Dig for Victory

My previous experience touring in a musical was great but not particularly realistic; it was international so we were placed in hotels and given per diems (pocket money) every week which I mostly spent in various European chains of H&M and Zara.   A sheltered and spoon-fed existence!  So to encounter the turbulent reality of UK touring at the ripe old age of 30 has been a slight shock.  Kind of like some “Sloaney pony” thinking she’s livin’ it large at Glastonbury in the VIP tent only to be thrown into the muddy mosh pit!

You are required to find “digs” for each venue on the tour list as commuting from my house to Nottingham/Aberdeen/Plymouth isn’t a feasible option.  You are emailed countless packs from various stage door keepers around the country listing kind souls who would happily house a travelling player in their vacant back bedroom for a nominal fee.  The requests or rules on each advert are often both amusing and disconcerting;  “Use of the garden if pre arranged” “kitchen use only for snacks” or “must like cats/spiders/snakes.”

Some of these people proudly list their connections to the industry and therefore “understand our ways” as if actors are not dissimilar to indigenous tribe people from some far flung land.  But beware these sympathetic souls; these are the people who will keep you standing on the landing showing you photos of their jaunts in Am Dram in 1967 or even worse, dissect your performance over toast after you have got them free tickets for your show.  In an ideal world, I would have a self-contained flat each week where I could eat home cooked vegetables instead of living off microwavable broccoli for days.  The Marks and Spencer’s Food Hall is a direct beneficiary of touring actors and their wages; we fool ourselves into believing we are still having some kind of nutrients by “nuking” food in plastic!

But back to the sleeping arrangements!  Sometimes you can hit the jackpot with a landlady who cooks you dinner or has a Jacuzzi in the bathroom but more often than not, you arrive at some decaying hovel and count down the days till Saturday.  You can spot those cast members because their dressing rooms become bedrooms with all their possessions strewn about and they walk dripping from the work shower cubicle clutching a wash bag!

In Bath I had splashed out on a B&B to make the most of a cooked breakfast and a high level of hygiene!  All seemed well until I was having an “actory” lie in after a late show and there was a bang on door....”Yes?” I croaked as I peered round the door to hide my pjs, “The cleaner is waiting to do your room,” replied the matronly landlady.  I peered further around the door to see a small eastern lady clutching a duster.  “I don’t mind if my room isn’t cleaned today,” I explained “it’s just me and I have plenty of towels,” “But you need to be out of the room by 10am” she retorted, I was confused I wasn’t checking out until Saturday so I just frowned “this is the rule in all bed and breakfasts” and thus you found me unshowered and in Cafe Nero every morning until I was allowed back for an afternoon snooze.

I lay in bed in the same B&B relaxing after a two show day; scented candle burning, 245 pages into a piece of historical fiction then BBRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!  The fire alarm was going off and continued to do so for over 1 hour and 45 minutes.  It turns out I was the only guest so Matron Landlady and I climbed up ladders trying to prise the six offending appliances from the ceiling but to no avail.  She went back downstairs muttering that she didn’t know anyone who would be awake to help at 1am leaving me and my ringing ears alone.  I couldn’t take it anymore and so I followed my school advice and phoned 999.  Ten minutes later three fire engines lit up the street and I greeted a troop of Firemen in my pjs!  They rectified the problem and also chastised the landlady for putting her sole guest in potential peril.  But I did get one night taken off my bill!

In another city I was housed in a converted garage with decor that wouldn’t look out of place on the set of Anchorman. But I could bear it for five days until I looked out of the window and saw this

And this...........

I also found an arm coming out of a bush and hand with red painted nails in a flower bed, but I never did find the mannequins head.  I am all for personal taste and expression but Aaaaaaaargh! 

AlI need is a bed and a roof over my head for a few nights, Jesus was happy in a stable for goodness sakes so why should I be picky?  Maybe I will relax my penthouse expectations but I fear the next 19 weeks around the country will only bring more toe curling experiences and you lucky readers shall experience them all with me!

Much Belated Update - Where did those balls fall?

The pull was too strong.  The desire to fulfil another theatrical goal, before I was left on the proverbial Thespian shelf, got the better of me and I have been touring with the musical Avenue Q since January.

