Boring Bitch

I am boring.

Seriously.

Really, truly, fucking boring.

Although I had been having suspicions about this prominent characteristic of mine for quite some time, it was only about a year and a half ago that my hunch was finally confirmed. I was in my office and the show relay was on, broadcasting the conversation of the technical staff who were on stage and fervently discussing a future large night out, the invite to which I had politely declined just two days before. My fingers paused and hovered over the faded letters of the PC keyboard when I heard my name.

‘So, whose coming out tonight then? You. Me.’

‘Ed.’

‘Jess?’

‘Nah.’

A pause.

‘She’s so boring’.

The stage manager who was typing alongside me glanced over, her face reddening with embarrassment. But I couldn’t help but laugh as I continued to type up my Running List.

So it was true.

I actually am quite dull.

And that really is totally fine with me.

I am currently on a large-scale and particularly lengthy tour. I first embarked on a similar job about twelve years ago at the age of twenty-one. Fresh faced, a little chubby and with a penchant for fake tan, tiny vests and brightly coloured alco-pops, I ricocheted around the country, causing gentle and well-meaning havoc in towns and cities whilst (barely) performing the role of an Assistant Stage Manager. 

People always assume touring is so exotic. But it's hard to feel as if you're fulfilling a lifelong ambition when you find yourself sat in a leisure centre in Billingham, where the 'theatre' stinks of chlorine and the town itself houses nothing other than an Argos, a Wimpey and a pretty racist pub. Plus the fact that a 2003 digs bedroom had no wi-fi and just a crackly TV showing about five channels, which simply provoked you to spend more nights out exploring the provinces that your faceless tour-booker had sent you to.

But saying all that it was a good tour. A great tour. There was booze, drugs, drama and an incident with a flyman in the disabled toilet of the Buxton Opera House which I would really rather forget.

(None of my colleagues ever used the word ‘loose’, but it often hung in the air.)

My career kind of shuffled on like that for a while; not really committing to the work I was doing and focussing more on what was occurring once the curtain came down. Then something kind of shifted a couple of years back. My presence at the drunken post-show nights was rapidly decreasing, as was my rather problematic habit of abruptly snogging actors or fellow backstage staff, simply because there had been the slightest lull in conversation.

Days were no longer spent nursing hangovers in Wetherspoons or spending hundreds in Topshop, still slightly drunk from the night before. I was starting to slowly discover exercise and better eating. The internet had fully transformed all of our touring experiences, and nights at home in front of a laptop and Netflix weren’t too bad. Especially if I was planning to be up with the lark in order to attend a 6.30am Bikram Yoga class at a gorgeous little Glasgow studio or make a spinning class. The determination I once possessed to relentlessly persuade the rakish blonde in the ensemble to spend the night with me in a single bed in Stoke (well there was sod all else to do) was replaced with a competitive and unrelenting desire to run 5k in under 25 minutes, or complete a half marathon.

I became a regular gym-goer, always locating the nearest fitness studio or opting for long runs along canals or round fields. This meant that my booze intake also dropped dramatically as I was unwilling to allow my best time or quality of exercise to be affected. The unforeseen consequence of this, was that my relationship with company members was not as tight knit as it had been on previous jobs as I was less involved in the ‘mental’ nights or the hung over fry ups which can bond you. What was even more surprising was how little it bothered me as I realized that I was enjoying the sensation of opening my eyes without wondering where I was, what I had done the night before and who I needed to send a grovelling apology to. Instead of flailing wildly for paracetamol and a Coke, I was getting changed into running stuff and making it out of the digs before 10 am. My shift in lifestyle and mindset meant that my attitude to work also changed and I (slowly) became more punctual and conscientious.

And oh god, I was feeling so happy. Happier than I had in such a long time.

So calling me boring when it comes to my personal life really doesn’t bother me. The people who use the word 'boring' to describe my lifestyle are the people whose opinions I give absolutely no fucks about. I enjoy my routines and am also not restricted by them. Prosecco, take aways, beer and chocolate feature heavily in weekends, holidays and time spent with my bloke. And I don’t regret that in the slightest.

However.

Calling me boring when it comes to work is what affects and frustrates me.

For instance, a while ago I was in previews for a show and we, stage management, were getting the same note, night after night, from the director.

‘I’m hearing so much noise from backstage. Chatting and talking. It has to stop. You need to make it stop.’

The position I cued from was pretty far away from backstage so I was powerless to stop it during the show. But my stage manager and assistant stage manager were always present. Unwilling to be given the same note from the frustrated director they were keeping an ear out for noise levels which would reach the audience.

At one point, when the casts voices were reaching a point where it was audible from out front, my ASM nipped over to chirpily ask them if they could keep it down.

‘Blimey,’ one giggled ‘you're like the Fun Police!’

Obviously a comment meant in jest and the actors did obediently lower their voices. But afterwards I chatted to my heartbreakingly despondent ASM in the office.

‘They called me the Fun Police!’ she rather solemnly explained before protesting, ‘But I’m loads of fun.’

I couldn’t help but agree. Amber was probably one of the most fun people I had ever worked with, constantly making me laugh out loud with her candid observations and remarkably witty one liners. Plus the fact she once attended a Production Meeting in a Scooby Doo costume, simply because the CSM had told her to.

But by doing what the director had repetitively asked of us, she had been gently mocked as being someone who controlled and stopped fun. I liked that company tons and understood that nobody would have said it had they known we would have taken it to heart. But it is something that stage managers get on a pretty regular basis; the irritated eye rolls, derogatory scoffs and muttered moans when you are attempting to enforce basic yet necessary rules. 

Which then naturally prompts the unshakable feeling that most of your colleagues are under the impression that you're just being a bit of a bitch.

Most stage managers spend a lot of their time at work trying to enforce these rules by belting out numbers from everyone’s favourite album entitled; 

'Now That’s What I Call Stage Management Nags’.

