glass of Ribena, in fact he probably didn’t even see me.  This is so often the case when you are a 5’1” member of the human race.  People rarely look down that far and so you can often cease to exist.

But despite the B.O ponging, make-up applying or noisy mobile phone beeping perils we have all got a tale about I have also had some nice experiences whilst travelling.

The most notable of which is the time an Australian hunky stranger saved my life.  Sadly this is not an episode of Home and Away or a sudden appearance of Hugh Jackman on the Reading line but a true story of Aussie gallantry none the less!

I was returning home from a day of rehearsals last year embracing the last few days of summer in a white skirt and flip flops.  I floated down the steps at Clapham Junction in time to board my train but as I stepped up into the carriage I was unaware of a perilous kiwi fruit squished on the platform.  My flip flops were not designed to withstand such obstacles as discarded snacks and so I slipped and fell in between the train and the platform and onto the tracks.  One flip flop lay on the tracks as I clung from the metal step with the train about to depart.  I was later told that if I was slightly taller ( a heightest comment, I feel) or perhaps fatter then it wouldn’t have happened but regrets at not eating enough doughnuts in my life were far from my mind as I hung amid the diesel fumes.

The doors made that familiar shriek at their imminent closing as a large pair of hands appeared from above and scooped me into the carriage just as the train set off. In a state of shock I stood (as I couldn’t sit because my coccyx was no longer where it should be,) face to face with a bloke in a suit who was asking if I was ok.  Was I? Well I had a weird kiwi smelling stain on the back of my skirt, one flip flop on, I kept trying to sit to appear normal and rebounding back up from the pain and I was trying not to cry.  I looked like a refugee from a night out in Faliraki that you often see stumbling about on late night holiday-rep programmes.

But of course I tried to appear fine.  Joking about it and answering any questions I was asked about myself just like a normal conversation aboard a train.  I hobbled off at my station assuring this charming Aussie that I was fine and would get a cab home and promptly burst into hysterical tears and phoned my mum.

Days later, when I was slowly regaining my dignity, I had a phone call from my editor at a magazine I write for.  An Australian business man had contacted him after “Googling” my name to check if I was alright.  I was a single girl at the time and so my mind raced with rom-com storylines and delight at a wonderful way to meet a literal Prince Charming.  I can’t lie – I did imagine his wedding speech starting with the story of how we met and us all laughing nostalgically at the romantic tale!

But I came back down to earth with a bump not too dissimilar to landing beneath a train.  His emails insinuated he was married but was still happy to meet me, (in other words - a dodgy McIdiot philanderer,) why do all Prince Charmings end up that way?  So I stopped emailing him and began emailing the South West Trains complaints department instead– a much better use of my time!

Tonight I'm gonna party like its 1999!

Kids’ parties have always been big business and often the highlight of a child’s birthday.  Who doesn’t remember a clown coming to your local village hall or Dave’s Disco setting up his flashing light stand as you hit your teens?  I must recall a magician who came to a few of my parties who I mostly recall for writing my name in toast (magical and tasty) but mainly for every time we passed the local Estate Agents my Mum pointed to a portly man in a suit and said “Look there’s your magician!”  It took me a long time to put 2 and 2 together and I can’t help but wonder if his magic powers spread over to showing people around properties – “So now let’s head upstairs to the en-suite Whooooooosh!”

It was simple fun when I was young – a bit of entertainment and then a sugar overload as our Mums brought out tray upon tray of homemade sandwiches, walkers crisps in a bowl plus the obligatory party rings/pink wafers and choice of coke or lemonade.

As part of the teaching side of my ever changing and unsettling career I have had to touch on the children’s party for some extra pocket money (that country cottage won’t buy itself)  And 25 years down the line and a few postcodes nearer to central London, wow things are a wee bit different.

 These kids won’t get out of bed for less than the best part of £500!  Children who are barely able to stand let alone recall anything yet are having state of the art entertainment and birthday cakes.  I am talking the price of wedding cakes in the shapes of tractors, Never Never Land, jungle (a whole one) or trendy figures.  I have to relay a conversation I had with a cake maker yesterday about a slight incident because I haven’t stopped laughing about it....

He received a text “Spiderman has lost an arm”

Very concerned he replied “How? What has happened?”