And as the lack of blogging reflects, yes, it has consumed my life.  It seems that I threw myself into the consequences of my life decision (lamented in my blog Juggling Balls) and lost the other 50% of myself.  And now that I am able to come for air, nearly three months later,  I am able to consolidate my experiences so far and reflect on them through my favourite medium - writing!  How I have missed writing - but as you will see it has proved rather hard to do with a knackered arm!

Avenue Q has been the challenge my unsatisfied musical theatre-self was looking for.  For those of you who don't know it is a musical advertised as an adult Sesame Street.  Inspired by the episodes full of learning in a New York street; our characters learn slightly more adult lessons complete with singing and puppets.  We manipulate these gorgeous and zany puppets to bring the story to life and after seeing the production in London it has always been a dream of mine to be in it.

I told you a bit about puppet school in previous posts but I have yet to describe the crippling and nerve searing pain that a two hour show actually creates!  It is not natural to have your arm at a 90' angle in front of you, with a cocked wrist whilst you manipulate your thumb joint up and down lip-syncing in time to your own speech patterns! And as a result of not using these muscles ever before, I am in daily agony and twice on a Friday and Saturday!  We have an angel (Physio) called Brian who visits fortnightly to ease our suffering and he has administered numerous rememdies to the four puppeteers.  The boys resembles Gwyneth Paltrow in the early noughties with big red circles on their backs after "cupping" treatment whilst I have had electricity pumped through acupuncture needles into my wrist, elbow and shoulder joints.  We still have 19 weeks to go and our arms need to survive!

I am definitely now more developed on the right side of my body from my daily arm workout and if you add in the image of the needles you would be right to picture me as a Quasimodo/Frankenstein hybrid - talk about suffering for your art!

Having said that I did bound off the Plymouth Theatre Royal stage after the first performance exclaiming that "it was the best fun I have ever had on stage!"  It is an exceptionally fun show to be part of with really young, talented and positive cast mates.  (I don't include myself in that as I am one of the three elders of the company with all the experience and cynicism that entails!)

As for the challenge; I have learnt how to attach myself to another human being and become a two handed puppet, I have learnt how to bob my poor elbow joint up and down to make my puppet walk (and not ice skate) in time with me and I have learnt how to get puppets to perform lurid sexual acts to music.  (You'll have to see the show to believe that one - my Grandad did!)

I have had to master multiple characters, break the theatrical rule of not running backstage as I sprint from puppet to puppet and somehow sing and dance as my puppet does the same.  There was no module on that in drama school!

So yes, I think I made the right decision.  I am enjoying the daily challenge, sometimes succeeding sometimes falling on my face but I had to give this dream a go.  The only downside is what I have yet to tell you - it is a touring show!  No comfy West End commute for me, I am currently driving the UK with my wardrobe in the boot of my car.  And the stories, trials and tribulations that come with that are....  well.......blog worthy! 

I have no words

In the past three months my family has lost 2 young men in car accidents. Two bright young men with integrity, zest for life and a future. Cancer, hardship and death are things you witness or empathise with from a distance. You cry for families of soldiers on the news, marvel at stories on This Morning but when it happens to your kinfolk you are knocked for six. You think are safely not one of those sad statistics. Shock isn't the right word. Incomprehension is closer and I've found that you're unable to cry or emote as you can for others. When it happens to you it is too real for that.
Is this real life? Adult life kicking in because it seems to be all around me suddenly. Life is losing its innocent sheen and becoming unfair and hard.
My family have been dealt the cancer card and (I pray) trumped it last year. Such events bring out the best qualities in a family - strength, belief and love. You become a united force encircling your loved one and in your own individual ways combine to fight the threat. Grief seems harder but I think by forming a chain of support you can hold each other up. I know that sounds rather like I've swollowed a self help book, sorry, as I said I can't find the words and meaningless cliches seem to bridge the gaps.
The death of elderly people is sad but in time you are able to accept the circle of life and move on. But when my mother's 21 year old
Godson was killed in a collision in Arizona on Boxing Day or my 24 year old second cousin was killed this week on a local motorway leaving a baby of 6 months - well, words, acceptance and understanding elude me.
We can all be mindless on the road. I currently drive 100s of miles a week and I know I am not always alert. Would more vigilance prevent such tragedies? Why can't whoever is up there in the sky think " No, I have the power to make those injuries not fatal and not take this young life." Neither of these young men had reached 25 years of age, should we accept that it was just their time? I cannot.
I fear I sound naive but I am about situations like this.
There is nothing more important than family and every year of my life compounds this belief. All those cliches - " Time is precious" "live each day like your last" "you never know what is around the corner" - we all nod fervently and promise ourselves to spend more time with parents or siblings. But like with new years resolutions, normal life reclaims us and we fall back into routine. It cannot be helped and we cannot blame ourselves. But I urge you to make the most of your loved ones, no amount of career promotions or iPads can replace someone when they are snatched away. And you are left regretting not having that final talk or seeing them enough - it hurts. Trust me because we are hurting like hell right now.