The top hits include ‘Baby, Don’t Walk Around In Bare Feet’, ‘Guys Can You Keep It Down’ and ‘Honey, Please Be In By The Half And Don't Leave After'. Plus the totally catchy and much loved number:

‘Take Your Sodding Coffee Off The Stage’.

And it’s not just stage management. The wardrobe/wigs departments also love to serenade company members with popular tunes such as ‘Don’t Break My Heart And Bloody Eat In That’ and ‘Are You Seriously Wearing Actual Costume In Warm Up?’

So why are we so persistent? Why are we forever making our lives more difficult by repetitively getting hung up on the tiny banalities of backstage life?

Well, here’s why.

I fervently believe that the actor is the most important person on the stage.

Honest.

Theatre began with one man telling a story and then more people getting involved and then the use of props and costumes and wigs. Elaborate sound and lighting all came much later. And then we had to wait an even longer amount of time for video. Although that’s not exactly unusual. 

We always have to wait a long time for bloody video. NASA sent a spacecraft to Pluto and back in the time it takes us to 'render' some content.

But anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that I sincerely do believe that the actor is of the upmost importance. There is no way I would get up on stage in front of hundreds of people, baring my soul and saying a thousand words without a verbal trip up. I scarcely manage the beginner’s call without stumbling. I have an unbelievable amount of respect for what performers do and I am only there because they are. And I fully understand that the most prominent part of my job is to try and ensure that the cast are okay and capable and supported. Which is maybe why the song that all of these backstage departments don’t sing enough is that of Bryan Adams.

‘Everything I Do, I Do It For You.’

Like the bare feet backstage thing. I don’t harp on about people wearing footwear in the wings because I’m some kind of weird shoe enthusiast or have severe podophobia (fear of bare feet). Having witnessed what goes on during a get-in when those large scale touring sets are built, I feel about as enthusiastic trotting around bare foot backstage as I do entering a public toilet at Glastonbury with naked soles.

Trust me. Technical staff don’t walk about wearing chunky steel toe cap boots because they are avid fans of the Village People. They witness first hand exactly how a set is put into a theatre and there is no way they would take the risk.

Touring sets are what can only be described as a weekly construction site with tools, nails, pins and skin splintering wood chips. We do our best to keep it hazard free but everyone knows that in-house vacuum cleaners are usually as effective as an asthmatic gerbil giving a blowjob. Plus I have been on the scene of far too many unpleasant foot related injuries, which can often lead to an understudy going on. Stubbed toes, splinters and (most unpleasantly) a lost toenail. That was a bad one. Once the bare-foot and bleeding actor in the latter example had been taken to A and E, the CSM asked me to divulge exactly what had happened and wincingly I did.

‘Gross’, he confirmed. ‘And then he puked up?’

‘No.’ I cringed, eyeing the sad little pool of brown vomit. ‘That was me.’

So when your stage manager asks you to wear shoes in the wings or wear appropriate foot wear for fight calls etc, just remember it’s because we are trying to prevent injury.

We very ‘boringly’ just want to keep the cast safe.

And that goes for the set and costumes too. All theatrical rules such as the ones I have mentioned previously are usually created when something goes awry or gets damaged. A freshly swept and mopped stage gets tea knocked all over it, causing the stage to have to be mopped again and subsequently the house has to be held. 

So Lo!! The rule of having No Drinks Other Than Water Onstage is created.

The technical staff will also be sensitive about liquids such as tea and coffee being placed on surfaces backstage as one drop of fluid can take out an entire piece of equipment. The most extreme example of this I ever witnessed was an actor’s cup of Ribena taking out a £10,000 DiGiRack and cancelling a performance as well as costing the company a shit load of money.

(Most people never realize the cost of backstage equipment until it’s broken. I always follow the theory that if it has little flashing lights on it, it costs more than I'm willing to spend to replace it.)

Look, if I could cue a matinee with a strong cup of coffee and a packet of Marks and Spencer's mango, trust me. I would. But I understand the necessity of the rule just as I understand an actor’s frustrations when they get told to take it off.

‘But I’m not going to spill it!’

Let’s be honest. No one ever plans to happily chuck a cup of tea over a table full of paper props. It just happens. No one is assuming that you're a clumsy irresponsible oaf. It’s just that accidents really do regularly occur.

And stage managers have witnessed every single one. 

It’s the same with people eating/drinking in costume. Wardrobe have enough trouble maintaining the quality and look of costumes without also scrubbing out beetroot-juice stains or mustard marks. This also applies to wearing costume during warm up; a rule which can understandably baffle people.

'I’m going to wear it on the stage doing a similar thing. So why can’t I just wear it now?'

Warm up/fight calls usually take place after a lengthy and rigorous wardrobe pre set has been done,  (which also happens after wardrobe have been in for a good couple of hours fixing, mending and reinforcing) so if something has been set and then a company member uses it, it can have severe repercussions during the show when the bloody thing can’t be found. (Same goes for props).

Rips, tears, scuff marks and sweat damage occur and wardrobe are more than happy to repair the damage when that damage happens onstage. But when mishaps are happening to clothes in warm ups, it's far more frustrating. Which is why it is preferable to keep the time that actors are wearing clothes to a minimum, unless a very particular item of clothing is necessary to a fight sequence and subsequently has to be worn in a fight call. The majority of actors I work with understand that providing warm up clothes for yourself is a part of the gig, just as I provide my own blacks. Nobody would ever use prop cutlery or crockery to eat a post matinee meal so why help yourself to your costume to warm up in?

When wardrobe departments spend so many painstaking hours ensuring that costumes are laundered, steamed and set so precisely, it’s frustrating to see the work be so swiftly disregarded.

Basically, they just ‘boringly’ want the cast to look good. So they have created this ‘boring’ rule.

And as an actor once said to me ‘Those girls have seen my skid marks. I’ll do whatever the fuck they want.’