Beep! “I came down and he has lost a hand and is on his knees”

Now any of us would be worried sick by this conversation, has this poor person been attacked?  A victim of war?  Will he ever get up from his knees?  Quick call Batman to help, he’ll know what to do!

This was a cake for a 3 year old.  The stress surrounding turning up at this child’s house in a spiderman theme was ridiculous, the blame about the unknown cake injuries was bandied around, would the mother go nuts because it was less than perfect ?  or less good than 3 year old Tabitha’s party had been last week?  Because if I am honest, in my experience these parties are all about the parents.

I have been singing about the ocean  with a Nemo toy in Berkley Square to a one year old who obliviously rolled about as a gaggle of adults enjoyed champagne and birthday cakes from Patisserie Valerie.  I have never seen a party ring or indeed refined carbohydrates at one of these events– it is all hummus, cucumber sticks, nuts and organic fruit juice.  Cucumber sticks do not say let your hair down it’s your birthday - to me!

Of course I understand about healthy living and heading off child obesity from a young age but surely at a party a small chocolate finger could slip through the net?  And maybe we could save all the money and stress to later on for bowling parties or sleepovers or indeed sweet 16s at a time when they will remember and appreciate the good time?

What do I know?  I have no little ones myself and so perhaps do not appreciate the need to spoil them in the nicest possible way and I’m not trying to talk myself out of a job.  But spare a thought for next time I am dressed as a tiger and handing out Waitrose canapés to toddlers, because you’ve gotta take a step back and either take a good hard look at society or p*ss yourself laughing!!

Fussy Eaters R Us!

The family Gibb and all our additions are rarely an easy family to please when dining out.  A waiter or waitress bounds up eager to please but by the coffees you can be fairly sure there are creating voodoo dolls out of bread in the kitchen and impaling us with cocktail sticks!

 I feel inspired to share this after a particularly normal meal out with the family last night.  September is a busy month for family gatherings as we have birthdays and anniversaries coming out of our ears and so I feel I should offer a warning out to the restaurants of Surrey and South West London.

For my Grandad’s birthday the family Gibb descended on a local foodie pub in a posh bit of Surrey.  After sending the poor waiter away five times before ordering as we waited for my Dad to arrive from work, caught up and opened birthday cards and gifts, we finally sat upright clutching our menus ready to dictate our order.  What followed was a little like this...

Mum- I’ll have the lamb please, but no butter on the potatoes..(he scribbles) 

Uncle – The Steak please ( so far so normal)

Grandad- The Liver please but well done (waiter – ok) I mean like shoe leather! But with no spinach, I don’t like spinach

Dad – I’ll have the Liver too as it comes with the spinach

Me –  Can I have the sea bass please, but without the Risotto?  ( confused waiter face as it is basically a risotto dish) I just don’t like it, could I maybe have it on a bed of spinach?

Waiter – Ummm we don’t have any spinach

Me – Oh ok maybe broccoli then but with no butter

Dad – Does that mean I won’t have spinach?

Waiter – No yours comes with spinach, we just don’t have enough for side dishes

Grandad – I don’t want spinach

Me –Can’t I have the spinach he doesn’t want? (waiter starts to sweat and heads off to the kitchen scribbling)

Waiter – Um we don’t have any sea bass, the kitchen is busy today

Me – (my plans of a healthy Monday tea scuppered) Ok I’ll have the lamb then but without the potato cake thing just with the broccoli please

Dad – Ooooo broccoli I’ll have a side order of that too please

Waiter – I am afraid we don’t have enough broccoli for a side dish ( Haha I point at Dad I’m getting some!!)  I am sorry but its only my third day.

Aaaaah the poor boy, he’s sweating profusely and I fear that we and a kitchen with not much food are not helping his predicament. Ooo but here he comes again

Waiter (to Mum) Are you allergic to butter?  It is just that the potatoes are prepared with it?

Mum- Oh no that’s fine

Now this makes me laugh because I, too, have this Irish logic about my taste buds.  I order everything without butter, stressing that no butter may grace my broccoli or even be within breathing distance because I will know and it makes me cry but then when asked if I am allergic as the lovely tomato sauce I also want has some in, I say “aaah thats ok!” There is no logic - I am just a fussy pain in the bum.

