University Challenge

I have always harboured a secret desire to be an Oxbridge university student.

If my A-Level English tutor is reading this I expect him to scoff and wonder why I fought so vigorously against his advice in 1999 and headed straight to drama school instead.  Well I was blinded by dance routines and showstopping ballads Mr Long!  But I now see, with the luxury of hindsight, that you were right as I find it increasingly hard to apply for Journalism jobs without those precious qualifications.

But back to my University aspirations; I have to admit that they are not purely intellectual.  I am a romantic at heart, seduced by sunshine and such idylls (it drives my “down to earth” boyfriend nuts!) so it is the lifestyle surrounding the Oxford and Cambridge universities for which I yearn.  Not 2-4-1 vodka redbulls in a local Wetherspoons or rallies about world peace but I dream of cycling around a beautiful city on a bike with a basket full of intelligent literature wearing a blazer and brogues!  Just like an extra in the Inspector Morse TV series!

And this week a small part of my dream came true as Avenue Q descended on The Arts Theatre in Cambridge.  The first thing I did was hire a bicycle; pedalling between my digs (a gorgeous family home with homemade bread and granola – oh yes!) and the theatre and using it to explore the stunning city.  My fellow company members nicknamed me “Granny Danny” as they watched me wobble off after the show but did anyone else discover Granchester Meadows where Lord Byron once roamed before diving into what is now known as Byron’s Pool across the fields?  No, I think not!  But this is coming from a lady who asked for National Trust membership for my 30^th and is happily old before my time!

My hire bike was fairly basic so I did suffer from a bruised backside for a week but it was worth it to indulge my lost dreams.

As for work; the theatre was lovely but teeny tiny.  All our dressing rooms were underground and opened into a green room communal area; it was like being in the Big Brother house.  With a lack of oxygen and natural light we microwaved our dinners and slowly went delirious in our own company.  As the wing-space backstage was so tight our crew ended up taping huge pieces of foam onto the walls because we had a habit of exiting the stage and running straight into them in our haste– a step closer to proving my point that a touring lifestyle is akin to an asylum.  Padded walls, no natural light and the same 20 people day in and day out (I have even had electric shocks via my acupuncture from the physio, remember? See my blog “where did those balls fall.”) - all we are missing are strait-jackets. Talk about a university town challenge.

But I am not one to bite the hand that feeds me, without this tour I wouldn’t be experiencing all these parts of the UK and getting to pretend I am a Cambridge undergraduate!  We’re in Oxford in two weeks and I’m taking my own bike complete with basket– a Masters Degree here I come!

Actress meets Journalist - who's side am I on?

When you attempt two careers it is often to compliment differing sides of your personality and you may expect, as Kipling said, “east is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet.”  This could be true if you are an aspiring fashion designer and plumber but being an actress and journalist, well these twains certainly do met, just ask any witness at the ongoing Leveson Inquiries! 

But back down to my level of celebrity, (e.g., recognised in my local pub because I always order the exact same dish from the takeaway....oh the shame!) as I am currently being actress during the week, I have encountered many journalists interviewing me just as I have grilled actors in the past with my journalistic hat on.

I have decided it is much harder to be on the actress side.  Yes, a journalist has to research their interviewee, find an angle, create questions and be engaging as you attempt to keep your subject away from Draw Something on their iPhones but you do get the excitement of writing the article.  As the subject, it is often your fifth interview of the day promoting the same product and you find yourself saying the same stock phrases and wondering when someone will bring you a glass of water before you keel over.

You also have to navigate a minefield of questions whilst keeping your professional face on.  I am still fairly new at this and often fall foul of myself as I become relaxed and chat away (or maybe that’s a sign of a good journalist who has allured me into this state of relaxation in order for me to slip up? I should take note!)

As an actress in my early 20s I made some rookie mistakes; I stupidly let slip the address of the radio DJ interviewing me because I’d seen him in my street, whoops!  And I brazenly cited my negative views on reality TV stars and “Find a Maria” programmes during an early morning phone interview but I am ashamed to say I may have still been drunk from the night before.  Ah well, the call never came from Lord Lloyd Webber demanding I retract that statement if I ever want to work in the West End again so it can’t have been that bad!

I need to learn from my man who is fantastic with the press; you see his professional face and smile come on but he doesn’t appear fake or uninterested.  His easy-going chat punctuates what I’ve come to realise are his stock phrases and stories, disguising the fact that he’s said it all before.  It is a real art and I admire him for it because it is exhausting!

On the Avenue Q tour we are currently doing press calls for each new venue.  TV, radio and newspapers; all with puppets and whilst doing 8 shows in 5 days, no wonder we all look shattered and need to be surgically detached from Trekkie Monster and Lucy The Slut.  But we need to sell tickets because performing to 6 nuns and a Yorkshire terrier on a Wednesday matinee is soul destroying!  So “Hi Ho Hi Ho it’s off to press calls we go.......”

These press calls differ from normal interviews because the press mainly want to meet the puppet characters, therefore we are required to do voices and manipulate the puppets.  Journalists often don’t know who to look at and have put microphones under the puppets mouths only to later wonder why the sound quality isn’t great!  One journalist couldn’t have been less interested; he prefaced the interview with the request to be funny and witty to match his usual content and then asked us to list the songs in the show.  Bearing in mind we were on a breakfast show before the watershed, the songs we could list in Avenue Q were limited so it was a rather dull answer!