Stage managers/technicians/wardrobe don't expect constant praise for the jobs and work they do. But when the work and the rules get so swiftly discarded and you've already been in for a couple of hours maintaining, facilitating and preparing, it's hard not to feel as if your effort is being ignored. There have been the jobs when I look at a sink full of dirty mugs and cutlery on a get out day or witness a cast member going out after the half or see a carefully mended bit of costume chucked on a dressing room floor or get shrugged off when I breezily ask someone to take their coffee elsewhere, and it's always pretty easy to feel that not only are you being undervalued, but that someone has simply chosen to give you the finger.

I guess I feel the way that an actor would if I stood in the wings and talked loudly over their speech. Ignoring their work and quite openly disrespecting it. 

When I asked on Twitter about how actors felt about the rules and regulations of backstage theatre, the main complaint that arose, is how actors often feel patronised. And I can sympathise with that. I have attempted many methods of enforcing basic rules and it can be hard to get the tone right. Maybe it’s something that we, as stage managers, should work on.

Implementing without ordering.

Instructing without being over bearing.

I will hold my hand up and admit that when you have asked for a rule to be acknowledged a dozen times it is hard to not lose your temper when having to ask again. Especially when you have been in a situation where something has gone wrong or been broken and the Producer asks the awful question;

‘How could you let this happen?’

Because, when it comes to the powers that be we are viewed as the people who care and maintain their expensive-to-run and very precious show. So when accidents occur and they want to know why, answering their question with ‘Well we did keep asking but they got proper moody with us’ isn’t really good enough.

All of those crappy and annoying rules might be excruciatingly dull to abide by. But trust me when I say that dealing with the aftermath is what's actually really boring. 

So yeah.

There you have it.

I’m like a lot of stage managers.

Boring.

Mind numbingly dull.

Captain of the Fun Police.

It's not like I was born like that. Few stage managers are. It's just that experiences, mistakes and accidents have led to us being that way;

Unbelievably and relentlessly boring.

But that’s just the way it has to be.

Because actually, when I stop and think about it, the actor isn't the most important person in a theatre.

The audience member is.

And at seven thirty each night, in theatres up and down the country and throughout the West End, thousands of people sit in those crappy folding seats having organised baby sitters, transport and maybe a night off work. Taxis are booked, hard earned money is parted with and Tripadvisor is consulted for a half decent pre-show meal.

The ‘boring’ bit of planning their evening out is finally completed, and countless pairs of eyes glisten in the darkness and look to the stage expectantly.

Ready to witness the results of all those vocal warm ups, fight calls, movement calls and extra rehearsals.

Ready to witness the results of laundry, ironing, rigorous pre-sets, rig checks, shout checks and all of those fucking boring rules.

Ready and waiting and wanting.

To be anything but bored.

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Haunted

I'm not scared of ghosts.

Not in the slightest.

I don't think I really believe in them and when I lie alone in my bed in the darkest and stormiest nights, it is my tax bill and the Tories which make my heart quicken and my blood run cold, not restless spirits of the undead. In my wildest imaginations I don't see mutilated corpses or bloodied twin girls. Just a massacred NHS or wild and violent cuts to arts funding. For all I know there is a whole plethora of demonic ghouls and wandering souls lurking under my bed. I'm just too preoccupied with fretting about how my unborn child's innocence will be stolen by social media to notice.

As much as scary films and ghost stories thrill and fascinate me in equal measure, I just find it hard to really buy all that stuff and, if ever I have found myself in a situation where I have felt any type of fear it is mostly because of my own imagination more than any type of apparition. You only need to watch an episode of 'Most Haunted' to see that Yvette Fielding basically just whips her guests up into such a hysterical frenzy of hypertension that they start claiming to 'feel' all kinds of crap. But it isn't the undead which is freaking them out, just their own state of terror which they have simply created themselves. 

I'm actually pretty sure that after spending twenty minutes with Yvette in the fruit and veg aisle of M & S I would still be shrieking 'OH MY GOD SOMETHING ACTUALLY JUST TOUCHED MY SHOULDER!' 

People who have claimed to have witnessed apparitions and spirits always talk about the same kind of feeling. The hairs on the back of their neck stand on end, their blood goes cold, their heart rate quickens etc etc blah blah blah. 

And I always thought that was bullshit.

Until I had to deal with my own ghost.

I have currently been working on a production of 'Hamlet', and last Tuesday was our Press Night. The director and creative team decided that the ghost would initially be represented by lights and sound as opposed to an actor. Dozens of filament lightbulbs hung above the stage and were programmed in such a way that they worked with the fizzing and crackling sound effects. When the ghost 'appeared' various bulbs would glow and shimmer and the main source of light would move amongst them, seamlessly synchronised with the ominous noises which drifted from speaker to speaker. The actors were choreographed in such a way that they would also follow the 'ghost' and it would 'react' to their words and movements.

When the actor who was playing the ghost finally entered and spoke, the canopy of bulbs would descend into the space, again moving with the sound and light before flying out at the end. 

We did a lot of work on 'fear' during the rehearsal process and the result was incredible. During the first preview our theatrical 'ghost' made it's first 'entrance' and the actors did an unbelievable job of being completely and truly terrified as they stared up at the flickering and unearthly illuminations and they convincingly portrayed the very emotions of people experiencing a supernatural trauma.

However, had they looked up a bit further, they would probably have witnessed the far more petrifying vision of a pallid, colourless face sporting a pinched and haggard expression whilst murmuring frantically into a headset.   

That apparition, obviously, was me.

This particular theatre is in the round and the DSM is always placed in the second gallery with audience on either side. Instead of watching the show from a grainy monitor in a prompt corner or the safety of a control box at the back of the stalls, you are very much there and feeling every single atmosphere change and the general energy of the audience. At the top of the first preview I sat in my swivelly chair, peering at the audience and also the creative team who were all dotted about the  auditorium but completely in my eyeline. For the first time in all my years of doing this I felt physically quite ill and very vulnerable. The scene changes and many door entrances (14 actors, 8 doors, a million ways of me fucking it up) were one thing. But it was the ghost which was terrifying me most of all. There were so many elements of it which could go wrong and, if it swooshed in the wrong way or vaporised too quickly or too slowly, it would throw my cast. Too many words and too much blocking were based on the ghost and what it did. For a few brief and important moments, the lights and sound were another character on stage. An electrical puppet. With me pulling and yanking at it's strings. 