We waited an hour and as our tummys began to rumble we questioned poor sweaty waiter about the whereabouts of our butterless and well done food?  It is being plated up was the reply.  But another 30 minutes passed and my Dad began to gnaw the napkin so we asked again to which sweaty waiter admitted the kitchen had overlooked our order and would we like some free bread?  Free bread!  I wanted sea bass with extra spinach but free bread would have to do!

Our meals eventually arrived just as the ten o clock news was probably starting on telly but I must admit it was lovely.  Poor sweaty waiter boy had probably unintentionally dripped something extra to the lamb marinade as he raced to serve, twanged a few wine glasses on the way and tried to get my Dad and Grandad to order two portions of the sharer pudding but when you have a full belly nothing really matters!

It is always fun to watch new boyfriends experience a Gibb family food order for the first time or watch my sis’s long suffering and normal eating husband roll his eyes in embarrassment as we each rail off variations of the following “Ummmm can I have the chicken but without sauce?  Is there cheese in that? The steak- well done please, but really well done, can you make sure it’s well done? Extra Veg no butter? Yes I’ll have the same but no butter.  And no butter for me either!”

But I must stress that although we are annoying we are never nasty.  We championed sweaty waiter boy to his manager for trying and on other occasions we are always keen to banter.  Indeed, my Grandad loves to ask about the heritage of an obviously non native waitress and then tell them about a hotel he has stayed at in their country!

Watch out – it is my Dad’s birthday on Sunday and we may be coming to an eatery near you! 

The one where I become a Yogi and rant a bit!

A busy few weeks have preceeded this edition from me my blogging friends so sorry for the gap in news (as an old drama teacher would say " You could have driven 2 buses through that pause!)

I have managed to secure a freelancing writing job where I get paid, yes paid!  Someone is going to part with cash for my thoughts and words and I couldn't have been happier if I was fronting the national news - it is a small and minimally paid step but a step in the right direction.  So I have been researching articles and interviewing potential targets (sorry subjects - I hereby swear to not become one of those hiding in bushes, celeb chasing, phone hacking journalists who misplace their morals on the journey towards getting in print.)  I spoke with a Red Arrow pilot which was very exciting and gave me an excuse to hum the Top Gun theme tune for about a week.  I have also been inspired to get off my bum and hunt for other stories and leads and so have managed to create a long to-do list of articles and pitches - I feel very motivated!

One of my future articles is about Hot Yoga and so I have been partaking in some classes.  This is another reason why these blogs have been few and far between because as any Bikram or Hot Yoga fanatics know your first few classes back leave you utterly exhausted and unable to do anything except sleep!  A Hot Yoga class consists of 90 minutes of yoga in a room at over 40 degrees with 40-60% humidity, its like bending and stretching and trying to put your legs in unnatural positions in a sauna.  You sweat in places you never imagined could sweat, your eyes are constantly stinging as sweat pours into them and at times you feel close to passing out!  I am really selling this aren't I?!!

 A week in and I am finally feeling the benefits -  stretchier legs, more energy and a complete lack of desire to eat or drink anything bad!  Which is more than can be said for my boyfriend who I convinced to come with me since yesterday and is currently comatosed through heat exhaustion as I type hahaha!

A benefit of yoga is an awareness, focus and mindfulness in your everyday life so perhaps this has helped drive me recently.  It also promotes a sense of peace and an awareness of your place in the world something I think could be spread around the country at the moment.  I know I try to make this blog as amusing as possible but I feel the need to comment on the riots this week.  I have friends performing in shows around the country and in London who are facing fear and danger on their journeys home because of some mindless yobs who feel it is their right to obliterate family businesses, homes and buildings to get trainers, phones and just cause chaos.  They say they are trying to get back at the rich people who have things and disrespect them when they have nothing - well all I can say is that these people have things because they have got off their backsides and worked hard, it is a simple equation: you get a job and work to be able to achieve and afford things, you shouldn't expect to be handed anything on a plate or smash up shop windows to steal them.  It is a horrendous and terrifying glimpse of society.

A good example of my musings as I meander away from my topic - sorry! 

So I have also been auditioning for Oliver! where I scared the audition panel as I practically lay on the piano with cockney aplomb and for a new musical called The Fifth Beatle where my Liverpudlian accent went via Yorkshire and Dublin a few times as I attempted to become John Lennon's famous Aunt Mimi - so don't hold your breath for a positive outcome on them!  But you have to love a tryer!