Juggling Balls

A work/life balance is a phrase utilised about by the media when discussing how to deal with stress in modern life or whether to take up yoga after you finish your shift on the stock market.  I have even heard a father of one of my friends talking about the seminars his well-known company send him on to try to help their employees find this elusive state of utopia.  Is it possible to do a satisfying job and still come home by 6pm with your mind cleared of work and ready to meet friends/have sex/cook a Jamie Oliver recipe?  Or are we destined to still be in the office at 9pm only to arrive home to a cold dinner, kids already asleep and a constant nagging feeling that we are letting everyone down?

People are always juggling commitments: whether it is motherhood and a full time job, family and friends or dreams with reality.  I have found that in my current career flux I am struggling with a work/work balance.   I have too many balls in the air and, as I inevitably drop one now and again, I am not keeping everyone in my working life happy.  My juggle is purely professional so in no way as demanding as being a mum and a full time employee (“sadly” cry my 30 year ovaries!) but if you take the view that everything is relative; it is stressing me out!

As I hover between actress, writer and growing teaching hours, I don’t seem to be able to give 100% to anything.  The perfectionist Virgo in me is getting increasingly uncomfortable. 

On one particular Tuesday I was teaching 9am till 7.30pm but had organised a phone interview with a musician in my lunch break as it was the only day he could make.  This was for a feature for the magazine I write for and with a looming deadline I desperately needed to fit it in.  So I sat surrounded with cuddly toys and instruments with my Dictaphone posing provoking questions to this rock n roll legend whilst silently praying that no new students would bang on the door and demand a lesson.  My teaching bosses were not impressed as they thought I shouldn’t be doing other pursuits on their time but short of phoning this celeb at 10pm (which would be tantamount to a booty call and therefore not highly professional) I had no choice.

I am also annoying my acting agent as my teaching has become so regular and inflexible that my only available day for auditions is Friday - not very useful for last minute call backs or immovable auditions.  I have therefore had to turn down a number of possible jobs and turn my allegiances to my teaching as that is providing me with a regular wage.  Without it I would be available for any opportunity but I would also be eating air and living in a cardboard box.  But my agent feels an actor should be able to survive on passion and determination alone; not this one - I like organic cereal and out of season blueberries!  So I am now relegated to the bottom of the pile in their office and on the off chance it is un-missable audition I upset my teaching bosses when I leave them in the lurch.  Aaaaaargh!

This week saw me doing a loud but necessary vocal warm up in-between teaching classes much to the bemusement of some clients before rushing off on the tube to a final audition for the musical, Avenue Q.  I barely had time to dislodge the puppet from my arm before I was back singing “I am Lucas the Lazy Lion” for my toddler class who were probably wondering why their teacher had more eyeliner on than usual?

Meanwhile, my magazine Editor is wondering why I am not on the end of my email 24/7 to chase contacts and photos and I have my first real proper job interview for a newspaper where I have a feeling my “journalists dressing up outfit” of trench coat and notepad will not cut the mustard.  I need to be devoting more time to my writing and carving out a potential career.

I am not giving 100% to anything – is it possible to have too many strings to your bow I wonder? Spreading the proverbial peanut butter too thinly on my bread?  Well, I think that crunch time may be approaching where I need to decide which camp I am in.  The results of my musical audition versus the newspaper 9-5 job will either give my heart an easy decision to make or pull me in further in two directions.  Where is a magic 8 ball when you need one?

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!