Whilst trying not to be sick.

Most first previews are like a badly knitted jumper. You can see the shape of it but you are also aware of the gaping holes, fraying edges and loose ends which need tidying up or cutting altogether. The ghost happened and the knot in my stomach loosened slightly. But not entirely. Because despite every preview and every time we rehearsed it I just knew that, until Press Night had happened, I would be unable to make my peace with this 'perturbed spirit'.

The ghost didn't even just stay in the theatre and would noiselessly follow me home, a constant and  nagging fuzziness in my thoughts. I had fretful and disjointed dreams about broken lightbulbs and screaming speakers. Once awake I would lie in my twisted sheets fretfully murmuring the sequences of cues, trying to commit the numbers to memory. 

On Press Night itself I, once again, peered down at the 750 faces waiting expectantly, and concentrated on keeping my breath steady. My stopwatch was gripped in my hand as I waited for clearance, knowing that once I clicked on it and called the first cue, that would be it. The rollercoaster would start, swiftly turning into a Ghost Train, and there was nothing anyone would be able to do about it. We were all on this white-knuckle ride together and what ever happened would happen. 

The first ten minutes of the show are definitely my busiest. A swift opening sequence, quickly going into the first ghost entrance before a busy scene change and then more dead father business. The auditorium was warm and I felt uncomfortably hot for the first few minutes, but once the ghost entered that all changed. I felt as if I had been swimming in a bath-water warm sea and then hit an ice cold pocket of water. Every single cliche happened. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, my throat went dry and my heart started to thump and thud in my chest. I muttered the cues in the places they should go and watched as the spirit swirled and chased the cast about the stage. 

And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone.

I swallowed and continued to cue the rest of the performance, feeling my heart slow to it's usual rate. The cold chill which had gripped my entire body like an over familiar hug slunk away and I physically shrugged off the tension and rolled back my shoulders.

After the performance I hung about by the peanuts with my sister, watching everyone else chat with agents and family and friends. Press Nights are never about me and that's more than fine. I sipped my red wine and analysed the performance with my sister and gradually realised that I had practically been holding my breath for about a week. The anxiety and the fear was replaced with elation and the smile on my face was no longer just a mask I had plastered on. It was genuine.

My ghost had been exorcised.

Unfortunately, I am fully aware that there will be more ghosts which haunt me, but these ghosts will always be of my own creation. Our demons and fears are almost always born out of our own terror and imagination. 

We haunt ourselves.

But just as we theatricals may find that we have been possessed by the metaphysical shape of our own design, we just also need to realise that we are the only thing that can cast it out. And if that means standing up to your ghost and confronting it head on, then so be it. It might take a rehearsal process, a tech week, a preview or the terrifyingly formidable Press Night. But you get there in the end.

We have had a few shows since that Press Night now and I positively relish the appearance of my formidable spectre. I realise how much of an advantage I have over it, you see. I know exactly when it is going to appear and what form it shall take. There is no element of surprise, no terrifying suspense or giant marshmallow man to battle with. Just these flashing innocuous lightbulbs with their fuzzy, crackly sounds.

Should an actor skip a line or a cue be called too early or too late, I know I can take a deep breath and get it back under my control, giving it an order which it shall indeed obey. The other night I dared to watch it for slightly longer than usual and kept my eyes off the script for a few moments more, allowing myself to feel slightly exhilarated at what was happening on the stage before me. The audience were watching the drama unfold before them, as they should. But had they looked up at the gallery, they would have seen my beaming face, glowing in the lightbulbs and grinning with the euphoria of not just being a spectator of this haunting. 

So now I have finally realised why I can't be scared of this ghost.

The audience can be scared of it. And the characters on stage can be scared of it.

But not me.

Because I'm part of it.

And that's the least scary and most comforting feeling in the world.

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88 Miles Per Hour

 

I love ‘Back To The Future.’

I do.

We had it recorded off the telly onto a VHS (complete with 80’s adverts) and I just watched it all the time. 

All the time.

I don’t think I was really even that clear on the storyline (I certainly didn’t fully comprehend what happened in the second one till I was at least fifteen) and the whole dodgy incest bit went way over my head, but I loved it.

Wholeheartedly.

I was madly besotted with Michael J. Fox and proved my adoration by joining his fanclub via an advert in my ‘Judy’ magazine. The final prom scene was wound and rewound whilst I hurled myself around the living room to ‘Jonny B Good’, longing for the day I could eventually wear a prom dress.

A day which never came.

Because I left my British school in the nineties and we had a ‘Leaver’s Disco’ which was a rather solemn event where you wore ripped jeans and a cropped top and defaced each other’s school shirts with a glittery marker whilst furtively sipping out of spiked bottles of Panda Cola.

So when I saw that Secret Cinema were putting on a ‘Back To The Future’ event, I squealed with excitement and immediately alerted a friend. On the day the tickets were released I had to work on a matinee so he was instructed to sit online with his credit card and refresh the site until he obtained tickets for one of our desired dates.

And he did.

‘I GOT TICKETS! I GOT TICKETS!’ I screeched at everyone onstage after the performance, and immediately went to trawl the net for possible outfits. As luck would have it I was working on a 1950’s play and instantly questioned if I could keep the vintage red leather handbag which was used by the female lead. This request was granted to me and then more shopping ensued until I found a blue and white flowered  fifties dress with swirly, waist-accentuating petticoats and dainty little pointed prom shoes to match. I had a large orchid accessory for my hair and thick, stage quality eye lashes. I put the whole outfit together one night and hurled myself around my bedroom like the nine year old bespectacled version of myself.

I couldn’t bloody wait.