All in all a typical few weeks for me, I am off to eat veg for tea as all good Yogis do (a do-er of Yoga not a fan of Yogi Bear) and batten down the hatches for another night of who knows what.  Keep safe please x

Instant Karma's Gonna Get you!

John Lennon was noted for his thought provoking and moralistic lyrics..."Imagine there's no heaven...", "All you need is love....", "I am a walrus goo goo g'choo" (well most of the time!)  But I rarely saw him as a Prophet of Truth until I was struck down myself with Instant Karma last week.

There I was happily blogging away making witty remarks about needing a flu jab after being crawled, puked and sneezed over by the babies I teach on Monday when God/Buddha (delete as personally appropriate) decided I was getting too big for my size 4's and to smite me with a lightning bolt of karma.  For I awoke on Tuesday with an evil looking rash on my left elbow.

As a veteran eczema victim I sighed "poor me" at my seemingly latest physical reaction to stress and slathered on my steroid cream before heading off to work.  By lunch time I was boiling and bubbling - I wish I could say I was making something delicious over a hot stove but instead it was elbow growing another head.  Never one to trust my own judgement, I asked two pharmacists their opinion and they confirmed it was eczema.  Hmmmmmm...

But when 12 angry yellow blisters had taken residence on my elbow by Thursday I realised it was more serious.  Surprise, surprise my doctor's surgery had no available appointments (take note David Cameron) and so the elephant woman dragged her mouldy arm to my local walk-in centre.  A 2 hour wait with various broken arms and funny tummies saw me leaving with a presciption for antibiotics and a diagnosis of Impetigo.  Urrrgh Impetigo!  I had caught it once from a camel years ago (that's another tale) but it is mainly prevalent and highly contagious among the under 5's - so those little tykes literally did infect me!

The antibiotics made me sick and I felt like a leper.  A second opinion from my own doctor said it was actually cold sores.  Cold sores???? Hardly a nicer diagnosis, herpes on my arm!  No one had been snogging my elbow and I don't think either my radius or ulna bones were feeling run down so I was at a loss as to where I had contracted this from! 

So as I rub Zovirax into my elbow I mull over this lesson.  I have been smiling at grannys and not spitting out any chewing gum in case it should ruin somebody's carpet or designer pump but will this induce good karma if I am doing this with the intent of protecting myself?  But I am afraid I cannot promise to be gracious about the little angels I teach though - one of them did fill a nappy today as I sang about a badger - so bring it on God! I have still got those antibiotics......!

Busy doing nothing.....

My name is Daniella and I am a failed bloggaholic.  Phew, now it is out in the open!  I wanted to be writing on here regularly but I seem to have stumbled at the first post by being busy and suddenly two weeks have gone past.

I have been busy doing nothing really, teaching, writing new articles with the odd pantomime audition thrown into the mix.  I didn't think my boring everyday-ness would interest anybody - but isn't that the whole point of a blog.....to tell people all the inane details of your life?

I'm going to get the auditions out of the way first; if I have to sing one more sweet yet strong with a hint of Disney song in a floral frock I may cry.  I am not belittling pantomime at all, it is a fabulous job to do.  You work your socks off with generally lovely people knowing that you are delighting children and maybe giving them their first experience of live theatre.  This is great at Christmas time but it is June!  Actors cannot plan for next week let alone six months away.  What if Trevor Nunn calls and offers me Ophelia in his next production of Hamlet?  I'd have to say "Sorry Trev but I am committed to playing Princess Fiesty McPretty in Rhyl so not this time but please keep my CV on file!"

I suppose I am just stroppy because it reminds me how quickly this year is going and how these are the only auditions coming my way at the moment but hey I won't moan I shall dwell on that little chestnut in my own darkened room of angst!

I have come to believe that a major part of maintaining an acting career is to be good at being OUT of work.  Keeping yourself busy, positive and in the healthy half of your bank account.  I nearly always still fail at this but I can still believe it!  After trying numerous bar, waitressing and temp jobs I, like many of the acting sort, have fallen into teaching.  Teaching music and acting to all ages from babies to teens.  I get to use some of the skills I trained in but it is hard trying to drag myself out of bed some  mornings.  Without wanting to be controversial - I can why some children's TV presenters have needed a stimulant or two, it is jolly hard maintaining that bouncy energy and beaming smile for 8 hours a day, it makes the Mamma Mia megamix seem like a walk in the park!