Maybe working on both sides of the net should make me more mutually empathetic.  I should aim to create more exciting questions as a writer for tiresome actors and try to appreciate the journalists struggle instead of raising my eyes at the thirteenth same question of the day!  Although, as I sit 30 minutes into an interview with stabbing pains in my shoulder and a burning thumb joint trying to make witty puppet banter, I have to be honest and admit I am currently on the side of my actress self!

See the link below for examples of my learning curve in the interviewee business.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WjQ9V4TYZCc&feature=related

Is this for Rhyl?

There is something unsettling and downright spooky about an out-of-season seaside town.  The beach is deserted and the wind slams signs against empty shops waiting for the tourists to return.  It is a sad scene; and no more so than for a travelling actor, for I have just spent a week in Rhyl, North Wales. 

My boyfriend tells me that it was a holiday destination for Mancunian and Brummy families and he spent time there as a child, so I was expecting a Northern version of Margate or Bognor.  Rhyl was an empty resort with a derelict fairground and few people under the age of 50.  But there I was; my Cafe Nero hadn’t been stamped in days and I was hanging out of my dressing room window in a desperate attempt to get signal on my mobile.

To be fair, as I dangled vicariously out of the window, the view was beautiful.  A deserted beach can also be breathtaking and soothing.  Walking and running along the windy coastline was the perfect antidote to the bargain stores and scary looking locals.

And then there was the wildlife.  One of the cast made an announcement after warm-up before a midweek show.  “Just to warn you guys I was attacked this morning.”  Cue gasps of shock and support for poor Jonny, we had just got used to the leisure centre theatre and the lack of eateries and now we had to worry about crime too?  “It happened outside of McDonalds,” (cue more gasps at his blatant admission of eating saturated fat ridden meat patties, wasn’t this boy a dancer?!!)

It transpired that after a buying a small hamburger Jonny had unwrapped it, took a bite and headed towards The Promenade.  But before he could consume a second bite a seagull swooped down and swiped it; smashing Jonny’s face with its wing and biting his finger for good measure before zooming off with its swag.

Poor Jonny – bereft, hungry and violated.

An actor’s touring allowance doesn’t go very far so returning for seconds wasn’t an option.  Only then did Jonny see a sign on the McDonalds door stating “Do Not Unwrap Food Outside.  Beware Of The Seagulls.”  In London we are used to signs about pick pockets or unattended baggage not scavenging sea creatures.  Although traumatised, Jonny did find the courage to re-enact the event with gusto which brightened up an otherwise dull day at work!

Our lasting memories of Rhyl were slightly stressful.  It was the venue before a week-long holiday so, like the run up to Christmas, the days seemed longer than normal.  By the Saturday evening show we were all packed up and in holiday mode, only 2 hours stood between us and spring break!

Five minutes into Act 1 we heard a muffled boom and the stage went dark.  The bubble machine went crazy and suddenly we had been transported from Avenue Q to a 1990s disco.  A show stop ensued and the poor punters in Rhyl sat looking at the emergency safety curtain.  Almost an hour later, it was confirmed that we had tripped the whole system and only had front of house power.  My arrival home, after the 4 and a half hour drive, was edging into the dawn hours as we sat in the wings waiting to hear our fate.  But in true “show must go on” fashion our company planned to continue the performance with the two spotlights.  I felt like I was in a school show as we navigated each scene in various forms of darkness and we trudged to the finale before the midnight bell tolled!  Talk about prolonging a holiday! But we got there in the end and I was in the car and heading for the motorway.

Stoke on Trent beckons!

Happy Mother's Day

Every year I see articles in magazines around Mother's Day asking various people to describe their mothers.  I am in no way an interesting or famous enough person to be printed in the YOU supplement of The Sunday Mail but I still wanted to pen a few words about my special Mum this year.

" Numerous words could be used to describe my mother, Madeleine, but if I had to choose one it would be 'selfless'. 

I have yet to meet anyone else in my life who is more generous with their time, giving in their support or keen to help and improve.  I doubt I ever will.

My Mum will never say no; only offer suggestions to help.  And she will never take no for an answer; not resting until she has found a solution or better way.

People say you can only become selfless when you become a mother and experience a love greater than for yourself.  But I think my Mum is more special than that because her love spreads beyond my sister and I to friends, young students and relatives.  Her love for her father is heart-warming, her care for her mother-in-law is stoic and bewildering and her support of her husband is strong and inspiring.  Seeing the way she is with my Dad, especially over the last year or two, has shown me what true love and marriage can be.

In short, I am in awe of my Mum.  I have probably never told her properly and I fear that I am one of the many recipients who have flourished under her love without giving a tenth of it back in return.

Many women baulk at the cliched thought that "they are becoming like their mothers."  But if I can mature with a small percentage of her compassion, strength and beauty (Oil of Olay all the way!) then I will be a very lucky woman.

Happy Mother's Day Mum.  I love you.   

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.