We had tickets booked for a Friday night, the second night of the whole (extended run), and had followed the website instructions. I had my stopwatch and my family photograph ready and had registered to discover my new identity. The many e mails told me that I was to find an accessory or prop which represented my imaginary line of work and bring it with me along with a cushion. The job I was given was ‘estate agent’ and after scouting round the shops I couldn’t find anything estate agent appropriate, so decided I would just turn up with a Shitty Attitude and General Demeanour of Dubious Intent.

That’ll do.

The day before our allocated date, at around 3.30pm, I saw the tweet which stated that the evening’s performance was cancelled. Gosh, I thought. That’s a bit shit. I am pretty lucky as I live about twenty minutes from the site and am currently between jobs so had not needed to take time off work. But it did cross my mind that other people would need to travel a fair distance and a lot of expensive arrangements would need to be made.

A look on the Facebook page and twitter comments showed that, indeed, there was a large amount of angry and upset people who had come a long way for the event. Some people had, as instructed, left mobile phones at home so had actually turned up to the site, only to be told that the event was not happening and that they had to go home.

People were so angry. Very angry. And I could totally understand why. However, I was pretty surprised at the sheer level of venom which was occurring online and couldn’t help but question the height of people’s fury. My love for that film and my excitement for the event in question is as pure and fierce as the next superfan, but why such outrage? What had whipped everyone up so much?

Well, the answer is pretty obvious.

Secret Cinema, of course.

The constant emails from them have contained many hints and instructions which built up an overwhelming level of anticipation and intrigue. So, as adults, we all got very swept up in the magic and the undiluted joy of the event. It was starting to feel a bit like a childhood December in the run up to the 25^th.

Except screw Santa Claus, we were going backwards in fucking time.

For those first night ticketholders I can only compare receiving that sad little tweet to having several hours of toe clenching, bum-grabbing, uninhibited foreplay, before the object of your affection rolls onto his side and mumbles something about ‘work in the morning’. Secret Cinema teased and tantalised and got everyone to a point of screw-eyed orgasm before, quite literally, pulling out.

So naturally, emotions were running high.

As I work in the entertainments industry I tried to work out what would cause a company to cancel an event of that magnitude so last minute.  I have cancelled several shows and the reason is usually illness, technical difficulty or a health and safety issue.

Illness seemed unlikely as, from the casting websites, they appear to have a little army of Marty McFly’s and a school of Doc Brown’s. I thought that a tech issue was also doubtful  for that late in the day and could only conclude that it was health and safety.

I contacted various sources who worked on-set and , very loyally, nobody wanted to volunteer info on the exact details of why it wasn’t happening. So I shrugged it off and assumed that the issues would be resolved and eagerly awaited the 11am announcement the next day.

Which never came.

At about 11.24 we got told that they were working to resolve the issues onsite and that they would soon send a statement.

I took that as a positive note. They weren’t cancelling so the organisers must feel that there is an issue they can resolve. I pulled my dress from the wardrobe and ignored the naysayers, of which there were many. The Facebook and Twitter comments were getting more and more vitriolic and the bad feeling which had built up in homes around the country was crashing onto the internet like a vintage tsunami teaming with prom dresses, red lips and home made hover boards.

It was a mess.

Many years ago I worked on ‘We Will Rock You’ as an usher when it very first opened. The first couple of previews were cancelled and a lot of people were disappointed. Myself and the other ushers dished out the news to disappointed punters whilst the box office staff worked tirelessly to contact ticket holders. People were sad and a bit angry but generally quite understanding as me and my colleagues went on the front line and protected Brian May and Ben Elton as they worked tirelessly to get the show to the best it could be. We were a face for people to talk to and get immediate answers about re booking and refunds and as a result, people left with their shoulders lightly lower but with their heads comforted with knowledge of some sort.

And again, this is the issue with Secret Cinema.

It’s too bloody secret.

Nobody is having human contact with anyone as they don’t have a box office or a ticket base. From the photos I saw the people who greeted ticket holders in Hackney were folk in high-vis who did not have the means to do instant refunds or ticket transfers, so everyone has to gather themselves into a ramshackle online queue and await to be dealt with by, what I am guessing, is a fairly small staff.

Without that human face of sympathy, people are allowed to just get worked up into a heightened state of frustration which can never be appeased if no one from the company can say ‘There, there. We will make it better.’

By the time it got to about 2pm and the time I should have been getting ready, I started to feel less confident about the event. Again, I am pretty lucky as I could leave quite late and still arrive for the event, but there were a lot of people who had left their homes in the North, and still unsure if the event would be happening. Before I started to curl my hair I tried to imagine what possible conversations would be happening to allow the decision to still not have been made at this stage.

And here is where I get a tiny bit defensive of Secret Cinema.

In my experience, the director or producer of a show is never the person responsible for a cancellation and always the person who will argue for it to continue. I have no doubt whatsoever that the big wigs of Secret Cinema will have not been taking these decisions lightly and insisting that events proceed.

I am also guessing that they have no frame of reference for putting on such a huge show. Nobody is in a positon to say ‘Yeah but remember the last time we recreated an entirely immersive, 1950’s village in the middle of Stratford? Remember what we did then?’

Eventually I got bored of sitting in my dressing gown feeling like a wallflower whose prom date had cancelled, and started to badger my sources more urgently and they told me what we now know.  That the council had simply said no and that it did not meet technical requirements.  As someone who has battled local authorities in order to have an actor smoke a fag in a room of eighty people I’m really not surprised.

And actually I felt a tad relieved as I had started to question if I really wanted to go. I had begun the day looking forward to a rather wonderful festival for people who shared a love for a film but now it felt slightly tainted. I was concerned that I would be a wary pleasure seeker boarding a fairground ride the day after it derailed.