I do enjoy it although I have yet to become an accomplished inspirer of children.  I must admit to the odd occasion of staring blankly out of the window whilst shaking my tambourine to Suzy Snowflake for the 8th time or to yelling in desperation to a group of hyper 2 year olds "I refuse to shout because I have to sing tonight!"  Which resulted in a delightful email to my boss from a disgruntled parent "...I don't care what she does in her spare time.." Um spare time?  I was in Les Mis at the time. yes I know I probably shouldn't have expected toddlers to care about nodules but I'd like her to tell Sir Cameron that his biggest hit is a mere hobby!

The worst problem with teaching is trying to remember everyone's name.  I sing a hello song to every baby and toddler in my music class and there has been many a time when I look at another cute blonde girl and my mind goes............sorry indignant Mummy from Marylebone but I teach 50 other little darlings who look just like your Kara, sorry Karla, no, Kylie AAAAARGH!  And as for the twin boys I teach, well I am hopeless.  Although yesterday, lets call him M had sick down his t-shirt and T (aren't I diplomatic?!) had a cold so it made my margins for error slightly smaller.  As I knelt holding an animatronic Wolf with T listening intently by my shoulder I suddenly heard Atchooooooo!  and splat, I was soaked in snot.  Oh god I didn't dare inhale, doesn't he know I have a We Will Rock You audition in 7 days???  Fighting every urge of my being not to throw him against the nearest wall and quickly anti-bacterial wipe my arm I had to turn to his soggy, crusty face and smile "Aaaaw whoopsie! Bless you!" as his Mummy smiled on.  I am getting a flu jab ASAP!

The One where Daniella was a Spy! *

I can't enthuse enough about my last few days working at the newspaper, I have a spring in my step and I don't think its purely down to the relief of getting up after 8 hours in front of a computer. 

Yesterday I must have written over 8 articles of varying lengths for various papers and even though my fingers barely stopped typing, I loved it!  This company owns so many titles that the to do lists are endless.  I covered music gigs, theatre, summer opera and concerts and today I wrote about nuclear weapons and interviewed the most chatty musician EVER!

Now I love passion in a person, in fact I think life isn't worth living without it.  Whether its for world causes, your art or even my wonderful brother-in-law and his boilers but I feel passion is vital.  However, this belief was slightly shaken 20 minutes in to my phone interview with this musician (who shall of course remain nameless) when all I had asked was one question and then proceeded to go "mmmmmmm" at regular intervals.  I didn't have the heart to tell him that I was only assigned 150 words for his story so on and on he went!

But the best part of today was my afternoon task of becoming a " spy".  I wish I could say I was uncovering some great scam or busting a drugs ring but I would of course have to kill you and in all honesty it's slightly less highbrow.  On the websites for these papers there is a  highly successful section called the pub spy, where journalists visit local pubs and deliver their verdicts in an honest yet witty way.  So it was my job to hit Surbiton today armed with a £5 budget and notepad and a surprising desire for a glass of wine at 4pm.

Unfortunately before I was given this mission, I had made the healthy and sunny decision this morning of cycling to the office so I sauntered into my unsuspecting public house adorned in lycra complete with helmet and wicker basket.  I kid you not.....I couldn't have stood out more if I wore dark glasses, black moustache and watched behind two peep holes in a newspaper!  But hey I've heard you can carry anything off with confidence so in I strode!

I sat writing notes on atmosphere, decor, clientele, music and booze whilst nonchalantly sipping my drink and had a great chat with Frank the friendly barman who was unaware of my undercover status!  What a brilliant way to end your working day.

I am literally buzzing from these days at the newspaper (not from the glass of wine I grant you!)  If you remember a couple of posts ago I said as soon as I stepped on stage all thoughts of writing left my head and heart but now as I write every day and feel myself getting more confident all thoughts of characters and jazz hands have vanished.  I am fickle soul!

So I'm off to apply for more full time journalism jobs in the hope that this could become my reality in the future and if not I shall I have to settle for being a lycra clad spy, watch out 007!

* apologies if I have offended any copyright rules regarding stealing titles from Friends episodes!