Fabian has issued a statement saying how sorry he was and I believe him. Someone does not work that hard and put on productions so ambitious without caring. Finance aside, Secret Cinema will have taken a massive hit as far as reputation goes and, should they stage an event again, I will not be booking for tickets early in the run. Some people are unlikely to ever book with them again. I can only imagine that if the council are putting a halt to it they are doing it for good reason. I would rather claim a refund or get a ticket for another night rather than go up in flames or something. And let’s face it, with that amount of hairspray and nylon we would all go up before you could say ‘Great Scot.’

Fabian has also stated that he hopes to learn from this and that’s fair enough. Secret Cinema has great ideas but is obviously just not ready to execute them quite yet. I am genuinely sympathetic with the cancellation issue as shit just happens which is beyond your control and no elements of expertise or planning can resolve it. I just think that decisions needed to be made earlier and people contacted quicker. We now have Facebook and Twitter to send out instant messages so maybe utilise that more to your advantage if you don’t have a bank of manned phones.

Also, the fancy website with its ‘voice messages’ and other bells and whistles is all very well and good but personally, I don’t need it. For an event like that I would prefer it if people put their energies into the event itself, like a cinema screen or something, not just the build up.

I have already bought the ticket so you can stop marketing it to me now.

My pal and I will go the pub and discuss our plans. Maybe we reschedule or maybe not. Either way my family haven’t just been shot out of the sky by a missile and I am not the victim of FGM.

So you know, life ain’t all bad.

 

 

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed it you can click on the link at the top left hand of the page. You can also follow me on Twitter on @agirlinthedark or 'Like' my Facebook page 'Girl In The Dark'.

 

Three Little Holes

'Close your eyes, Jessica. Be a good girl and close your eyes. Just count to ten and close your eyes.'

I closed my eyes obediently. I was very obedient in the hospital. More obedient than I ever was at home. All of the nurses and the doctors on the children's ward were kind yet firm and they just naturally commanded that we be obedient. Being obedient meant that we were praised and called 'brave' and 'good' and given ice cream and badges. When they told us what to do, we tended to do it.

So I was a good girl and I closed my eyes and I counted.

obedient

one, two, three....

I reached five before I slipped under.

I think.

I don't know.

My dad knows.

I had selected him as the parent to hold my hand whilst the anaesthetist injected me with whatever it was that would make me plummet into the darkest and deepest of inky black sleeps. Over the next seven hours I had to be unconscious enough to be fully unaware of the crushed ice which was to be shovelled around my body.

And I had to be totally oblivious to the scalpel which would tear through my skin, creating a long cut and then three little holes.

Three little holes.

And then, most importantly, I had to be utterly and completely ignorant of my ribcage being forcefully cracked apart and then deftly winched open in order to reveal my internal organs. Only once my tiny, six year old body was fully splayed open, bloody and raw with ripped, weeping skin and torn muscles, would the surgeon delve into my heart and locate the tiny defect. The defect which despite its small size, had caused me to get out of breath within minutes of running around with the other kids. Prevented me from keeping up during sports day races and woken me in the middle of the night, sweating and gasping.

Funny really. 

When you think about it.

In order to fix my flawed and fragile body, these surgeons had to almost completely obliterate it first. 

When I look back at childhood photos, I see myself as an infant, chubby and grinning. But when you look closely you can see the slight sheen of sweat over my face. I wasn't overweight or unhealthy, but just normal everyday exercise could cause my breath to get shallow and my forehead to bead. It was the little things like this which prompted the maternal instinct within my mother to constantly prod and poke at her until several tests and hospital visits proved her right.

I was ever so slightly defective.  

Obviously I was aware I was visiting the hospital and the doctor a lot but I didn't think anything of it. I just thought it was normal, something all kids did. Friendly and smiley doctors listened to my heart and took x-rays. They tested my blood and took my temperature and everyone behaved as this was a daily and regular occurrence. Nobody ever gave me a reason to be scared or afraid. 

And even when I was eventually told about the hole in my heart, I wasn't frightened or nervous. Just curious. And kind of excited.

My mum had sat in a doctor's office and been educated about atrial septal defects. She had been lectured about the hemodynamic significance of my particular atrial septal defect. She had been shown diagrams of the pulmonary circulatory system. They explained to her that a surgical closure of the atrial septal defect was necessary and strongly recommended as no additional drug therapy would be needed and it would prevent a paradoxical embolism.

And then she took all of this information home and attempted to explain it to a six year old.

And that was how the whole thing started for me.

My mum sat me at the dining table one night with a sheet of blank paper and drew a picture of a love heart in it. A symbol I understood and recognised. She then drew a large black dot in the middle of it and told me how that was my heart. She explained that the hole was bad and that it needed to be fixed. She then drew another little love heart on the same bit of paper with a sticking plaster on it. She said that the nice doctors at a hospital were going to fix my hole and make it all better.

She sensibly chose not to go into detail about the cracked ribcage, general anaesthetic, weeks of bed rest, permanent scarring and three little holes.

And instead gave me a new nightie.

It was mostly white with red and yellow balloons all over it. 

I thought it was brilliant. 

Time off school and a new nightie to boot. Needing heart surgery was the best.

I had been brought up on literature about kids disappearing into the backs of cupboards or flying off to secret lands to discover little boys who never grew up. And my life in a quiet road in a small town had always rather paled in comparison. Here was my opportunity for adventure and excitement.

The children's ward of a Liverpool hospital became my Narnia. My Neverland.

There were about eight of us on that children's ward which was right in the centre of a large Victorian building in Liverpool. Because it was at the heart of the hospital there were no windows and no sign of the outside world, just vast pale green walls covered in metal pipes, and a black and white tiled floor. My bed was right next to the door to the ward so I was always immediately aware of visitors and people entering and leaving. Right opposite me was the nurse's station which stayed lit and bustling 24 hours a day. I must have slept at some point during my few weeks there but I don't remember. The constant movement and light seemed to keep me forever awake and aware, staring at the pale green ceiling and the frayed Disney posters.

Myself and the other kids on my ward weren't dying. Or fighting cancer. Or recovering from horrific car accidents. We were just in there for maintenance. As whole human beings we worked okay but all of us had some organ which just wasn't ticking over as well as the rest of us. So our parents had returned us to the hospital, like faulty iPad owners marching back to the Apple Store, where we were left for several weeks to have our internal malfunctions corrected, before being sent off home again. 

Kids deal with that kind of thing okay and all eight of us, having initially looked over at our neighbouring bedfellows warily, began to play together and talk and socialise over our staple lunches of fish fingers, baked beans and chicken nuggets. This diet was hugely thrilling to me as I was not allowed this kind of stuff at home. Our lunches were served to us on a low round table in the playroom which was directly adjacent to our ward. If I had to visit another part of the hospital for yet another test or examination, I always peered into the adult wards and felt sorry for the older patients who ate their dinners at their own beds in quiet solitude. I thought they must be lonely.

When adults are in hospital on a full ward, they tend to discuss their ailments and issues with other patients. But in my windowless Neverland, myself and the other Lost Boys/Girls never mentioned anything of the sort. Discussing our reasons for being there was dull and boring and we didn't care. Plus we probably didn't really know. Some of us were sicker than others and had operations which were more severe, but we didn't compare or even empathise. If we were playing in a group, one of us would be pulled out briefly but when they returned we didn't ask them where they had been or what for. We just played our games in our brand new night dresses and pyjamas, (I don't remember any of us ever wearing proper clothes) until it was time for dinner or bedtime or a group activity that one of the nurses had organised like finger painting or a video. 

Obviously it wasn't all plain sailing. There was occasionally pain or discomfort or fear. Emotions that we struggled to deal with. Adults can recognise these feelings and react appropriately but maybe with some dignity. They might sob loudly then apologise for making a fuss afterwards. Or explain politely where it hurts or complain about something in a passive aggressive e mail. Grown ups have years of practise of how to deal with stressful situations.

But we were kids.

So we just shat our pants.

Those badly paid, over worked nurses spent less time administering medication and far more hours cleaning up whatever bodily fluid we had forcibly emitted. They did it without chastising and they never complained. Just got out the J cloths and disinfectant and wiped up the piss, poo or putrid vomit which a distressed five year old had tearfully ejected, before changing us into yet more fresh pyjamas. 

Often they would talk to us and reassure us about whatever surgery one of us was about to experience. I quite often discussed my surgery with the nurses and felt pretty confident and reassured about the operation itself. I had no reason to be scared and was endlessly trusting of the medical professionals around me.

Had I known about the three little holes I may have felt slightly different.

Sometimes I would find myself bereft of playmates for one reason or another, and would have to occupy my time alone. Fortunately I had two creative parents on hand to entertain also. They took it in turns to juggle their jobs, my two other sisters and bedside time and ensured that I had a parent present at all times. My thirty six year old father was a schoolteacher and often turned up at the hospital with items he had taken from his secondary school, such as pens, school books and other random bits of stationery.

'Playing School' was actually a favourite game of mine and I loved using my bed as a 'school desk' whilst my father gave me various instructions. One time he brought me an empty exercise book and said that I should write a story.

'What about?'

He gave me three things that I had to include in the story, like a bear, a magic slipper and a fairy, and I had to integrate these things in and give it a storyline. I delved into the challenge whilst concentrating on the tale and trying my best to write something that would entertain my daddy whilst he read the paper.

The next day it was my mother's turn to sit attentively next to my bed and I showed her the story I had written the previous day. She read it approvingly and suggested I write another.

'What should I write about this time?'

She shrugged.

'You can write about anything, darling. Anything you want.'

write about anything

And I think that's how it started.

Those exercise books got filled with stories about magical witches and wizards and also about events at the hospital. I often wrote about Santa Claus. It was Christmas time so, being on the children's wards, we were bombarded with visits from various Santa Clauses, some of them a better quality than others.

More often than not, myself and the other kids would be sat in a circle in the middle of the ward, engrossed in colouring or cutting and the ward nurse would announce 'Santa is here!' We would look up at the door, apprehensive and wearily annoyed that our activity had been interrupted by a musty-smelling old man in a dubiously knackered Santa suit who would hand out plastic bits of crap which we naturally had to display gratitude for. 

For the three weeks that I was on the ward I must have been visited by half a dozen Santa's and I don't remember getting a half decent gift off any of them. Plus we knew it was just an elderly bloke volunteering for some charity or another.

We were sick but we weren't stupid. 

The Santa's that featured in my endless scribblings were very often evil 'fakers' who had kidnapped the real Santa. I didn't realise this until I read some of my stories back the other day. My six year old self was clearly so aware that they were impostors and had incorporated that into my writing.

Eventually the day of the operation came. I was prepped and kissed and cuddled and told how brave I was before being wheeled into the anaesthetist's room where I stared at my dad's face and counted myself into oblivion.

one, two, three.....

And in the unknowing hours that followed, my heart stopped beating so that my malfunction could be corrected. 

The days that followed were spent in intensive care before being moved back to my bed where I drifted in and out of sleep, vaguely aware of people and nurses and staring at the world through the heavy metal bars which were put up on either side of the bed.

Everyone told me and my parents that I was 'doing fine'. Everything was as it should be. They just talked about recovery time and resting. 

I had a vertical surgery wound, still held together by tiny white stitches, which ran almost the entire length of my torso. And underneath it was a horizontal row of open wounds which still had coloured tubes entering and exiting my body and either side of each one were two loose ends of white surgical thread.

Three little holes.

I was fascinated by the new tapestry of my skin and would often lift the sheets to peer at and stroke the strangely pretty puncture wounds. Again, if this kind of thing happened to adults, they would no doubt struggle to come to terms with how surgery had changed the aesthetics of their body. But we children found the additions to our body gorily intriguing.

The three chest tubes were there to drain air, blood and infection and ran to my pleural space, the space around my lungs. A few days after my operation, the doctors examined me and declared that the chest tubes were no longer needed and could be removed from the three little holes in which they so snugly sat.

This was gently explained to me one morning by the Matron of the Children's Ward and I nodded, trustingly. My parents were both there and looked slightly more anxious than usual. I was placed into a wheelchair which was a painful exercise anyway as my tiny ribcage was still not fused back together and even minor movement caused me great discomfort. I was wheeled, topless but for a blanket which was placed over me, through the myriad of the many hospital corridors and parked up outside a room. We waited for a while before a man came through a door and said they were ready for me. I was wheeled into the room and looked over my shoulder at my parents. A nurse who I did not recognise read my anxious thought and said that mummy and daddy could not come in with me. Not this time. 

why

This immediately set an alarm bell ringing. I had been allowed one parent with me for every single part of my journey through the green-painted Neverland and could not comprehend why I now had to face something alone. It has since been explained to me that my parents were advised not to be present for this part as it would just be too distressing.

The only thing I really remember about the room was the stainless steel table in the middle of it with a fluorescent light directly above. The nurse wheeled me in and I was greeted by two more female nurses and one male nurse.  The male nurse was blonde and stocky and lifted me from the chair onto the table where I was placed gently on my back, wincing as my fissured ribcage felt as if it was splintering in two all over again. I watched the blanket drop to the floor.

oops

One of the nurses started to gently stroke my face.

'Ssssssshhhhh.' She said over and over.

'Ssssssshhhhh.'

But I wasn't making any noise.

Yet.

Whilst this nurse continued her routine attempt of calming and comforting me, another female nurse began arranging my limbs so that I was splayed out. This was uncomfortable and, as a reflex, I automatically went to move my right leg and arm back in to my body.

But I couldn't.

I looked down and realised that one of the female nurses was now gripping my ankle and wrist and even the slightest repositioning was impossible. Another female nurse was now practically resting her weight on the appendages on my left hand side.

I wriggled slightly, testing my range of movement.

Their grips tightened. Anxiously smiling as they did it.

'Sssshhhhhhh.'

I can't move

The male doctor came and stood at my right hand side and the 'shushing' female came away from my head and stood at my left. The four faces looked down at me but the fluorescent light above them meant I could just see the outline of their head, not their facial expressions.    

'Okay, Jessica. I need you to take a deep breath and hold it in for me. After three....'

obedient

'One....'

The male nurse rested his large, warm right hand against the lower part of my belly and spread his feet to steady himself.

'Two....'

He gripped his left fist tightly around the chest tube protruding from one of the three little holes and rested a little of his weight on my torso.

'Three.'

I breathed in. And at that same moment I saw that tight, tensed fist yank upwards towards the light, taking the tube with it. 

And then I screamed.

nonononononononono 

I kept on screaming as I watched that fist travelling forever upwards. The tube kept slithering through its hole, scraping against the lacerated and raw skin until the bloodied end finally appeared, flicking out of the wound. The rough edges of my unhealed ribcage grated against each other with the violent and sudden movement causing a grinding pain to emit from under my skin.

'Ssssshhhhhh.'

nonononononononono

I had no breath left to scream so, panicked, I gulped in air and continued to try and lift my head to look down and see what atrocity was happening near the realms of my belly button. The only nurse not forcefully restraining me was tending to the open, seeping wound. She took the two loose ends of surgical thread and tied them in a knot so that the bloody bullethole of a wound was tightened up, the flesh mushing together. The spotlessly white yarn swiftly became stained with red as did her fingers.

'Sssssshhhhhhh.'

The wetness on my face told me that I was crying and I let my head fall back down to the table, staring up at the painted ceiling and the painfully bright light.

Three little holes.

three

And only one down.

still two left 

I didn't even scream when the reality of the situation dawned on me.

They were going to do this again.

And again.

Three little holes.

nonononononononono

''Ready?' she said.

I looked up at the 'shushing' nurse but she wasn't looking at me. She was looking at the male nurse who had briefly removed his hands from my torso.

'Ready.'

He repositioned himself and focused his attention on the tube which was protruding from the second hole.

'Big deep breath Jessica. One...'

I was told later that my parents sat outside that door and listened to my screams, still and unmoving. Unable to comprehend that their tiny, weak child could make that kind of guttural noise and trying not to think about the scene which was happening in that room.

Some people say that modern medicine is unnatural. But what's unnatural is two loving parents simply sitting on one side of an unlocked door whilst a group of adults cause pain to their daughter on the other.

The second and the third holes were just as unbearable as the first. For the final one I don't think anyone even asked me to take a deep breath. I was too hysterical and all of my breath was taken up with making that high pitched, unrelenting noise. My ribs felt as if they were being cracked and bent beyond repair and the taut, punctured skin around my tummy had been pulled beyond its usual range of movement. 

nonononononononono

Even when the final tube had been wrenched out and the final hole deftly and efficiently pulled together, I carried on making a noise. As I was placed back in the wheelchair with the blanket arranged carefully over the leaking, fleshy bumps, I cried and shouted and made a racket. Ragingly furious at the deceit and injustice which had taken place at the hands of those adults.

disobedient

Back at my bed I sobbed myself into a fitful and disorientated sleep and when I woke up only an hour or so later, I was uncomfortably hot and sweaty under the ward lights which were still on full as it was only mid afternoon.

My fury and anger had not yet been sated but I knew that I needed to do something. Something which would calm me and distract me and take my mind off the hospital and the pain. And the fact that soon I would leave this Neverland and have to readjust to life back home where I would have to rest and not join in on PE or run around at play times.

I looked over at my bedside table and saw one of those navy blue exercise books and a pencil.

write about anything

I lifted up the pencil.

nonononononononono

I opened up the book.

write about anything

I tried to think of three things to write about. Like my dad had taught me.

ow it still hurts

And eventually chose three magical, happy things.

write about anything, darling

write about anything 

I forgot about the three little holes.

obedient

And I wrote about anything. 

Yeah I know. Pretty different to the theatre ramblings. Sorry for the interruption. Normal service will resume soon. I just wanted to try something new out.